I don’t take women to bed.
I take them against the wall, hard and fast, and when I come I make sure they remember.
They always do.
I’m cocky as hell, but shit, I’ve got reason to be. I own Spades Royalle, the sexiest casino in Vegas. Fuck, the sexiest casino in the country.
And sure, I’m a player, but why wouldn’t I be? The highest rollers in the world come to play at my tables—it’s no surprise that the hottest ass comes to the same place.
Everyone wants a taste of the action my casino offers. A taste of what I offer.
The cocktail waitresses who work here, with their tits pushed high and asses hanging out, know why they were hired.
The dealers I cut paychecks to know I only want the fastest hands on my casino floor.
The dancers at my shows know I only want the hottest performers in the city.
The DJs at my nightclub, where table service starts at ten grand, know I only want the best beats, the most fuckable women dancing.
The Spades Royalle is my domain. I own this town, and this casino, and every freshly-shaven pussy that sets foot here knows it.
With my tumbler of whiskey in hand, I walk across the casino floor toward the elevator leading to a private suite I’ve reserved for tonight. It’s the perfect place for mixing business with pleasure. I avoid taking anyone to my penthouse on the top floor—this way I can keep all my transactions from getting personal.
I don’t do personal with any woman.
I’m my own man. I don’t need anyone up close and in my shit. I don’t want them to think they have any chance at long term.
I keep my bets safe.
And the safest bet I know is one night stands—make that one hour stands.
The only people I trust are my closest friends, McQueen, Jack, and Landon. My family? Not a chance. They’ve screwed me over more than once.
But who needs family when you have Vegas?
Downing my drink of choice, Johnny Walker Blue—neat—I look around for a cocktail waitress. I like playing this game, finding a piece of ass that looks nice and giving her a fifteen-minute break she wasn’t expecting.
They never turn me down.
A perfect brown-haired honey works the room, carrying a tray in one hand, setting down beers and cocktails in front of the men at the tables. They offer her chips as tips, but I have a different sort of tip in mind.
Her face is flushed, tendrils of hair falling in her face as she moves quickly, knowing money is up for grabs if she works the tables the right way.
I press my lips together, ready to sweep her from the floor, toward my suite, and push her round, perfect tits around my cock.
I know she’ll want it. It’s obvious she needs it. A scowl crosses her face as a blackjack player forgoes giving her a tip, and she rolls her eyes slightly as a guy offers her his phone number.
Watching her as she crosses the smoky floor, I know what she needs. It looks like she’s had a long night and she needs to release some of that pent-up hostility. I know there’s plenty of time to work her up and down before my monthly private poker game begins.
She walks toward the hall where I’m standing, an empty tray in her hand. Probably headed to the bar to fill her orders.
Oh, I’ll fill her orders all right.
Fuck. My. Life.
I made one rule when I moved to Vegas two months ago—I would not screw bad boys. Or asshats. Or really anyone I met on the casino floor. And the thing is, I’ve made good on my promise.
However, I still have to deal with these guys. Here I am, another night serving drinks to men who assume I am ready and willing.
Really asshole? You think I want your phone number? You think I’m wearing this black pleather leotard—the one that is giving me a serious wedgie—or these fishnets and five-inch stilettos, for you?
You think I have my tits pushed higher than humanly possible because I want to screw you in a hotel that is actually not where I’m hanging out for fun? Because I’m here for one reason, and one reason only: it’s a fucking job.
And god, I need the money.
My sister Janie is still in the hospital, and the bills for her care are coming out the hoo-ha. Landing in Vegas to make sure she was okay was never my plan. I was supposed to start grad school this fall … but fall is in two weeks, and my ass is still here.
Northern Washington University has been my plan ever since I realized if I wanted to get a leg up in life, I needed to work my ass off and get there myself. Nobody is going to help me get ahead. My parents were MIA for most my childhood—you know, before they kicked the bucket.
So it’s always just been Janie and me … except not. Because she left town the moment she turned eighteen, and I’ve been waiting for her to return ever since.