Staying in Vegas (Vegas Morellis 1)

His words make me wetter than I already was. I use my lips and tongue until he’s satisfied with my clean-up job, then he releases my hair.

I give his dick a couple more soft kisses, then I crawl up and burrow back into my spot beside him. Sin wraps his arm back around me and tugs me close, but he keeps his eyes closed, like he’s at peace. It makes me feel more fulfilled than maybe anything else ever has that I played a part in giving him that.

My arm around him tightens, but he’s still not close enough. I want him closer. I want him inside me. Not just to fuck me, I want him to live there. Somehow he is already in my blood; I’m like a junkie in this bed, yearning for my next hit.

My stomach hollows out as it hits me, the illogical, insane, ill-fated realization.

I’m in love with Sin.

Maybe I don’t know enough to love love him, but I know this feeling, this natural high. It’s the same feeling lovestruck fools dating back to forever have been hit with, the feeling that inspires poetry and music and art. I crave him. I derive so much pleasure just from his mere presence; he excites me and preoccupies me, completely dominating my thoughts. I want to know every thought that goes through his head, and share every idea that flits through mine. Mostly, I want to stay here in this bed with him, kissing his scarred knuckles and drawing pleasure out of his magnificent body forever, the rest of the world bedamned.

Could I really be in love with this man who hasn’t even kissed me? Who hasn’t even fucked me? Without even penetrating my body, could he have found a way inside me? More dangerous than sex, not as permanent as real love, but an on-ramp, a spot in my heart he shouldn’t have access to. Somehow Sin is already inside me in the way that really matters, and he seems to have found a shortcut to getting there.

Could that have really happened in just a few days?

Apparently, it can, because here I am.

Fuck.

I am in love.

30

Laurel

So, how was your date?”

I’m still reeling from the epiphany that I am in love with this man I know so little about, and he tosses a proverbial glass of water in my face. I should be used to his sharp edges by now; I don’t even know why I’m surprised.

For whatever reason, those sharp edges don’t bother me though. They still manage to surprise me, but I consider it part of the Sin package deal at this point. Experiencing some level of arousal and/or intimacy? Brace for him to throw something unpleasant your way and try to kill the mood. I wonder if it might be a subconscious way of trying to push me away, which brings me back to wondering what kind of relationship issues he might have. I guess if I’m in love with this jagged-edged maniac, I should probably learn those things about him.

Right now I’m more interested in learning every curve of his body. I love lying here like this with him—even if he’s hurling unpleasantness at me. I’ll show him how well I can duck and miss every barb he lobs at me.

“It wasn’t a date,” I tell him, tracing shapes on his bare chest with my index finger.

He cocks an eyebrow, his tragically beautiful face the very picture of skepticism. “No? Seems like it was.”

“I don’t think it would have ended with me sucking your dick if it had been a date,” I point out, smiling mildly.

He doesn’t seem mad, but I can’t quite put a finger on what he’s exuding. “Where did he take you?”

I squirm, but I don’t want to leave his embrace, so I stay here despite the mild discomfort. “A couple bookstores, a botanical garden, private helicop

ter ride over and into the Grand Canyon, then we had a picnic lunch. He didn’t bring dessert and I’m a big fan of dessert, so we went to the strip, strolled around Paris and New York for a bit, and when we had room, we hit up a bakery for strawberry shortcakes.”

Sin is quiet for a few seconds, then he says, “So, not a date—six dates. Got it.”

“We were just hanging out, Sin. It was zero dates,” I say, squeezing him a little tighter. “He knows I like you. It was not a date, I swear.”

He doesn’t buy that at all. “It was six dates rolled into one day. He took you to the Grand Canyon in a helicopter, Laurel.”

My stomach sinks, but I don’t know how to argue with that, so I give him a puppy dog pout instead. “Please don’t be mad at me. I thought about you all day. I wanted to text you, but I didn’t know if I was allowed. I had no idea he was going to take me to do all that stuff. Besides, you told me to go with him. I would have told him no and stayed home if you hadn’t. If you aren’t comfortable with me spending time with him, I won’t do it again.”

“I’m not mad at you, Laurel; I was just asking how your day went.”

“But you keep saying it was a date.”

“It was a marathon date. He pulled out all the stops. Did he try anything? Did he kiss you? Touch you?”