ACE:Las Vegas Bad Boys(19)

People like Mark and Judy—good people—don't need that kind of shit, yet they're dealing with it.

Mark comes around his desk to say good-bye, claps me on the back. “Thanks for asking, Ace. She'll like hearing that you're thinking of her and not just the twenty-somethings you meet at the casino.”

I smile, wave good-bye.

Glad to have Grotto off my fucking mind for a moment.

Instead, I walk away thinking of one twenty-something. Thinking of the ways I'd like to put her in a corner.

And knowing that tonight, I will.





EMMY


I need to get out of this hotel suite, stat. Meeting with Detective Clark can't wait. He has information about my sister's case, and I need it. Now.

Otherwise I’m never going to move on with my life.

I just can't believe my hallway lover is Ace. Ace Royalle. Ace, the fucking owner of this casino.

I'm still here—naked, wrapped up in the sheets we slept in last night. Though, to be fair, there wasn't much sleeping last night. The only sleep I had came in the early morning hours.

Because last night all we did was fuck ourselves silly. Hard. Soft. Fast. Slow. We screwed until his cock was as raw as my pussy.

Which, okay, was amazing. But also—really? I bared myself to the most sexed-up sleaze this end of the strip. And everyone knows that about him. How did I miss what this guy looks like?

Tess is going to legitimately die when she finds out. Not that I will tell her. Because … I mean, I just spent last night doing the thing I have said was a no-go since getting this job.

I had sex with the baddest of the bad boys.

And I liked it.

However, I do not like the note he left for me. The demands scrawled across it. He wants me to wear a certain dress, to a certain club, with one goal in mind. To have sex.

And while I know Ace is that guy, the guy who has sex on the dance floor—I am so not that girl.

Okay. So I have two options. 1) Put on my fishnets and blow off Ace, hotel owner extraordinaire, aka deceiving asshole. Or, 2) put on the amazing clothes provided for me and relish the luxury of being his latest conquest.

I suppose there is an option three.

Wear the clothes and never spread my legs for him again.

Which, right now, sounds like the perfect plan. Because if he couldn't give me the courtesy of revealing his identity, then I don't owe him anything. I have enough on my plate. With a hospitalized sister and a detective calling me, the last thing I need is to get wrapped up in this man's drama.

Actually, all I need at the moment is caffeine.

I pour myself a cup of coffee, thinking. Okay, I've got this. This is not big deal. Then I remember that Ace is my boss. And that could make things awkward.

I take the bags to the bathroom, and turn on the shower. Washing last night's sex off me. It was the last sex I’ll be having for a really long time, because priorities.

And it won't be awkward with Ace. I've had this job for two entire months and have never come across him before.

I can continue avoiding him until I get a job that actually uses my psychology degree. Surely there will be an opening at some social work office at some point, even if I haven't gone to grad school yet. The money won't be nearly as good, but at least I’ll have my fucking dignity.

This is going to be fine. More than fine. Maybe Detective Clark actually found the driver who left my sister for dead. Maybe my sister will wake up from her coma and everything can go back to normal.

Or better than normal, maybe my sister and I will become close again. And be a family. Hell, I could go to grad school here in Vegas and make a life for myself with Janie.

None of that good stuff is going to happen if I don't get my head on straight.

I step out of the shower, and dry my skin off. I use the hotel lotion and rub the designer cream into my skin. With every stroke, it's impossible not to remember Ace's hands all over me last night.

Hands on my waist, my breasts, my ass. He took hold of me in a way no man has ever done before.

I mean, honestly it should be illegal to fuck that well. I shut my eyes, trying hard to press out the memories—but instead I just imagine all the places we haven't had sex. Against the wall, or in the shower. We haven't fucked on a kitchen counter or in a public place.

Oh my god, what’s my problem? I’d have thought having an incredible night of sex would get the whole craving out of my system, instead it seems to be intensifying it. I’m getting all hot and bothered just by lotioning my own fucking skin.

This is bad.

If I didn't need to meet Detective Clark, I swear I would press my fingers inside my tired pussy again, just to relive the moments of last night.

But I don't have time.

I blow dry my hair quickly and wrap it in a bun on the base of my neck, securing it with bobby pins from my purse.

Then I rip the price tags off the clothes and slide the designer everything on my body.