Screwed In Sin City

“Good seeing you, Derek,” she mutters over her shoulder as she pushes through the gate.

I reach out for the wrought iron door before it latches, giving Josie a wicked grin. “So, what time should I pick you up?”

I reach out and let my fingers touch her bare forearm, letting them linger there a moment longer than I need to. Josie's gaze lowers to the spot where our skin collides, then back up to meet my own stare.

“You really aren't going to give up, are you?”

It might be the wrong response, but a light chuckle escapes my throat, and I shrug. “Seeing as your eyes are betraying that you feel that electricity between us the same way I can right now, no, Josie, I have no intention of letting you get away that easily, especially when I know you're tucked away in one of these hotel suites, too close for comfort.”

We don’t blink. I'm not sure she realizes she's biting down on her bottom lip, but it does something to me.

“Humor me,” I whisper. “One night, that's all I ask, Josie.”

She looks unable to get adequate air into her lungs, and her chest has stopped rising and falling with the anger she'd possessed only moments before. When her eyes meet mine again, there’s a faint hint of uncertainty in them, but what stares back at me makes my heart pound faster—desire.

“I'm in Room 703. Be there at 8 o'clock.” She takes a step back, pulling away from my touch. “And Derek? Don't be late.”

5

Josie

I don't like to be pestered. And I sure as hell don't appreciate being pressured into anything. That's why I caved.

Yeah right, I tell myself. You know better than that.

If that's all it was, that I just didn't want to have to stand there and listen to his persistent arguments for another minute, then I would have had it in me to turn him down and walk away, without agreeing to anything, and without giving him a second thought.

But here I am, wearing the just-in-case outfit I brought with me—the only pair of designer jeans I own and a purple backless, thin-strapped halter top that hangs loosely just to the waistband of my jeans, paired with a ridiculous pair of red high heels I’ve owned for three years and only ever wore once before. My dark hair is curled loosely, letting it trail down my back and over my shoulders. I've kept my makeup minimal, mostly because I'm more comfortable without it, but also because Beth has always been the one to apply it for me when we’ve gone out somewhere.

And, seeing as I didn’t have the guts to admit to her or anyone else that I was skipping out of the dinner we were all supposed to be having at the Irish pub near the Excalibur in order to entertain Derek's wild notion that we should go out for an evening instead, I’m on my own.

Looking in the mirror now, I can't help but be surprisingly satisfied with the job I've done of making myself look like I might actually know what I'm doing when it comes to dressing up and looking pretty. With any luck, I'll have him fooled just long enough for him to realize that there really is nothing resembling chemistry between us and we can go our respective ways without anyone else having to know about this stupid, clandestine rendezvous he’s talked me into.

I'm expecting him to show up, but the loud knock on the door still makes me jump. I take one last look in the mirror, smooth my hair, and go to answer the door.

Derek is standing there in another pair of jeans that I'm convinced must have been custom-made to fit him so perfectly, and a navy button-up shirt that shows off his muscular arms and chest beneath it. I'm still staring awkwardly at the way the skull tattoo peeks out from the collar of his shirt when he speaks, unable to hide his devilish smile.

“You look absolutely amazing,” he gushes, eyes wide.

His compliment pulls me back to the here and now, and I watch him as his eyes roam down my body, then back up, unabashedly. I can't even call him on it, knowing I've just done the exact same thing to him without even thinking about it. The only difference between him and I now is that he seems to be able to string sentences together, and I seem to be having a hell of a time getting beyond the fact that he's here, he's absolutely gorgeous, and he wants to spend the evening with me.

The man's a stripper, I tell myself. Get your hormones together.

“Are you okay?” he asks, his eyes now locked with mine.

It's then that I realize we’re still standing in the doorway, and I'm blocking the entrance. Heat creeps into my cheeks, and I take a step back, waving him into the room. “I'm fine,” I reply. “Just...a little nervous, I guess.”

That gets Derek's attention, and he steps into the suite, immediately turning to face me just inside the doorway. “And what exactly is there to be nervous about?”

I can see the glint in his eye. The bastard thinks this is funny.

“I'm just not used to entertaining Vegas strippers in my hotel room, that's all.”

Derek rolls his eyes, staring at the ceiling for a moment, presumably composing himself. “You really need to get beyond the fact that I shake my ass and grind myself against women for money,” he says through gritted teeth. “It's a job, and it pays well. B

ut that's all it is, a job. It's not who I am, it's just what I do.”

Once again, a wave of sheepishness crashes through me and I feel a slight twinge of guilt for being so judgemental. I don't even realize I'm doing it, and the words seem to come out of my mouth before I fully think them through.