Wild Card (Vegas Underground 8)

“Don’t come,” he murmurs.

I pout. “Orgasm denial is mean.”

His brows lift. “That a thing? Of course that’s a thing.”

Damn! I am an idiot for telling him.

“You’re definitely going to have to wait, then.” He removes his fingers from my pussy and I nearly weep.

“No, no, no, no,” I beg. “Don’t make me wait. I’ll go crazy.”

I see the sadist in his grin. “Good.” He gives me a slap on the ass. “Now go get ready, so I can show you around.”

I climb out of the shower and wrap one of the posh bathrobes around me to head to the bedroom. My body’s on fire from the edging and I jump up and down to let some energy off.

Maybe this is all I need to do to make sure I never disassociate again. Just edge myself in the morning with a vibe as a preventative measure. I grin at the idea.

A knock sounds on the door. Paolo’s still in the shower, so I go answer the door.

A younger version of Paolo stands there. He’s shockingly handsome, and his aura is smooth, debonair and sophisticated where Paolo’s is rugged and tough.

His brows shoot up when he sees me. “Oh. I didn’t know Paolo had a guest.”

Oh crap. And I’m the girl who stole a hundred fifty grand from his family. I hope he’s as forgiving as Paolo.

I stick out my hand, still damp from the water. “Hi, I’m Caitlin.” I sound overly bright. Crazy Caitlin is showing and I don’t want her to. I want to be normal. Likeable.

In the bathroom, the shower turns off. I pray Paolo will get out here and fix this before I get thrown in Lake Mead.

“Wait… Caitlin West?” his voice drips disbelief. Or shock.

Shit.

Paolo said I wouldn’t get kicked out, but I’m not sure his brother’s on the same page.

“One fucking word and I’ll smash your face in,” Paolo growls from the bedroom door. He’s wearing nothing but a towel wrapped around his waist and it couldn’t be more obvious that we just showered together.

His brother flicks his gaze from Paolo to me and back again, his expression growing interested. He leans against the doorway. “I see.”

“I’m serious.” Paolo stalks forward.

“I’m not gonna say anything,” his brother says mildly, holding his hands up in surrender. “But for future reference, a little communication is all it takes, P. Send a quick text—the hacker is my girl now, treat her with respect—that’s all.”

“Fuck you, stronzo.”

“Yeah, fuck you, too,” he says, but his tone is good-natured and the two men clasp hands and shake. “I’d hug you, but it looks like you’re a little wet.” He stretches his hand out to me. “I’m Stefano. Paolo’s brother.”

“My baby brother,” Paolo says.

“I can tell.” I shake his hand.

“Enjoy your time at the Bellissimo.” He pulls a Bellissimo poker chip out of his pocket and hands it to me. My eyes bug out when I see it has $500 printed in the middle. Maybe he doesn’t hold a grudge.

To Paolo, he says, “I’m guessing you don’t have time for a family dinner?”

Paolo shoots a glance at me. “No, that’d be good, actually. I need to talk to you and Nico and Vlad.”

A prickle runs down my spine. It’s clearly something I can’t hear. Is it about me? No, I’m getting paranoid again. Nothing’s going to happen.

Stefano cocks his head like he’s surprised, but he pulls out his phone. “I’ll text Alessia to set it up. Tonight? Tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow. Grazie, Stefano.” He says something else in Italian that I don’t understand and Stefano shuts the door.

“You okay? Did he offend you?”

I hold up the five hundred dollar token. “I guess we’re good.”

Paolo’s expression turns indulgent. “You can gamble to your little heart’s delight, doll. We got you covered.”

I want to blow him all over again, but the edging has me zinging, plus I can’t wait to get downstairs and see the casino, so I scurry to put on my red dress and dry my hair.

Two hours and three signature cocktails later, I’m tipsy as hell and up sixteen hundred dollars. My coding brain is all over the roulette wheel. There are easy rules to winning with it. I bet red—for the lucky dress—every time. If I lose, I double the bet the next time. The only way the method doesn’t work is if you run out of money before you make it back. Fortunately, that hasn’t happened. I’m not sure Paolo would even let it happen. He stands at my back playing sugar daddy. Protecting me, ordering me drinks, making small rumbles of approval every time.

The cocktail waitress comes by and hands me another drink, but Paolo takes it from my hand.

I turn to run a fingertip over his fine Italian suit jacket. “Am I cut off, big man?” I might be slurring slightly.

“Let’s get some food into you first, doll.”