“Babe,you about ready? The Strip is calling us,” I shouted toward the bedroom, still riding the lazy, champagne-soaked high from our afternoon down at the pool. Hours of sun, too many drinks, her torturing me in that little red bikini and the kind of lounging in a private cabana that made it way too easy to forget the outside world even existed.
The bottle now was long gone, and I was half-convinced she was keeping me waiting on purpose.
Thirty minutes later, I got my answer.
She walked out spraying the perfume I’d bought her, the one that made my mouth water and want to trace my tongue over every inch of her. The dress… Hell, dress was a generous word for it. Black satin so tight it could’ve been painted on, lace trim at the cups. That dress could get a guy arrested just for looking. Her lips were a deep cherry red, hair loose in soft curls that hit just below her collarbone, and every step toward me was a slow, silent threat to my self-control.
“Okay, fuck Vegas,” I muttered, sliding my hands around her waist before she could even reach the door. “I’m staying right here with you. No way in hell am I sharing this with anyone.”
She smiled smugly. “No chance, Reed. I’ve never been to Vegas before, and we’re doing it right.”
I groaned into her neck, pressing my mouth there because I couldn’t help myself. “You’re killing me, baby.”
She laughed, pulling back just enough to grab her new purse. I’d taken her down to the plaza after breakfast and told her to go buy herself something new. I practically had to force her into a designer store against her will. “You can survive a few hours. Then you can have me all to yourself.”
“All to myself,” I repeated, already imagining it as I took her hand and headed for the door. “That’s the only thing keeping me alive right now. You’re such a brat”.
I watched her move toward the door, the new leather of the bag looking expensive against her skin. Over her shoulder she shot me a wink before she stepped through it. Yeah, I was never going to survive this woman.
We went to the casino first, and the first round of drinks hit faster than I expected, champagne still fizzing in my blood. The lights flashing so bright it felt like the room had a heartbeat; or maybe it was just her, walking beside me in that black satin dress, every head turning like she owned the damn place.
“Try not to get us banned before we’ve even sat down,” she teased, eyes flicking to the blackjack table.
“No promises.” I took her hand and steered us straight to the high-stakes section. If we were doing this, we were doing it my way.
She gave me that raised-eyebrow look, half daring me, half certain I’d blow through a stack of chips just to make her laugh. Which, honestly, wasn’t far from the truth.
Five hands in, she was leaning over my shoulder, whispering bets in my ear, and I was following every damn one because I was too distracted by the sound of her voice, and her temptingcleavage, to think straight. We won three in a row and she grinned like she’d just discovered a secret superpower.
“Beginner’s luck,” I said, even though we both knew she was sharper than half the guys I’d played cards with on tour.
“Or maybe I’m just good at knowing when to push you.” She brushed her fingers along the back of my neck, sending a shiver straight down my spine that ended at my dick.
Somewhere between the blackjack table and the bar, she managed to track down two tequila shots. There was a glint in her eye that said she’d regret it tomorrow but didn’t give a damn tonight. Vegas was made for that kind of look.
She tipped hers back, and before she could swallow, I caught her by the chin, pressed my mouth to hers, and took it straight from her crimson lips.
“Tyler!” she gasped with a scandalized laugh.
“Relax, babe. I’m gonna be doing them off your tits later.”
Her jaw dropped, but that grin slipped through anyway, the one that told me she was in just as deep as I was.
“You wanted the full Tyler Reed Vegas experience,” I said, letting my hands slide low on her hips. “You’re getting it.”
The buzz hit hard as we stumbled down the Strip, neon lights bleeding into the night. Tipsy Orla was out in full force, louder, looser, her excitement practically vibrating through her skin.
When we happened to pass a tattoo parlor, she stopped dead, yanking on my arm. “Wait! You shouldsoooget another tattoo,” she said, her voice at least ten decibels too high.
I laughed, cocking an eyebrow. “Oh yeah? And what should I get?”
She bit her lip. Her eyes narrowed in serious, drunken thought before a wicked grin spread across her face. “You should get my name.”
I practically barked out a laugh. “You really want me to get your name inked on me? Because I’ll do it, babe.”
“I mean…maybe just an O, then,” she shrugged, gripping my arm to steady herself.
“Deal.”
