“I did hear you might be famous.”
“Might be?” I smirk. “How about this? Let my suite do the talking, and then you can decide if I’m famous or not.”
“So cocky.”
I lift a shoulder. “Well, yeah. How could I not be now that I know how to crush it at blackjack?”
Stevie’s hand in mine, I flash my player card at the door to the Tower Suites. The sounds of the casino fade as we step into the private lobby, a gleaming, perfumed oasis for Encore’s most exclusive guests.
Another couple is waiting in the elevator bank. But because lady luck is on my side tonight, two elevators arrive at the same time. The other couple takes one. Stevie and I take the other, turning around so we’re facing the doors. I hit the button for 35. The doors glide shut with a hushed whoosh, and I join Stevie at the back of the elevator.
We’re alone for the first time. For half a heartbeat, the silence between us swells.
I turn to face her and press her against the elevator wall with my body. I grab her wrists in one hand and pin her arms above her head. Her chest rises on a sharp inhale, and I imagine her nipples dragging up my chest.
My dick is in agony.
Her dark eyes are fire.
I lean in and press my lips to hers. Her hips roll forward to meet mine, and I open my mouth to groan, the kiss deepening when I lick my tongue over the seam of her lips. She opens her mouth too, letting me taste her.
She’s breathing hard, and I am too.
I work my mouth over her jaw, and her head falls back, eyes catching on the far corner of the elevator.
“There’s a camera,” she pants.
I kiss the freckle on her neck. Her skin tastes clean. “Don’t care.”
The guy I was back home would care. As (former?) head of guest relations at Blue Mountain Farm, he’d care very much if people were making out in the resort’s elevators.
Good thing I’m not that guy in Vegas. Hell, I don’t know if I’ll ever be that guy again.
Good thing Stevie makes it easy to live in the moment. This feeling—the one that keeps my mind from wandering—is the whole point of my retirement bender.
It’s what I’ve been chasing from day one, when Rhett and I boarded a plane for the Bahamas back in April.
I kiss a trail down her neck, her chest, kissing the swell of her breasts through the fabric of her dress. She shudders when I lick her there, and I glance up to see her sucking in a breath, eyes fluttering shut for a moment before she opens them, determinedly meeting my gaze.
Huh. Almost like she’s . . . I don’t know, fighting the surrender.
Like she’s playing it safe. Why?
Fuck that. I wanna drive this girl wild.
I kiss her one last time, a bruising caress that has her moaning into my mouth, before the elevator doors open on my floor.
“Come,” I growl and grab her hand.
I try not to walk too fast. Stevie’s wearing killer heels that can’t be comfortable, especially after a night of dancing. But I’m impatient to disappear into the privacy of my suite. I gotta get her naked, now.
My hand shakes when I slide the key card into its slot. It takes me two tries, but the door finally swings open. I gesture for Stevie to enter first, and she stops three steps into the room.
“Oh, Hank,” she breathes. “This is unbelievable.”
The living and dining area of the suite is a two-story behemoth, ridiculously grand in true over-the-top Vegas style. It’s decorated in shades of cream, brown, and white with pops of bright red. An enormous chandelier hangs overhead, and cushy furniture dots the space: velvet couches, marble tables, and a leather-clad bar.
But that shit isn’t what catches Stevie’s attention. Instead, she stares at the wall of floor-to-ceiling windows that gives us an incredible view of the Strip below. She walks over, touching her fingertips to the glass.
I sidle up behind her, slipping my arms around her waist while I press a kiss to her neck. Her body is warm and soft, and I love the feel of it against mine.
Our reflections are visible in the glass. Our gazes lock there, our bodies a shadow over the lights of the neighboring Wynn.
“Okay, you’re famous,” she says and reaches behind her to slide her fingers into the hair at my nape.
I begin to gather her dress in my fist, hiking it up her legs. “That gonna be a problem?”
“No.” She looks to the side. “Actually, it works better.”
“Because you wanna fuck an athlete?” I nudge her nose with mine.
Her brows snap together. “No.”
“Hey, I’m not here to judge you.”
“And I’m not here to chase . . . whatever you are. I’m just making a very rude assumption that, because you’re famous and hot, you like to play the field. Pun intended.”