I let a slow, knowing smile spread across my face before leaning in to steal one more chaste, lingering kiss. “Just what I thought. This is fun, Aspen. But it’s probably best to stop this now and find a solution for our stolen things.”
She bites her bottom lip. “Fine. But I could, you know. I could be into it.”
I smile. “I know, my beautiful wife,” I say, my thumb smoothing over her cheekbone. “But I’d rather be sure you’re ready. I don't want to frighten you.”
“Sounds dangerous,” she whispers as we begin the clumsy process of untangling our limbs to climb out of the car.
“You have no idea,” I warn, offering her a hand.
She fans herself with her free hand, a small, shaky laugh escaping her. “Come on,” she says, regaining her footing and lacing her fingers with mine. “My friends said they’d be at the new club near the Venetian. If we can find them, Mylene has my spare key, and her phone has my location tracked.”
“Sounds like a plan,” I say, my voice still rough with the remnants of the heat between us. “But I’m not entirely off the horse and carriage escapade, if you change your mind.”
She doesn't pull away. Instead, she offers me a slow, feline smile that reaches her eyes before she breaks into a laugh.
It wasn’t a ‘no.’ And in this city, an absence of a 'no' feels like the ultimate jackpot.
Aspen
That was…interesting.
The same woman who went six months without going past second base with Croix actually considered letting a stranger do filthy things to her in public places. What is becoming of me? Is this the rite of passage Tatum and Holly warned me about? Is this what happens to every ‘good girl’ who sets foot in Vegas? Because if so, I should have come a long time ago.
Then again, if I had, I wouldn’t have methim.
The timing feels intentional. Purposeful. Even with the night dissolving into a series of strange and unfortunate events, something about him makes it all make sense. And the kissing—the way he kisses me defies sense and sensibility. It’s a masterclass in tension and ache, and I like it entirely too much. So much that the mere thought of a horse-drawn carriage now has my pulse erratic and my panties a drenched mess.
Thankfully, he stopped. He saw the flicker of fear behind my flirtation and pulled us back from the ledge before I could lose my footing completely. There is a side to him I’ve never encountered in a man before. A raw, primal intensity that has me simultaneously on fire and terrifyingly curious. I want to gothere with him, but I can’t. Not yet. I’m actually enjoying the slow, agonizing burn of getting to know him.
Even if that “getting to know him” currently involves a detour to report our entire lives stolen.
There is a pop-up police station near the Paris Hotel, so we duck inside to report the theft. As the officers ask us to retrace our steps, even I have to shake my head at how ridiculous it all sounds.
They take the report with the kind of indifference you’d expect in situations like this, but are ultimately no help. They suggest that our best bet is to find my friends and have them track my phone.
“Great. Thanks a lot, officers,” I say, my voice heavy with defeat.
We exit the police tent and step back out into the crowded, buzzing atmosphere to continue the search for Mylene and Liberty.
Searching for a specific group of people in Vegas without a phone is like trying to find a needle in a haystack—if the haystack was made of glitter, house music, and ten thousand drunken tourists.
We stumble into three different clubs, weaving through sweaty bodies and dodging cocktail waitresses. Each time, the bass rattles my teeth and the strobe lights make my head spin. Luca stays glued to my side, and I love how secure he makes me feel.
By the time we hit the Strip again, the adrenaline has faded into pure exhaustion because it’s 3 A.M., and I am over this entire weekend.
“Plan B,” I say, shouting to be heard over the rhythmic thrum of street performers. “We head to the hotel lobby and pray the producers have our paperwork on hand. Liberty is listed as my emergency contact, so they have to have her number.”
“Good thinking,” Luca agrees.
As we walk, I look up at him. “I wonder how many contestants actually end up in this kind of mess.”
He let out a nervous, dry laugh. “Probably plenty. Though, at leasttheyhave the excuse of being drunk.”
“Wait, you sobered up already?” I ask, surprised.
“I don’t really drink,” he says simply.
“Wow. Are you in a program or—?”
