Hustler

  Table of Contents

  Hustler

  Copyright

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Epilogue

  Copyright

  Published by Meghan Quinn and Jessica Prince

  Copyright 2016

  Cover design by Meghan Quinn

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return it and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author. To obtain permission to excerpt portions of the text, please contact the author at [email protected] or [email protected]

  This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only.

  All characters in this book are fiction and figments of the authors’ imagination.

  www.authormeghanquinn.com

  http://www.authorjessicaprince.com

  Formatting CP Smith Affordable Formatting

  copyright © 2016 Meghan Quinn and Jessica Prince

  All rights reserved.

  Chapter One

  **GAVIN**

  “Pinch my nipple, again.”

  Seriously, if I squeeze this chick’s nipple one more time, I’m afraid it will pop off the fake titty it’s attached to. I’ve spent the last five minutes up in Areola City, playing with her unappealing, and rather rubbery tits. I’m about two more tweaks away from being bored.

  “Oh, oh, oh,” she screams obnoxiously, making her “O” face way too early.

  I’m fucking good at sex, an experienced motherfucker in the bedroom, but there is no way in hell this girl is about to tap out just from a little nip action. Not when I can tell her breasts have been desensitized from the bubbling saline sacs ready to burst at any given time.

  This is what I get for day drinking.

  “Oh Grant, just like that. Squeeze them harder.”

  As if she just pinched my cock with her lady claws, I pull away quickly. “My name is Gavin.”

  “That’s what I said. Come here, big daddy.” Her arms reach out in a “gimme gimme” kind of gesture.

  “Uh no,” I correct her, insulted as fuck. “You called me, Grant.”

  “They’re practically the same name.” She bats her eyelashes at me, giving me an innocent look that I see right through.

  Call me a drama queen, but I’m not about to fuck a woman who called me someone else’s name. Peeling my body off of hers, I roll to the side of my bed, and head toward the shower. Time to wash away my poor decisions.

  “Where are you going?”

  I don’t answer her, instead I turn the handle of my fifty-thousand-dollar shower, stacked with ten showerheads, a waterfall head in the ceiling, and neon lights. I’m rich, and a man’s got to spend his money on something, right?

  Heating up quickly, I step into the onslaught of water, letting the warm liquid hit my body in all the right ways. Resting my head against the tile, I think back, trying to remember when sex became so monotonous for me, when it became so routine that I didn’t care if I turned a girl down or not.

  Back in the day, when I was just starting to hit the tables hard, perfecting my trade, and mastering the art of calling people on their tells, I would have easily fucked the girl in my bed, not giving two shits if she called me Grant or Neil Diamond. Any pussy was good pussy to me.

  But my mindset has changed since then. I’m Gavin Saint. Women don’t mistake me for someone else… ever.

  Maybe that’s my problem. I’m holding myself to a higher standard. I’m not living in the moment. I process that thought and then shake my head. Nope, I’m Mr. Live-in-the-Fucking-Moment. I have zero regard for a future, I live in the here and now. Relationships don’t exist in my world. Families are made for men wanting and willing to put on a set of New Balance 409’s and a pair of khaki cargo pants, because they have to stuff their balls somewhere. They’re sure as hell not attached to the log sitting between their legs.

  A cold breeze hits my back, letting me know my shower time has been ambushed.

  Her claws run up my shoulder blades, and around to the front of my pecs. Her plump breasts push against my back, and I can’t help but like the feeling. I’m a man, not a saint – despite my last name.

  “Don’t be mad at me. I just want to please you.” She moves her hands down the front of my chest, past my defined, toned stomach, to my dick, which has reawakened.

  My head falls back the minute her hand wraps itself around my cock. Starting at the root, she pumps up, gripping just tight enough that I have to spread my legs further apart to steady myself. Who knew this chick was going to be amazingly good at hand jobs?

  Maybe she wasn’t such a poor decision after all.

  Her hand pumps three, four, five times, and then stops. I’m about to protest when she slips in front of me and drops to her knees, licking her lips, ready to devour me. So she doesn’t drown, I tilt the showerhead above us to the side and brace myself against the wall, allowing the cold tile to penetrate the heated skin of my back.

  Slowly, like a fucking sloth, she runs her hands up my thighs until she connects with the juncture between my legs. Her right hand wraps around my cock and her left hand grips my balls, rolling them tenderly with her fingers.

  Fuck me, that feels good.

  I glance down at her, her breasts swaying with her movements, her hair wet and pushed to the side, and her lips moist and wide open, ready for me. With a little thrust forward, I make my way to her mouth where she sucks me in, all the way, so the tip of my dick touches the back of her throat.

  With zero gag reflex, she sucks me, hard, her teeth barely grazing my sensitive skin. Normally, the touch of teeth on my dick has me sweating, not in a good way, but I’m not worried at this point, I’m just enjoying the feel of her mouth around my cock.

  My head rests against the tile of my shower, my hands fall into her hair, encouraging her to move faster, and I let myself relax into one hell of a blow job. Not the best I’ve ever had, but fuck, getting your dick sucked is never a bad thing.

  With every pull of my cock and fondle of my balls, I’m pushed further and further to the precipice of my orgasm. My toes start to tingle, my junk tightens up, and my stomach rolls with pleasure as white, hot euphoria engulfs me, screaming through my body, hell bent on making me fall to my damn knees.

  She swallows everything I give her, never letting up, taking it all down until I’m completely sated.

  Breathless and pleased, I watch her wipe her mouth and stand up. Her nipples are hard, and she has a fuck-me-now look on her face. She pats my cheek and says, “I will be waiting for you in the bed. Bring your A-game sailor.”

  Just like that, I want nothing to do
with her again. Exiting the shower, she wraps a towel around her body and heads back out to my California king-sized bed. Fingers crossed she’s passes out before I get back to my room.

  I take my time cleaning myself, letting every jet hit me in the right spot, allowing my shampoo and soap to soak in before I wash it out, and frankly, reciting the presidents by term just to avoid any responsibility of fingering/tonguing her pussy.

  There is no way my dick is going inside of her.

  Reluctantly, I turn off the shower and listen carefully as I step onto my plush bathmat. From the wall, I grab my towel off the rack and dry off, listening for any kind of stirring coming from the bedroom.

  Nothing.

  Drying off quickly, I tip toe across the white marble floor and peek my head out the door. Laying in the middle of the bed, legs spread, head hanging off one of my pillows, and drool pooling out of her mouth is my ridiculous poor decision – minus the blow job.

  Thank you tequila shots!

  Day drinking actually has come in handy.

  Being as quiet as possible, I sift through my closet, choosing a deep blue Armani suit and white button up shirt. I pair my outfit with a brown Dolce and Gabbana belt and matching Barker Black Cap Toe shoes. I’m a man of style, expensive and refined style. I pride myself on what’s in my closet and the fabric I put on my body. Only the finest of attire for me. As a high roller at the poker tables in Vegas, I have an image to maintain.

  Styling my hair to the side, giving it just enough ruffle to make it look messy but kept together, I cement it with some pliable hair wax, playing with a few strands in the front until I’m happy. Once satisfied, I put on a spray of cologne and check myself out in the mirror one last time.

  Call me a cocky bastard, but I’m a sexy motherfucker.

  Quietly, I write the girl a note, asking for a rain check but not meaning it, and leave my villa. It’s full of security cameras, so I’m not worried about her stealing anything. In an hour, I will have Gertrude, my favorite maid, shoo the girl out of my place. There’s no way in hell I want her there when I return.

  The elevator doors close behind me and take me to the control room floor of Hotel Paragon, my buddy’s hotel that lies directly on the Las Vegas Strip, where all major champion fights take place, where the high rollers come to test their luck, and where I reside.

  There is really only one true part of Vegas, and that’s the Strip, anything outside of the stretch is a foreign country I don’t care to get to know. Who needs to travel outside of the Strip when you could visit New York City, Italy, and Paris all within a mile block radius? Shops, restaurants, gambling, and girls is all a man needs, and I don’t have to travel far for any of those things.

  Stopping on the tenth floor, a loving couple steps onto the elevator, joining me in my descent. Immediately, I can tell it’s their first time in Las Vegas. They’re wearing sneakers – mind you, it’s reaching dinner time – they have on graphic tees depicting what city they are currently visiting, and the guy is wearing a backpack most likely full of extra water bottles for when they get thirsty, and a GoPro to record the Bellagio Fountains. They scream tourist.

  Standing with my hands in my pockets, my shirt undone at the top, exposing some of my tanned chest, I nod at the woman and smile. “First time visiting?”

  “Yes,” she coos, wrapping her arm around her husband. “It’s our tenth anniversary.”

  “Congratulations.” I smile at the both of them, taking a quick glance at the man’s feet.

  Yup, New Balance 409’s. Poor fuck.

  I exit the elevator before them, parting ways on the fifth floor. “Enjoy the city.” I salute them and take off to the locked door reading “Personnel Only”. With a swipe of my keycard, I’m in.

  Down a short hallway and to the left, I enter the control room, the nerve center of the hotel, where highly trained specialists scout the floor of the casino for trouble.

  “It’s about time you waddled your raisin dick in here.”

  Graham Larson: spoiled little rich kid, owner of Hotel Paragon, and one of my best friends since I started hustling the tables.

  Back when I was still perfecting my game, Graham would watch me, and how the crowd reacted to my “balls to the wall” playing style. He made it his mission to bring me to Hotel Paragon, where I quite literally gave all the high rollers a run for their money. After a dozen wins, ranging from half a million to a million, he invited me into the VIP lounge for a drink where he offered me a job I couldn’t refuse. A job where I’d be paid under the table so I could still gamble at the hotel’s high roller games. A job in the control room, reading the gamblers, making sure they weren’t counting cards or cheating, all the while, being able to compete about once a month in the most expensive games in the country since I’m not “technically” an employee.

  Not to mention the free villa in his hotel.

  I’ve saved the man millions of dollars from picking out cheaters. As far as I’m concerned, he owes me the name to his first born at this point.

  I slap Graham on the back, ignoring his insult and say, “Anything good going on?”

  In front of us is a span of screens, displaying hundreds of shots around the hotel, ranging from the casino floor, to the hallways, to the restaurants and club. Every corner of the hotel is covered. Very often the control room is referred to as God, nothing escapes our view.

  “Sloppy sex at the bottom of stairwell twelve,” Graham answers, switching one of the screens over to show stairwell twelve.

  To my shock, Mr. 409 is trying desperately to pummel his touristy wife up against the wall, still wearing his backpack, with his shorts wrapped around his ankles.

  “No shit,” I look closer. “I was just in the elevator with those two. It’s their ten-year anniversary.”

  “Damn,” Graham shakes his head. “She’s been with that wrinkly ass for ten years? That’s impressive.” Graham looks me up and down. “Nail that pair of tits you were talking to at the bar?”

  I shake my head. “Dude, it’s creepy that you stalk me on the monitors. Don’t you have anything better to do?”

  “Someone has to keep track of who gives you a venereal disease. Fuck knows you were a couple shots in and unable to make a clear decision.”

  “And you approved of this woman?”

  He shrugs his shoulder. “I wanted to know if her boobs were real.”

  “They aren’t,” I answer.

  “Damn, they never are. So you banged her?”

  “No,” I shake my head, wondering if I should tell him the truth about her calling me the wrong name. Knowing Graham, he wouldn’t ever let me live it down. So, instead, I say, “She blew me in the shower and then passed out on the bed. I snuck out before she woke up, which reminds me...”

  I pull out my phone and send a text to Gertrude, asking her to shuffle into my place in a half hour to clean it out. She knows how to decipher that, and she never lets me down. I tip her well.

  “Damn, I haven’t been blown in the shower in a long time.”

  I turn to him, a thoughtful, wistful look on his face. “You realize you are standing in the middle of the control room, surrounded by your employees, right?”

  He looks around at all the people sitting at tables, screens in front of them. “I pay them well enough to forgo anything that slips out of my mouth.”

  “Lucky them. Who’s playing tonight?” I nod at the high roller lounge.

  “Texas, Ramos, Sardinelli, Watson, Bowels, and Carrington.”

  “All amateurs.” I walk over to my screen and zoom in on the table that is being prepped for the game. “Davies dealing tonight?”

  “She is. Her ranking is growing amongst the players. She’s starting to become the most requested dealer.”

  “I don’t doubt it. She’s smooth and has a great pair of tits to stare at when making a decision. She’s also great for players like me because it’s easy to pick up on tells while she’s dealing. A lot of the players use her rack as a pla
ce to focus when they’re bluffing. One slip of the eye to the hot air balloons sitting on her chest, and their bluff is given up. Ramos is notorious for it.”

  I eat, sleep, and breathe poker. My job allows me to sit and study every single player that rolls through the doors of Hotel Paragon. I know their hands, and I know when they’re bluffing, when they’re nervous, and when they’re unsure. I read them, study each and every one of them, so when it comes to my time to play, I’m able to hustle every one of those assholes.

  “Ramos is pathetic,” Graham comments. “If it wasn’t for his money, I would ask him to leave. Did you know he has a trainer with him, every day, teaching him the tricks of the trade? I want to know who the hell has been teaching him and how much he gets paid, because shit, I could do a better job.”

  “Dustin Lynch, and he gets paid thirty grand every game Ramos plays.” I’m immersed in the sport, I know everything.

  “Thirty grand? Damn, that fucker has it easy.”

  “Clearly taking advantage.” I sit down in my seat and ask one of the attendants in the room to bring me a whiskey on the rocks.

  “Haven’t I talked to you about drinking on the job?” Graham asks, mirth in his voice.

  “Haven’t I told you to shove your pinky up your dick hole? You know I do my best work with a tumbler in my hand. Now leave me the fuck alone so I can get situated.”

  “Fine,” he sighs. “Make me some money tonight.”

  I ignore his last comment just as a petite figured woman walks on screen. Her wavy brunette hair reaches her shoulders. She’s a cocktail waitress in the high roller room, one I’ve never seen before. She must be fresh meat. She looks nervous, but also irritated at the same time.

  With the camera, I zoom in closer to get a better look. Her body is lithe, but also athletic, like she does Pilates every day. Her breasts are pushed up to her collarbone, and she’s wearing the classic cocktail waitress outfit, revealing thighs and tits. I’ve grown accustomed to the outfit, and I’ve torn it off quite a few waitresses as well.

  She’s beautiful. Stunning actually.

  Waiting for the players to enter the room, she impatiently shifts from side to side, occasionally looking at the thin watch on her wrist. Her arms are crossed at her chest, and she doesn’t look happy, rather, beyond irritated that she has to wait on the best tipping men in America.