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Gabriella
Idream of Dominic and Carter that night. Again.
Carter pushes me against the elevator wall. His body cages me. His big hand covers my cheek before his mouth finds mine, insistent and feverish. Dominic watches, gorgeous, brooding, and too far away. I want to thread my fingers through his wavy shoulder-length brown hair and tug him closer. His dark eyes are filled with a hunger that he doesn’t try to hide, his thick erection straining against the fabric of his trousers.
We make it into the bedroom. I fall back into bed, my body shaking with anticipation. Dominic looms over me. “Tell us what you like,” he murmurs, the timbre of his voice sending a shiver through me. “Tell us what you want.”
Carter trails his fingers over the curve of my spine before spanking my ass. I gasp in mingled shock and desire, and Dominic grabs my hair and tugs my head back. “What was that, Ella? I didn’t hear you.”
I’m so turned on I almost come.
“He’s waiting for an answer,” Carter growls. He flips me on my back, and his large callused hands squeeze my breasts. “Give him one.”
“Please,” I whimper. Carter tweaks my nipples, and I arch off the bed. Already, this one-night stand is the most sinful, decadent thing I’ve ever done, and we’ve barely gotten going.
Carter has red hair, piercing green eyes, and a wicked smile. “I think you can do better than that, Ella.” He punctuates that sentiment by sucking my nipple between his teeth. “Use your words. Tell us what you want, and we will give it to you.”
Arousal floods me, and I dig my nails into the sheets and whimper again. “Oh, fuck,” I hiss. He bites my other nipple, and I groan, my eyes falling shut as delicious heat shoots through every nerve in my body. “Everything. I want everything. And more.”
Another growl, another laugh.A palm connects sharply with my butt. My legs are held open. A condom is rolled on, and a cock impales me.
Sharp, jagged lust is everywhere.
I moan and raise my hips to meet that thrusting erection. “Yes, yes, yes,” I moan. Another fat cock dances near my face. I reach out to grab it, guide it into my willing mouth. I float through a sea of desire. Hands are everywhere, caressing every inch of my body. The pressure builds, and I know the first of many orgasms is imminent. I hold on, push it back, let it build into a crescendo. Fingers tangle in my hair, squeeze my nipples, and circle my clit over and over again, until I’m moaning, begging, pleading—
The blaring of my clock-radio sounds in my ear, penetrating my sexual fog, and wakes me up. I sit up on the futon that masquerades as my bed, my skin drenched with sweat, small shivers wracking my body.
Damn it all to hell. One-night stands are not supposed to have this effect.
My boss is waitingfor me when I get to my cubicle. “Nice job on the Estrada account,” he says, a broad smile on his face. “You did great work, Gabby. Really great.”
Luca Estrada, who has aged out of the Premier League, is joining Los Angeles’ soccer team. Thanks to my efforts, he’s also just signed a blockbuster endorsement deal with Nike. “Thanks.” Warm praise isn’t exactly Paul Figueras’ style, and so the rare compliment is nice. A promotion would be better, but although Paul’s put my name forward many, many times, Francisco doesn’t think I’m qualified.
“On a different note,” he continues. “Anna Lebedeva, Nicki Z’s regular PR rep, just gave us her two-week notice. You know Nicki is doing a two-month run in Atlantic City? I’m going to need you to head there to take over while we find a replacement for Anna. Can you leave this afternoon?”
“Atlantic City?”
Paul looks up. “Is that going to be a problem? You’ve been working hard, and this should be a low-stress gig. It’s short notice, I know. If you can’t make it, I’ll send someone else.”
Atlantic City has casinos. Plenty of them.
“Oh no,” I assure him. “No problem. I’d love to.”
Hope swirls through me. Maybe I can find a way out of this mess after all.
Even though itis a mere two hours from the city, I’ve only been to Atlantic City once. Nicki Z is performing at the Grand River, which is, according to Google, one of only three independent casinos left in the city. I’m not sure to expect when I walk in, but the place takes me by surprise.
This is going to sound strange, but I don’t typically visit casinos. I find them depressing, filled with seniors gambling away their social security money. Sammy’s rooms are hardly the height of cheer, but at least there, no one is exploiting the loneliness of old people for monetary gain.
But the Grand River is beautiful. The vast lobby is decorated with miniature palm trees and dotted with Chihuly glass sculptures. The walls are a deep charcoal grey. The couches are plush and inviting, the lighting warm and golden. If I didn’t know any better, I’d think I was in someone’s living room. Somebody wealthy, and with impeccable taste.
I cross the foyer to the reception and check in. “Welcome to the Grand River, Ms. Alves,” the man at the front desk says with a pleasant smile. “We have you on the fourteenth floor.” He hands me a folder. “Your room key will also get you backstage. Your firm has a block of tickets to Nicky Z’s show every night, but if you need more, please let us know.”
“Thank you.”
“Your folder has vouchers to our spa and our restaurants,” he continues. “There’s also a voucher to the casino if you would like to gamble.”
Would I like to gamble? Is the sky blue?
