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The rule isno sex in the champagne room, but Maxwell “Ice” Winter wasn’t in the champagne room. In fact, he’d never made it past the bar before the dancer approached him. A long ride had caused sore muscles and a crick in his neck that could easily be relieved with a burst of cum from his nuts into a myriad of places. Not having to trigger the release himself was part of the appeal as his fingers delved into the wet folds of the woman and his hard cock pressed into her backside. Sadly, his bad boy was tucked behind jeans, and currently, she was the only one of the two of them tipping ever closer to orgasm.
The dancer was topless, because people paid a higher cover charge at the Sin City Review to see the goods upon entering, with heels and a skirt short enough the well-formed curve of her ass was on full display. She was one of the newer women to strip at the club he helped manage as part of the Sin City MC because legitimate businesses were a necessary, and in this case useful, evil. While Ice did remember her mouth, names weren’t really his thing.
“Jesus, Ice,” she moaned, her hands bracing on the bar top. “Guess saying a hard ride deserves a good ride was the right come-on.”
Why did she think she needed to seduce him?Yo, asshole, dick to my mouthwould have worked. OrIce, you’re back, I’m wet. Hell, the women that stripped for them really didn’t need to open their mouths for speaking purposes. The fact she was taking three of his fingers and practically riding his palm as it pressed against her clit told him everything he needed to know about her.
“Maxwell Winter,” another woman called to him, the tone not as sexual, but he was being drawn into the arched neck of the bitch in front of him as his other hand kneaded the natural breast the dancer sported. It was an oddity in Vegas, and one he was appreciating, despite the probable daddy issues that more than likely had triggered the early development.
“The girl on the stage is gonna be mad we’re putting on a better show,” the dancer groaned as her arousal coated his fingers.
“I don’t split tips,” he joked into her ear as he nibbled on her neck. “They stick the bills in my ass cheeks, they’re mine.”
“So not fair,” she moaned back, her hand curling around his head, the dagger-style acrylic nails scraping along his scalp. “Your cock is gonna be filling my ass so much there won’t be room for even a single dollar.”
Game. Set. Match.
“Ice,” the woman behind him barked.
Letting out a groan of irritation, he lifted his right hand, still warm from the dancer’s breast. “Look, I’ve got two hands and the ability use them simultaneously. You want me to finger you into oblivion, saddle up to the bar. If not, back the fuck off and enjoy the show.”
Cool steel slapping around his wrist made him search his mind for why the woman’s voice had been vaguely familiar. When the other end of the handcuffs was latched to the brass bar that wrapped around the bar top, it came to him.
“Detective Nunez,” he said, stilling his fingers before slowly removing them from the dancer and squeezing the ass he would sadly not be exploring that night. “I’m not opposed to a little bondage play, but I’m saving pegging for my fiftieth birthday, and my safe word ispetunia. I can usually get that word out around the ball gag.”
“Mr. Winter,” she bit, and he finally turned enough to see her as she passed him an antiseptic wipe.
“Judgy,” he joked, trying to figure out how to one-hand a wipe—a pussy, sure, but a wipe was flimsy and didn’t tend to lock around the digits. “This would be easier with two hands.”
Nunez’s light gray power suit wasn’t exactly Hollywood styled. No high heels because he suspected Detective Nunez believed there was a chance she’d have to run after a person. With hair slicked back into a long ponytail and dark eyes glaring at him hard, even in the dim light of the club, he knew at some point the cuff around the pole was going to end up on his left wrist. Bringing his hands together, he cleaned his left hand and let out a long sigh.
Her presence had a handful of club members’ attention. Shit, they’d probably seen her before he did, and there better be a damn good explanation from the Prospect working the door. Raven? Bullet? One of those jackasses owed him a hard fuck from a soft woman. The more senior members were letting shit play out as they fingered the shots of hard liquor now sitting idle as they waited for a nod from Ice. Aries, the VP of the club, rested his massive forearms on the table in front of him. His squared jaw ticked a bit as Shadow, an Enforcer, leaned back in his chair as if he were watching a show, but Ice knew better. The man would pounce with barely a head nod from anyone thinking Ice couldn’t handle his current predicament.
“You know, pulling out cuffs in the Review can go one of two ways, but it’s ballsy either way.”
“Are you done?” she sniped, having never been one to suffer fools.
Angling his hand toward the hard lump tucked behind his zipper, he growled at her. “Does it look like I’m done? No, I’m somewhere between sky blue and turquoise.”
“Tell me when you hit navy because at that point, amputation is the only way to go.”
“See, I want to hate you, Detective, but then you woo me back in with your attention to detail and care for the well-being of the citizens of Las Vegas,” he said, wondering what charge was going to have her dragging him down to the station house now. “But I wonder, does your old man know you hang out in strip clubs and handcuff innocent men?”
“The last thing you are, Maxwell, is innocent.”
“You sure? Because last time when you had me all trussed up, arms behind my back and straddling me—”
“When you were face-first in the dirt—”
“You tripped me,” he countered. “All because you wanted to say I was a bad boy.”
He leaned in closer to the woman, a mid-thirties, career-driven hard-ass with naturally tanned skin and a body being wasted in a shitty, off-the-rack pantsuit. Most importantly, the holstered gun on her hip had the leather strap snapped, telling him she wasn’t expecting a knockdown drag-out. Then again, she’d caught him with one hand locked into a very soft and sensual gash.
“You like the bad boys, don’t you, Detective,” he whispered as he leaned in close. “What the hell, I’m nowhere near fifty, but my birthday is right around the corner.”
“The only thing I’m interested in pegging you with, Ice”—her teeth snapped together when she said his road name, making him want to kiss the taste out of her mouth—“is a murder charge. Where have you been all day?”
