Vegas Royals: A Love Inc. Prequel, Page 3

  I gasp as the soft heat of his tongue meets my flesh and then pushes, velveteen and slick and tickling, into my slit, parting my lips so I can feel his breath on my clit.

  “God,” I moan.

  My thighs clamp around his shoulders as pleasure swells in me and rolls like a wave through my lower body. He laps gently at my clit, and I groan loudly, grabbing his head, nearly coming off the bed as he traces a circle around that hot and throbbing button and then tongues his way down, lapping hotly even lower as his finger presses deeper.

  “Oh my…God.” My body shivers—like a reflex—and sweat pops out along my hairline as he nips gently at my tender skin.

  I hear a chuckle as his finger shoves deeper; he’s pushed in so deep, I can’t help how I lift my hips as his tongue shoves gently in between my lips and back up to my clit, and—

  “Shit!”

  He’s lapping at me—softly, wetly, not hard enough. I thrust again, a helpless jerk because my legs are shaking too much to work. He moves up and down, not giving me what I want…teasing. Then I’m gripping his hair hard. He makes a sound like a laugh before pressing his hot tongue right where I’m throbbing. He’s flicking lightly over that spot, making me moan—too loud—but I can’t help it. He’s doing voodoo with his fingers, pushing deep in, and I’m crying out—these little breathy cries to keep from screaming like I want to.

  The languid circling of his tongue around my clit and then the wet, warm stroking up and down, between my puffy lips.

  “Hunter,” I try. His hand is thrusting, and, “I’m going to—”

  My whole body shudders as his mouth closes over my pussy and he starts rolling his tongue over my sweet spot. At the same time, he’s filling me so deep, his fingers curling so good that I yell out, and then oh holy shit.

  His tongue traces my clit just so, and I’m done for.

  Even as I’m throbbing, spasming around his hand and groaning like an animal in heat, I’m shocked and awed, aware that I have never had an orgasm like this one.

  In its wake, I realize I’m still shaking; I’m bereft and gasping, humiliated and so very sated. I close my eyes and wrap my arms around myself, feeling like the simpering virgin that I clearly am.

  How long can I keep my eyes shut? When at last I peek up at him, Hunter grins, surprising me by stretching his gorgeous body over mine, hovering for a moment just above me before he dips down, kissing me lightly, even sweetly, on the lips. I can taste the salt of him, and—oh God—myself. Mostly, though, he smells like bourbon. When he tickles his damp mouth down my neck, I shudder so hard I think that I might burst.

  He cups me over my gown, dragging a fingertip over the spot where I’m still throbbing. Just one little stroke and—

  Two for two. Oh holy shit.

  From somewhere far away, I see him moving off the bed, then standing wide-eyed at the footboard. He’s tugging at his golden hair, rubbing his eyes. Something is wrong, I think. He looks upset. I have the urge to hold him close and soothe the stress etched on that handsome face. But he is gone before I fall back down to Earth.

  DID THAT REALLY happen? Oh my God, I’ve stumbled into a fantasy. My legs are still shaking when I slide down off the bed forever later. I grip the green duvet and look toward the partly open door through which Hunter West disappeared; apparently this room has an attached bathroom.

  I push some hair out of my face, wondering if he’s still in there or if the bathroom leads to another bedroom.

  Where did he go? How was that real? I feel slightly sick about this. I feel gleeful. Hunter West! I picture him in the black button-up and Stetson he wears for poker tournaments. I picture his lazy playboy grin as he waves at paparazzi from the red carpet at the premier of a movie his production company financed, his strong arm locked around a starlet’s waist.

  I shut my eyes and conjure the image of him above me. His eyes on my face are gentle as he leans down to kiss my lips.

  Still clinging to the duvet, I make my way around the bed and toward the open bathroom door, pausing to examine something on the floor, where Hunter was sitting when I came into the room. It looks like an old-fashioned cravat. On a whim, I scoop it up and bring it to my nose. It smells like Hunter. I tuck the souvenir into my clutch and turn back around to see the bedroom one more time. With a clearer head, it looks more damaged than it did before. The broken mirror and strewn pillows remind me of the carnage after one of Mom’s breakdowns.

  I do a quick sweep of the furniture and walls, looking for I’m not even sure, but other than Hunter’s scent and the neck-tie I already snatched up, there is no evidence that this room is his. I notice something blue glowing in the fireplace and step back toward it. It’s a broken wine glass, cracked and glowing with the heat.

  It gives me an uneasy feeling, which intensifies when I remember what Hunter was doing just a few minutes ago—or rather, who he was doing. It’s not Priscilla’s profession that gets to me. I don’t think there’s anything shameful about a woman who has sex in front of a camera. It’s the memory of Hunter’s footsteps on the bathroom floor that bothers me. The way he left her there, even if sex was the only thing between them. Also the proximity of that encounter to the one he had with me.

  Why did he leave the room the way he did? Is he some kind of bedroom Batman?

  I can’t decide if I should laugh or feel insulted that he treated me just like Priscilla Heat.

  I gather my gown in one hand and step through the door to the bathroom, holding my breath because I expect to see Hunter. But I don’t. I glance around the empty room. The walls are decked with heavy, gold mirrors; the floors, the massive tub, and the even more massive shower are brown and gold marble; there’s a glass-encased painting on the wall between the tub and the shower; it looks like Dali and I wonder if there’s any way it’s real. Who puts Dali in the bathroom?

  I’m blink into the mirror, giving my body a rare critique and trying to put things with Hunter in perspective, when someone enters from the other end of the bathroom.

  My stomach dips like I’m riding a roller coaster.

  Not Hunter. Another woman.

  I notice she’s wearing a prim black dress and a crisp white apron. Not another lover. She gives me a shy smile and as she steps forward, I can see that her blonde-brown hair is tucked into a tidy bun.

  “Miss DeVille?” she says softly.

  “That’s me,” I say, trying not to look all bug-eyed/weirded out.

  She nods at the tub. “Would you like a bathe?”

  Her accent is French, I think. “A bath?” I correct her automatically and then feel guilty; it’s the soon-to-be professor in me.

  “Yes…this.” She nods vigorously. “Would you like to get into the bath?”

  I narrow my eyes at the massive, square tub, realizing slowly that she must have been sent here by Hunter. “Um, that’s not necessary.” I frown, not at all sure what to say.

  I decide to be blunt. “Where is Hunter?”

  “Mister West is tending to some business.”

  Oh, I just bet he is.

  “Did he send you to offer me a bath?”

  The girl hesitates, and then nods.

  “Thank you for the offer, but I’ll take a few minutes in here by myself and I’ll be gone.”

  I step closer to the mirror, smoothing my hair to fill the awkward moment, and the woman turns back toward me. “There is one more thing,” she says, her voice now softer.

  I wait, brows arched.

  “He does not make this a habit. He says he found you, he had been drinking, you were beautiful. If there is any forgiveness to be asked, you will speak with him?”

  I frowned, confused until I realize this must is Hunter West’s damage control. Ouch. I swallow, telling myself at least it’s not an NDA. Then I give the woman a nod. “Yeah, whatever. Sure.” She turns again, to go, and I say, “Wait.” Her dark eyes meet mine, and I spit it out: “Tell him none of this is necessary. I wasn’t looking to get married, either.”


  She nods and I lock the door behind her. I pull my gown up and work carefully to restore myself to my pre-Hunter state. I also give myself a mental shake.

  Don’t be a drama llama. You were both in the right place at the right time, and you had the best orgasm ever. If anything, he gave you stud service. It so happened to occur right after he was with another woman, but he didn’t design it that way.

  I try to believe my own propaganda as I tuck stray hairs away, then reapply my lipstick and stuff the Hunter-scented cravat deeper into my clutch. I look perfectly respectable—and I am. I had a pleasant experience, and now I’m going back to the party. Maybe Suri will feel I’ve served my time, and I can go home and finish my reading for class on Monday. The subject is fitting: the morality (or amorality) of physical intimacy.

  After a few deep breaths, I start toward the door the maid went through, but as soon as I do, I can see royal blue and gold curtains. I don’t want to come out in another bedroom, and I damn sure don’t want to bump into Hunter again, so I turn around and open the door leading back into the emerald room.

  What I find stuns me. Priscilla Heat is naked, lying on her back beside the fireplace, and Hunter is leaning over her. I’m so distracted by his amazing ass that it takes me a second to notice what he’s doing with his left hand.

  It’s pushed against Priscilla’s throat. She moans like it hurts, and I gasp. Hunter’s head whips my way. The look on his face is horror. I imagine mine is much the same. I fly through the blue bedroom as fast as I can move.

  I’M DASHING THROUGH the hall, heading toward the foyer, and I guess I must be freaking out because I don’t even notice Cross until he and I collide.

  “Whoa.” His hands close on my shoulders as he holds me at arms’ length, his blue eyes narrowing and then widening as he realizes I’m me. “Where have you been?” His voice is low, and I can smell the vodka on his warm breath.

  “Is something wrong?” He moves his hand up to my face and cups my cheek. “You look upset.”

  Without waiting for my answer, he hugs me to him. With my body pressed against his, I realize I’m shaking. I hope he doesn’t notice.

  “I’m okay,” I manage. And even though I’m not nurturing romantic feelings for Cross, being so close to him makes me feel warm. I imagine him sitting at his desk with a sketchpad and a pencil, dictating the design of a new Cross Hybrids motorcycle, hot enough to be a model if I’m honest.

  “What’s got you all worked up?” he asks. “I know these parties, and they’re—” Cross inhales deeply, his nose in my hair, and then pushes me away, his eyes wide with shock. “Seriously? You didn’t.”

  “Didn’t what?”

  He looks me up and down, and when his gaze falls on my left arm, some of the color drains out of his face. “Fucking hell,” he whispers.

  “What?”

  He snatches my clutch, which must have come unclasped as I moved down the hall and is now hanging open. I cringe inside as he pulls out Hunter’s cravat and waves it around. “Jesus, Lizzy. Hunter West?”

  I nod, because I’m not sure what else to do. “What’s wrong with—”

  I’m going to ask what’s so wrong with Hunter West—a rhetorical question whose answer is among the hundreds of scandalous rumors I’ve collected about Hunter over the years. But before I can finish my question, Cross turns around and slams his fist into the wall, striking it hard enough to cause a loud boom.

  I grab his elbow, stunned and appalled. “Cross! What the hell is wrong with you?”

  For half a second, I can feel the pent up rage seethe in him. Then he shuts it off like a light.

  He gently removes my hand from him and holds my gaze, his expression carefully subdued. “Do you need a ride home, Lizzy? Do you want to talk?”

  “I’m fine,” I say, and his mouth twists. That’s when I get a good look at his eyes and realize he’s pretty lit. He tugs me down the hall, back toward the green bedroom, where I hear slapping and a moan. My stomach lurches.

  “Don’t think you’re the only one,” Cross says quietly. His eyes bore into mine. “Did he force you, Liz?”

  “No, of course not! He didn’t.” I grab Cross’s hand and drag him back the other way, toward the empty foyer. “Call off the state of emergency. I’ve still got my V-card. Unstamped.”

  “For how long?” he asks darkly, and I’ve had enough.

  “I don’t care how much you’ve had to drink—” I begin, but he cuts me off.

  “Do you really want to be just another fuck?”

  I recoil, feeling like I’ve just been slapped. It takes me a full half-second to gather my thoughts, and when I do, I’m irate. “I could never be ‘just another fuck,’ so don’t you say that shit to me. I’ll make my own choices and I don’t do a bad job, unlike some people who drink themselves stupid and sleep with any warm body that will have them.”

  He works his jaw, and I know it was a low blow. He’s told me practically all his secrets since we were kids, and I know he uses sex to get affection.

  “I’m just trying to be your friend, Lizzy.”

  I feel steam coming out my ears. “Why were you back here?”

  The look on his face tells me exactly what I had suspected: he was looking for space for his two redheads. Not for me.

  “I’m not like him,” he starts.

  “Right.”

  I can see the hurt in his eyes. Instantly, I’m gutted.

  “Cross, I’m sorry—”

  But he’s out the front doors in a gust of frigid air, and I can’t take back what I’ve said. I stand there, trembling with anger and hurt.

  For a few long seconds, my stomach clenches as I ask myself why Hunter? I know he’s a manwhore. I know he doesn’t ‘like’ me. He doesn’t even know me. And yet...I’ve never even had a crush on anyone but him. I realize now how messed up I must really be, and it makes me want to cry.

  My chest heaves as I stare through the wavy glass panes on the ornate doors. I can hear Cross’s bike crank from somewhere in the direction of the front of the house, and despite how terrible I feel in this moment, I can’t leave without linking up with Suri, my ride.

  I press my back against the wall and gulp back big, deep breaths. I refuse to cry. For the next five minutes, every time my eyes start to sting, I refuse to give in. When I finally make my way back around to the great hall, the first thing I do is scan for Hunter. He’s easy to spy, surrounded by a flock of women, missing his jacket and his tie—or rather, cravat—the sleeves of his shirt rolled up to his elbows.

  My body throbs, and Hunter’s gaze flickers over mine—there then gone, without conveying anything.

  Then Suri is in front of me, cheeks flushed, eyes bright from wine. “Woman, where were you? Cross almost ruined his cover!”

  Cross lives at my family home, in my childhood bedroom. It’s a secret. His family disowned him, and Cross doesn’t want them to know where he is. His father, Drake Carlson, the governor of California, actually said he didn’t care if Cross turned up dead. I probably wouldn’t have believed it had Cross not let me hear the voicemail.

  My family has fallen off the social grid, and Mom’s in rehab and I live with Suri, so we think he’s well hidden. Just in case, Cross and I try to stay away from each other in public.

  “Yeah, I just ran into him.” I shake my head.

  “What happened?”

  “He freaked out,” I say. It’s the only thing I can manage. “I guess I should go find him.” He’ll be at Mom’s, alone. At least I think he will be. Cross isn’t the type to hit the bars when he’s upset, much as he’d like everyone to think the opposite.

  Suri agrees to ride home with Adam and loans me Arnold for the night. A butler fetches Mom’s worn mink and escorts me down the wide, brick walk, to the line of limousines where, years ago, our own driver, Wilson, would have been waiting. The door is opened, and I climb in, feeling weighted.

  I lean forward and give Arnold instructions he doesn’t really need.

&
nbsp; “We’ll be there in forty minutes or less, ma’am,” he says.

  “Thank you, Arnold.”

  The divider wall locks into place, and I’m alone under the starry sky, staring out the sunroof, looking for constellations I can’t find because we’re zipping too quickly down the little vineyard road.

  A computerized refrigerator offers me a bottle of water and I take it, smirking at the green and blue label: DeVille. This is how my great-grandfather made his fortune. It’s good water. Almost as good as West Bourbon, which I find in the liquor console. I take a deep swig, remembering the taste of Hunter West’s mouth. I wrap the cravat around my wrist. Wrong or right, I’m keeping it.

  I’m ashamed to say my mind is still on Hunter when the limousine slows. Arnold lowers the divider, his face taut as he says, “Miss DeVille, please remain inside the vehicle.” The wall goes up, and I feel a weird energy. Also, have we been in the car forty minutes?

  I’m not sure what compels me to open my door, but as I step into the road, I think some part of me already knows, because my arms and legs weigh two tons each.

  My good eye blinks and I see someone lying on his side in the damp grass just beside the road. Within a heartbeat, I recognize…Cross. At first glance, it looks like he’s simply relaxing. His arms are raised over his head in the position he adopts sometimes while sleeping. His legs are scissored, his pretty mouth parted just a little.

  I see blood oozing from his lips.

  The dark smear on the asphalt—that’s Cross’s blood.

  His bike, a renovated ‘73 Norton Commando Mark III Roadster he loves like a person, is lying in the road beside him.

  Hunter

  A few weeks later – Las Vegas

  I CAN’T GO back to Love Inc. I know I should, to try to jar my memory of that night, but I can’t. So we’re at Batshit Ranch, a fifteen-thousand-square-foot California red roof on my little patch of sand, just outside the Summerlin community. I own ten-thousand acres out here, and besides grazing some cattle, I don’t do much with them. Some things should be for enjoyment only, and I enjoy staying at my country place. It’s my Vegas home when I need to get away from the bustle of the Wynn.