Jack of Spades (Vegas Underground 2)

I clear my throat. “I, uh, could use some exercise. You know—I’m in the outfit, but nowhere to work out.”

Stefano frowns and glances toward the door. Then he shakes his head.

“What?”

“Fine.” A note of annoyance clips the word. “I’ll take you to the fitness center.” He stalks to the bedroom. When he returns, he’s changed from his thousand-dollar gunmetal gray pinstriped suit into a soft hunter green t-shirt and black workout shorts. The worn t-shirt stretches around the muscles of his chest.

I resist the urge to paw the air.

“Come on, princess. I don’t have all day.”

I walk to the door. “Is it princess now? Funny, I’m not feeling much like a princess.”

He pops my ass. “Stop sulking. Walk.”

I flip him the bird over my shoulder, pushing my luck.

I push open the door and the guard steps out of the way, nodding to Stefano.

“Take a break. I’ll message you on the comms when I need you again.”

“Yes, sir. Thank you, Mr. Tacone.”

Stefano answers his phone, responding to some casino business with short, decisive answers, then switches to a comms device, giving more orders as we step toward the elevator. He reaches past me and hits the elevator button for up instead of down.

“Where are we going?” I ask. The fitness center is on the tenth floor, below us.

“Private gym.” Stefano flashes me a model-worthy grin and holds an arm out to usher me into the elevator.

“Oh. I didn’t know there was a private gym here.”

“There are lots of things you don’t know about the Bellissimo,” he says, circling an arm behind my back like we’re on a date.

We get off on the 18th floor and Stefano leads me to a small but beautifully appointed, air-conditioned gym. Mirrors cover every wall and the floor is springy gym mat material. The smell of eucalyptus and pine lightly tickle my nose. I look around and zero in on the treadmill. The truth is, I’m not actually your work-out-at-the-gym type. I was just trying to get Stefano to let me out of the room. I don’t even know how to use anything here besides the stationary bike and the treadmill.

I climb on and hit the buttons until it turns on.

Stefano gets on the rowing machine and rows like he means business.

Oh damn—those muscles, flexing. Sheer beauty. Something flutters deep in my belly. Seeing the power in that body, the ease with which he uses it makes me remember every time he’s touched me. How gentle he’s been considering what that body’s capable of. I relive every moment of struggling with him in the elevator in the parking garage. The first spanking. The second.

The orgasms he’s delivered.

My nipples chafe against the inside of the tank top’s shelf bra, hard as diamonds.

I don’t know what it is about Stefano Tacone, but the raw animal attraction can’t be denied.

So yeah, I guess he can keep me tied up in his room. For at least another day.

He finishes with the rowing machine and works his way around each weight-training station until I’m damp between the thighs and drooling for him. The last station is behind me, but I watch him in the mirror, closing my lips around the sighs that keep trying to slip out.

He finishes and walks right up behind me, stepping on the edges of the treadmill and reaching past me to turn it off. His body is flush against mine, the bulge of his cock hitting my lower back, his beefy arms caging me.

“Think you can just eye-fuck me for an hour without repercussions, bella?” He reaches around and cups my mons, pressing the heel of his hand against my clit the same way I do when I’m masturbating. Apparently not satisfied with the full handful he just took, he shifts to slip his hand inside my yoga pants. “Fanculo, baby. You’re so ripe for me.”

I catch sight of my face in the mirror, mouth open, abandon already creeping over my expression. When I realize he’s looking, too, I snap my jaw shut, but he plunges a finger inside me.

“Stefano,” I pant.

He dips two more fingers in, and I’m already on the edge, about to come. “What, baby?”

“Someone could come in.”

“Nah, I locked the doors, beautiful. I’d never let you be seen like that.” He pulls his fingers out and yanks my tank top off. “That is, unless you’re into being seen. But I don’t think you are. Take those pants off.”

I obey. Apparently I’m getting used to being stripped naked for him. “What makes you so sure?”

He fishes a condom out of his gym shorts pocket—which means he planned this from the start—and rips it open. Without dropping his shorts, he pulls out his dick and rolls it on, then twirls his finger to tell me to turn back around. “You’re proud but you don’t seek attention. You like to control how you’re seen and when. You’re not a submissive.” He bends both my arms behind my back and pushes my chest down on the controls for the treadmill. He leans over, lips at my ear. “But you do like to be tied up and taken hard.”