Ace of Hearts (Vegas Underground 3)

He inclines his head and holds a deprecating hand out. “Here you are, Ms. Heart. Mr. Brando for you.”

Tony’s enormous frame unfolds from behind his desk, his eyes traveling over me with the same satisfied perusal he gave me outside, only this time, there’s a hint of surprise. Curiosity.

The door shuts behind the security guard. Brando says nothing, just quirks a brow.

My stomach is shoved up so high, it’s tucked under my ribs, keeping my lungs from expanding. I pant, suddenly intensely aware of the way my sweat-soaked shirt molds to my breasts, the prick of my nipples against the built in bra. The fact that my dance shorts are barely more than a pair of panties.

And judging by the way Brando loosens his tie, I’d say he finds my outfit as provocative as it’s meant to be—from the safety of the stage. Not up close and personal in a mafia enforcer’s swanky office.

I grip the champagne bottle tighter and hold it up. “Really? Champagne?” I snap. I shouldn’t be so careless with my vocal chords, but fortunately, my words come out clear, only the barest of rasping around the edges.

He tilts his head to the side, like he’s trying to decode my words.

I walk forward and set the champagne bottle down with a loud thud. “You and I both know you own me, Mr. Brando.” I meet his dark-lashed eyes boldly. “Pepper Heart, Inc. owes you, and you’re going to get your share every way you can. So you can skip the wine and dine. If you’re exacting payment from me”—I squeeze my breasts roughly—“just lube up and do it. Otherwise, leave me the hell alone.”

Shock flickers over his face, and then his brows slam down. He stalks around the desk toward me like a giant lion, graceful and terrifying. It takes everything in me to hold my position, keep my chin tilted up, the defiance in my gaze.

He crowds me against the desk until my ass perches on the edge and one of his thighs stands between mine. He’s so close, I feel his heat everywhere, yet somehow he manages not to touch me. My breath stalls up in my throat.

“Oh, sweetheart.” His voice is so deep and rumbly, eyes gleam dark and angry. I catch a whiff of his scent—not cigars and leather, like I might have expected. No, it’s coffee grounds and earthy spice. “I don’t have to pay for sex. And I certainly never force it.” A muscle ticks in his jaw. “Anyone who tells you different is a liar.”

My nipples burn, they’re so hard. I swear I feel the heat of his thigh right between my legs. If I just rock down, I might relieve the ache there.

As if he reads my exact thoughts, his gaze drops between us, down to the points of my erect nips, to the splay of my legs around his. “But if it turns you on to feel owned”—he lifts the back of his knuckle to my left nipple, brushes it ever-so-lightly, like he’s testing to see if I’ll move away—“I might play along.” His voice is deeper, softer.

The idea is ludicrous, but God help me, I rock my pelvis forward, grind my needy little clit against his pant leg.

He draws in a shuddering breath, a muscle ticking along his scarred jaw. If he’d shown more arrogance, if he’d mocked me, I would’ve kneed him in the balls—I’m lined up perfectly to do so. But seeing my affect on him calms me. Emboldens me. I grind some more.

He leans a hand beside my ass and inhales, like he’s breathing in my scent. When he pinches my nipple between two knuckles, my pussy clenches.

But fortunately, my brain returns. This is a man who has threatened Hugh with bodily harm. He represents a deadly threat to me and my family. Just because he’s over two hundred pounds of sexy man-beef, just because he seems to know more about what turns me on than I do, is no reason to offer myself up for his taking.

I shove myself off the desk, against his hard, muscled body, pushing his torso away with my hands.

Thankfully, he backs right off.

After the way he bristled at my accusation earlier, I’m not surprised. Apparently Tony Brando operates under some code of ethics that involves treating women with respect.

Well good for him.

Doesn’t mean I want to tangle with his sexy Italian manhood.

Tony

Pepper opens my office door, and the struggle between hiding my hard cock and letting her go out there without a bodyguard becomes real. I mutter a curse and follow her out.

“Wait up,” I call to her tight little ass. Because, yeah, that’s where my focus can’t help but stay glued. She’s wearing these little shorts—these fucking tiny shorts—that are all spandex and leave half her ass cheeks exposed.