by Katy Evans
He shifts up on his elbow, and I can feel his gaze in the shadows. “Tell me about this big exhibit.”
Something else that’s pretty big keeps nudging my hipbone.
His interest mesmerizes me.
“Well, it’s a collective,” I explain, sitting up as I search his gaze in the dark, finding it only because of the silver gleam in his eyes, shiny even in shadows. “All of the artists I represent are exhibiting their newest works, plus a few other artists who’ve got international exposure that I was able to snatch up. One of them, Yamika Tanato, she’s so incredible. They all are. But Yamika . . .” I tell him about her installations and large-scale works, how she uses several layers of paint, how each work takes about six months to dry.
He inhales my hair as I settle back down in bed, runs his lips along my ear.
“Sounds fascinating.”
I frown. His voice is so low it’s almost indecipherable. “You don’t sound fascinated.”
“I am,” he promises, with a low laugh, as he drives his fingers into my hair. “Not my fault it’s such a turn-on to hear you speak about art. Come here.”
I giggle, already aching again as he turns my head, and suddenly our lips are inches apart. My breath and his breath mingling. “Have you worked me out of your system yet?” I ask, stroking his nipples. I love how velvety and hard his chest is. I could touch this guy all day and look at him all day, like a living work of art, and never tire of it.
“We’re not nearly there yet.”
I push him back a bit, and I open my mouth to tell him I’m craving more when he ducks his head, “No more talking, Wynn,” he says, huskily. He sticks his tongue into my mouth. He folds my leg over his shoulder, and before I know it, he’s inside me again.
“No more talking, Redhead,” he says, huskily, “just fucking. If I’m going to work you out of my system, it’ll take a while . . .”
He sounds lightly amused as he tosses my words back at me, but he shoves his thumb into my mouth, watching me lick it as he starts moving in me, and he’s not amused anymore. Both of us quiet, our breaths quickening, our bodies straining. I arch back, closing my eyes, letting Cullen do whatever he wants with me. Letting him tease me, play with me—and fucking loving every second of it.
CRAPS
We spend the morning having breakfast in bed.
“Don’t think I’ve forgotten about the concert.” I glance at him across the breakfast (more like lunch) table. “Are you still taking me?”
“It’s your last day. Your wish is my pleasure.” He chucks my chin, teasing me. I laugh and walk my fingers up his arm, then tease his lips apart with a strawberry. He bites it, enough that his teeth catch my fingertips.
“Ouch. Caveman.” I glare playfully but actually it didn’t hurt one bit, and I raise those same two fingertips he bit and suck them.
His eyes darken. He shifts back, eyeing me with a smirk on his face as his gaze caresses me. “Why are you so covered up now, huh?” He leans forward and strokes his hand across my shoulders, lowering my loose pajama top to reveal the curves of my bare shoulders.
“Because I’m hungry. I don’t want you to get any ideas until my tummy’s satisfied.”
“Your satisfaction is my aim. Let’s get you fed then.” He snatches the last strawberry from the plate and raises it to my lips.
I’m blushing the same shade as the fruit he tantalizingly offers me. “You’re ridiculous.”
“Last strawberry, Red. Do you want it or not?” He teases it away.
“I want it,” I groan, opening my mouth. He teases it into my lips, and I part and take a bite, the juice flowing down my throat. “Mmm. It’s my favorite fruit. Did you know? It just tastes so . . .” I start to lick my lips when he grabs the back of my head and kisses me, tasting the strawberry on my lips.
“Fresh. Fresh and perfect,” he concedes, leaning back to watch me flush with a look of amusement on his face.
“Why so shy with me today? You’d think you’d be less coy this morning after the things I did to you last night.”
“It’s because of them that I feel . . . ugh. You’re enjoying this, aren’t you? Stop it!” I cover my face, laughing. “Stop looking at me like that, I hate blushing. My hair is red, Cullen. When I blush, I blend straight into my hair and I hate it.”
“I personally love it.”
“Ugh, you.” I toss my napkin at him, and he chuckles and peels it off the top of his head.
His phone starts buzzing on the table, and he frowns when he sees the name on the screen. He answers. “Yeah?”
I take advantage and hurry to the restroom, freshen up, and hear him as I come back out to the living room. He’s standing, staring out the window. “That’s not possible. I’m busy.” He pauses. “I’ll send Oliver with some money later.”
He hangs up and rings for Oliver, who knocks moments later. I watch Cullen pull out several stacks of bills from the room safe and stash it in an envelope, handing it to Oliver.
“To my mother’s,” he tells Oliver.
“Yes, sir.”
Cullen shuts the door behind him, his eyes finding me across the room. He’s wearing slacks only, a hint of stubble on his square jaw.
My heart is doing something funny because . . . he’s kind to his mother. He left the comfortable life that his dad provided him to be with his mom, who seems to be less . . . well, dependable. It does something to me.
There’s a slim distance between love and lust, and I’m straddling the very middle, unsure of what I feel, unsure of how to stop it, helpless to swing from one side to the other, touched and affected by both.
I realize Cullen is still looking at me too. “Look at you. I can’t even take my eyes off you when you’re in a room.”
“Don’t tease me.”
“I’m not teasing you. I’ve wanted you from the first moment I saw you.”
I lick my lips, his words buzzing in my head. “When you bought me. Robert-Redford style.”
He doesn’t move for a moment.
His eyes darken as he remains silent, a suspicious line at the corner of his mouth tempting me to believe he’s about to smile.
“Had a good time last night. Let’s get ready. What do you want to do on your last day?” He pats my butt on his way to the bedroom.
I follow him and watch him flip on the shower. “Aside from going to that concert tonight and the obvious . . .” I smirk. “Working you out of my system,” I tease. “I’d love to learn how to play craps.”
He rounds back to look at me, surprised. “You’re kidding.”
“Nope. Are you game?” I throw myself on his bed, curling my legs beneath me as I watch him get undressed, my whole body responding by what I’m seeing.
His grin is absolutely devilish. “I’m game.”
He eyes me on the bed, the twinkling lights in his eyes intensifying.
“If you come wash me,” he adds.
I gape and drool a little in my mouth as I watch his gorgeous ass flex as he walks toward the shower.
Exhaling, I quickly strip and join him, pulling the door open, steam covering my face and body as I step in. Cullen was dragging his hand down his face, but his entire body tenses when I press up behind him and wrap my arms around his waist, leaning my cheek to his back. I close my eyes, exhaling, loving when he reaches behind to hold me still before he turns around and pulls me right into his arms.
He rocks me under the water for a moment—and I know it’s not true, but it feels like the first time he’s ever held me like this before. He smiles down at me, and I smile up at him, before we get into the sexiest fucking of my life. And I just can’t remember anything exists outside of Vegas and this man.
* * *
“You’ve never shot dice before?” he asks when we arrive at the craps table.
I shake my head, and Cullen smiles down at me and places himself behind me as he instructs me.
“On your come-out roll, seven and eleven pay. Two, three or twelve are craps
, and they lose on the come-out roll. If you hit any other number, you’ll establish the point you need to hit again before seven rolls out,” Cullen says as the stickman shoves the dice our way.
“Okay.” I smile.
“Pick up two,” he says, nodding at the dice. I miss his heat when he steps to my side, but adrenaline already pumps in my veins.
Forty-five minutes later and we’re on a roll.
I’m throwing the dice, confused by the rules, asking Cullen, “What do we need now?”
“Seven or eleven. You’re coming out again.”
I nod and blow on the dice, throwing them down the table, squealing when a seven appears.
The table gets hot. Other players are coming in to place their bets.
I do it again, and again, establishing the point, hitting that same point with no seven in sight—which apparently is a good thing. It’s a good thing to throw sevens on your come-out throw, but not when you’ve already established a point.
I blow on the dice again, throwing the dice, squealing again when I hit my number. I’m giggling, having the time of my life, the adrenaline rushing through my veins as Cullen places bets for us and manages our winnings like a pro.
When I throw a seven, and my winning streak seems to be coming to an end, we collect our winnings. I grab Cullen’s jaw and kiss him, saying, “Nobody told me gambling would turn me on this much. That it could be so sexy.” I squeeze his jaw and kiss him again, ecstatic. “It’s because you’re sexy.”
I’m all horny, wanting to lead him upstairs, or to a nearby restroom. I want him all the time, every second. I want to go down on him, devour him.
I want him to devour me.
“I love this game!” I throw my arms around him and whisper in his ear. “Can we go now?”
He looks down at me, our lips a hairsbreadth away. He pecks them, squeezing my waist and letting me feel how hard he is. I squirm needily, pecking him back and tightening my hold on him.
He nods and says we’re cashing out our winnings.
“Good roll,” a lady says, tossing a black chip my way. “Shooter tip.”
“Aw! Thanks!” And I sound like such a girly girl.
Cullen growls when I lean over to pick up the chip and my tits almost spill out of my dress.
And I’m no longer a girl. I’m his girl.
While the dealer counts our chips, I push myself into Cullen’s hard chest and breathe, “I am lucky, aren’t I?”
“You’re fucking Lady Luck on legs,” my Silver Eyes husks down to me, smiling teasingly.
He looks at me like he wants to take me up to the room and do me. He tucks our chips into my palm, and as he hands me the large denomination coins to store in my purse, I know he might have done just that if Mike didn’t appear.
“Cullen. There you are. I’m sorry to say . . . I’ve got some bad news.” Looking worried, Mike scrapes a hand along the back of his neck. “Qualifier has been postponed.”
Cullen looks at him with a mild arch of one brow. “When’s the new date?”
“I’m awaiting confirmation, but three days after tomorrow at the latest.”
His jaw squares, and his voice drops a decibel. “Fuck that, Mike,” he growls.
I feel my own smile fade as Cullen shoves his hands into his pockets and looks at me. “He’ll be here,” I quickly tell Mike, and Cullen turns to me with laser-like intensity in his gaze.
“Cullen?” Mike waits for his confirmation.
Cullen nods tightly, still looking at me with curiosity.
Mike excuses himself, and we stare at each other for a beat. Two. Three beats.
Aware that I’m flushing and my expression could give me away, I begin walking, looking down at my feet, trying to hide my disappointment. “You can’t skip your qualifier. This is what you do. Besides . . . you’ve already lost our bet so it’s not like you need to come help with my exhibit after all. I only said you should because—” I trail off.
“Because you wanted to strut your stuff for me,” Cullen says. “I know that, Wynn.”
My eyes widen, and I laugh and shoot him a glare. “See? And I didn’t have to, to win. So . . .” I sigh. “It’s tight, but you could still make it to my show if you finish on time. It won’t be as fun without you to impress—your presence alone would dare me to do my best.”
I hate the disappointment in my voice, but I can’t help it. I raise my eyes to his hard profile.
He’s staring straight ahead, a slight frown on his features, then he eyes me, giving me a wan smile. “Tell me you’ll kick ass with this exhibit, though.”
“Of course I will. I won our bet, didn’t I? That artist I told you about last night? She’s bringing her best work, a massive painting, the crown jewel of the exhibit. It’s almost a mural, only someone with huge spaces and bankroll can afford it . . .” I shake my head, unable to describe how jaw-droppingly stunning her work on such a grand scale is. “I adore it. It’s called ‘future that will never be’ and is the most incredible abstract landscape you’ll ever see. It’s magical, you see? So beautiful it can’t be real, but when you stare at it you’re hit with the fact that it is real. It could be real, because reality is subject to perspective, and perspective can change reality. I’m proud of this particular artist. She went through tough stuff in her life to be where she is now. I’m proud of all my artists, but this one—that piece . . .” I shake my head, sighing when I realize I must be boring him. “Anyway. Invites have been sent, and there’s already some buzz on the internet so I’m thrilled . . .” I glance up at him, grinning sheepishly.
He stops me from walking, a hand on my wrist, looking even more intent than before. “Stay for a few more days. We can leave together.”
I hesitate for a second, Cullen’s gaze searching me intently, almost as if he’s prying my secrets away from me. Especially the one I’m clutching closest to my heart, which is that I don’t want to leave.
But I have to.
Stomach clutching at the thought of never again seeing Cullen like I did this weekend, I groan. “I can’t. I need to unpack some of the paintings, get everything ready—I fear I’ve already asked too much of Pepper this week.”
“Damn,” he growls.
“I know. But you need to be in that qualifier. I mean, this is what you do.” I roll my eyes in fake mockery. “It’s still not art, but . . . it’s your thing, Playboy.” I shoot him a grin as I tease the sound of his nickname, hating the butterflies that awaken in me at a hint of a smile. “It’s my last day—our last day here together. So let’s make it count. I’m ready for that concert. And I know you’re dying to dance with me!”
“Right,” he says flatly, and I laugh when I see the amusement in his eyes.
CONCERT
“Drop us here, Oliver,” Cullen says. Next he smothers my lips with the hottest kiss I’ve had since . . . oh, maybe five or six minutes ago. We’ve been kissing all the way to the concert. I already sort of wish we’d stayed in the room so I could truly make the best out of my last day here.
“Do you have your tickets, sir?” Oliver asks.
“Got ’em,” Cullen answers. He checks his interior coat pocket before taking my hand. “In case I haven’t told you tonight, you’re beautiful.”
“You don’t look too bad yourself, Mr. Carmichael.” I eye him in those dark slacks, black button shirt, and black coat jacket. I could lick my teeth. To be honest, I can easily accept and dish compliments with Cullen because it’s like we fit, like no one else is breathing our air except me and Cullen and we can say and do whatever we choose.
Oliver pulls to the curb. Cullen exits then helps me out as well, taking my hand and pulling my arm through his.
A reporter closes the distance as if she wants an exclusive, but Cullen puts up his hand. “Privacy tonight, please.”
“Cullen,” I whisper, letting him lead me. “Was that reporter . . . waiting for you?”
He laughs. “Me and any other familiar face she sees.”
“Do you want to go back? Do you need the publicity?”
“No. Sorry. You’re all mine. They’re not taking you away from me.”
I like that he’s already noticed that I get nervous in the spotlight. Besides, I don’t want to share him tonight. This is our last night together.
Don’t go there, Wynn. You’re out on the town tonight with the hottest man in the city.
Enjoy it. Enjoy him.
I turn to drag my fingers up the front of his shirt and before I realize what I’m doing, my head is up. I reach for a kiss.
He pops my lips and smiles down at me. “Let’s go have some fun.”
Behind us, the crowd erupts in cheers as a sleek SUV limo arrives with the headliner. The New Vegas Pack is known for their outstanding renditions. Tonight they’ll bring Mendes, Puth, Sia, and Adele to the stage, working with a full orchestra.
Cullen laces our fingers together and flashes his tickets at the VIP entrance. We enter a fancy event tent with a lot of bells and whistles. Gaming tables are set up with high limit tables and complimentary champagne.
I can hardly believe it.
It’s like the games follow you everywhere you go when you’re here.
“Does everything revolve around gambling here?”
He slides his arm up and around my neck. After a succulent kiss, he reminds me, “Every good time starts with a bet. Don’t you think?”
I shiver a little. “You won’t hear me argue that point.”
“It’s your night . . . we don’t have to spend it at the tables.”
I smile, admitting, “I’ve found I’ve quite enjoyed the tables. If you’re in one.”
He smiles at me, then leads me to secure a fabulous place close to the stage.
By the time the concert starts, I’m already sweating and ready to dance.
Throughout the first ten songs, I’m screaming my lungs off. I haven’t been to a concert in a while, and it’s like this is the last concert I’ll ever go to. With him, maybe. I love knowing he can’t take his eyes off me as I dance.