He was right – his most irritating habit. I would make a hell of a lot more money fighting with sponsors and slapping my name on any product line that came along. The two heavyweights of my thoughts slogged around the ring again – make a lot of money versus do it all alone and keep my name for myself.
I was glad when the woman at the front desk rolled her suitcase over a Chihuahua's foot. The yapping pet was snapped up into the arms of a platinum blonde, reality show star. As beautiful as she was, with curves that barely stayed within her stretched lace dress, it was the other woman I looked at again. She gave the dog a prim look and then apologized to it, ignoring its owner.
"I'm sorry. I was not expecting a dog in a casino, especially not under the wheels of my suitcase," she said. "You poor thing."
Before the b-list star could react, the woman turned back to her place in the check-in line. She smoothed down the collar of her white blouse. Her pursed lips did not hide her full mouth. I liked the way her curves pressed against the cotton of her shirt. Her black pencil skirt was as stiff as her posture, but the rounded silhouette made my mouth water.
"Yeah, I'll give you – she's a looker," Kev said.
"The reality show gal?" I asked.
"No, the Ice Queen there. You know, half the guys in the industry have a bet running on who beds her first."
"You know her?" I kept my eyes on her as she folded her hands on her suitcase handle and waited her turn.
"I wish, if you know what I mean." Kev made an orgasmic face that soured my stomach. "She gets all the white-collar athletes, you know, tennis and golf, even bowling. Guess she comes from Ivy League stock and has been making a killing for some vitamin supplement company."
"What do you mean she gets all the white-collared athletes?" I asked.
"They're happy to sign with her, like I said, because of the bet. Kya Allen is a career good girl. Not your type at all," Kev said.
"Really. You know my type?" I asked. "What if my type of woman is 5'5", copper blonde hair, curves, and sensible cotton?"
"Nah," Kev slid off his barstool and slapped a few bills next to his empty glass. "I'll introduce you to your type. She's waiting for us over near the craps tables. Wants to blow on your dice."
He gave me no choice but to follow. Kev set me up at the head of a craps table and would not take “I don't gamble” as an excuse. Within minutes, I lost one hundred dollars and then won seventy-five.
When my luck changed for the better, I met Talia. She pressed an impressive display of cleavage against my arm and blew on my dice, as Kev predicted. Her silky black hair tickled me a lot lower than my shoulder.
"Any chance you know the way to the bathroom?" I asked. "I don't want to end up in line for the buffet."
"This way," Talia said.
I followed her swaying hips all the way into the men's bathroom and into the large stall at the end of the row. Her teeth nipped my neck before I got the door shut. I slipped the latch into place and she had my belt unbuckled.
"Mixed Martial Arts gets me all hot," she said.
Her breasts bounced free of her strapless sheath dress and I cupped them with both hands. I teased her dark nipples to hard nubs and then had to taste them. A few licks, and she shimmied her dress to her waist. There was nothing in my way above or below the crumpled band of fabric. I trailed a hand up her smooth thigh to find her ready and wet.
It was too late. I had been all charged up before she wriggled up to me and let me grip the generous curve of her ass. Now, as much as I wanted to be better than horny in a bathroom stall, Talia had me hard and pulsing in her hand. I tore open the condom wrapper with my teeth and let her expert hands take care of the rest. Whatever had got me going, I needed this release.
I slipped a finger inside her, and she moaned. Her lips tasted like cinnamon gum. Removing my probing finger, I hitched her up against the stall door. Her legs wrapped around my waist and pulled me hard inside. I concentrated on her bouncing breasts as we heaved together, up and down. Her hair was black, not copper blonde, but this was easy.
"Oh, God, you are so strong," Talia moaned.
A urinal flushed and a faucet started running. I paused, the pressure building as I pressed deep into her. I needed the release – I needed to clear my head.
"Oh, don't tease me, Fenton, just do me."
I heard the bathroom door open. As soon as it closed, I resumed my rhythm, speeding up until we both panted. Talia came with a shuddering giggle. I squeezed my eyes tight and let my body push itself hard over the edge.
Talia gave me a long, cinnamon-spiced kiss before she unwrapped her legs. She teetered on her high heels, but giggled again and slipped her dress back into place. Before she slipped out of the bathroom stall, she plucked my phone out of my pocket and entered her number.
"Call me, you bad boy," she said.
I waited until the clicking of her stilettos disappeared. I buckled my belt, washed my hands, and finally looked in the mirror. My head was clear, but it did no good. I knew I wanted more than a bathroom romp, but I couldn't have it. Not yet.
CHAPTER TWO
Kya
I clutched my silver purse, instead of hiking up the straps of my dress again. The doorman eyed my cleavage before he searched the list again for my name.
"Kya Allen. Go on inside. Have some fun for me," he said.
I felt his eyes roving up the backs of my legs to the brief skirt of my black dress. It was almost a relief when a gaggle of ultra-blonde girls bounced up to the front of the line and the doorman turned his lascivious eyes on them. I felt like a ragdoll next to their plastic perfection.
The Vegas nightclub was full of bright and sparkling women, all teetering high on impossible stilettos. My red snakeskin heels were sexy, but at least an inch too short. Between my short shoes and my black dress, I stood out against the tall, sequined, platinum crowd like a sedan at the racetrack.
Ridiculous, I thought. As if I wanted to blend in with the mindless crowd gyrating to the never-evolving club beat. I was only there to find a client and get a new endorsement deal signed. The location just solidified the fact that my new client was not my kind of guy, but this was business and I could take care of business anywhere.
I strode up to the bar and was surprised how fast I was served. "If you order a real drink, it’s on the house," the bartender said.
"How about a whiskey and soda," I said.
"Thank God. I was hoping you weren't a Cosmo or umbrella drink." He grabbed a bottle from a high shelf and smiled as he poured it. A spritz of soda and he slid the drink across to me, holding it so our hands touched. "These big fight promotion gigs are not really my scene. I just needed the extra shift. How about you?"
"Not at all," I said. "I'm here for work, too."
"Then, you come back and find me when you want to take a break." The bartender smiled, and I saw a dimple flash in his cheek.
Feeling warmer from his smile than the whiskey, I turned to take a lap around the pulsating club. It really was not my scene, either, but my boss had insisted I branch out into a new sport. All I knew about Mixed Martial Arts was what my boss had told me in one of his lightning fast meetings.
"It’s a sport full of meteors, not like your satellite golfers," my boss James Cort had said.