One Exquisite Touch: Book One in The Extravagant Series

by Lauren Blakely

  Electric. Ecstatic.

  “So . . . how was it? Your tryst?”

  “Amazing,” I whisper, uttering the first piece of my confession, one I love admitting.

  Eliza grins, an eager one that says I need more, so much more. “Good. I want to know everything. And I had a feeling you were busy. That’s why I called you Cinderella, so you’d know it was just me.”

  “You are heaven-sent.” I set a hand on my heart, trying to settle it as we pass a bachelorette party wearing sashes with the saying “I’m with the bride” emblazoned across them. “I’m so glad I didn’t run into anyone, even with the mask on. I wanted to just be in the moment.”

  Eliza wiggles her brow. “Was it amazing, the most amazing, or ‘Holy fuck, that was so fucking amazing’?”

  Laughing, I glance around the main floor, bustling with activity, then whisper, “Did you see anything?”

  She laughs, tossing her head back. “No. Not a thing. But now I’m damn curious.”

  I pat the feathers of my mask, needing and wanting to remain unrecognizable. We exit the hotel, heading for my car in the portico as a reel of images flicks before me. The highlights of tonight insist on replaying, and I am bursting to share. Needing to tell her.

  Once Carlos opens the back door for us then shuts it, I rip off my mask, and Eliza does the same.

  Her grin is wicked, eager. She’s ready for the salacious details, and I’m ready to share them, now that we’re in the car, the partition raised. She wiggles her fingers as Carlos pulls away from the Aria. “Serve it up. I’ve been counting down the days till you had a proper banging.”

  Peals of laughter fall from me. I’ve missed this. Missed the chance to dish with my girlfriend. “I’m so glad to know you were rooting for me in the boudoir.”

  “Hello? I’m all about positive energy and putting it out into the universe.”

  I shoot her a playful look. “So you were offering prayers and well wishes for my sex life?”

  She lifts her chin proudly. “I’m thoughtful like that. I asked the goddess of Os to watch over you. Did she listen?”

  With a deep, satisfied breath, I flop back against the leather seat, then sigh contentedly. “She listened, and she listened well.”

  Eliza grabs my arm, practically squealing. “This is huge for you. You’ve been so nose to the grindstone since the whole incident. Been so buried in work. Tell me everything.”

  My lips go all crooked and naughty. “Everything?”

  I kind of want to tell all.

  I want to give voice to what happened to me. So it feels more real. So it doesn’t seem like smoke, curling away in the night air as we drive away from the scene of the liaison. So it doesn’t feel like merely a naughty memory, fading at the edges already.

  I don’t truly know that I’ll see them again.

  I have no idea if the promise of the next party is an empty one.

  “So it’s obvious there’s an everything to tell?” I say.

  Arching a brow, Eliza points at my mouth. “Well, your lipstick is noticeably absent, your hair is a mess, and you have that general JBF look.”

  “Just been fucked. Thanks.” But inside, I’m dancing a fox-trot. I like that I look well-pleasured. I am well-pleasured.

  “Am I right, or am I right?”

  I drop my voice to a whisper. “Not fucked. But . . . you did say earlier some things require two sets of hands.” I wiggle my fingers. “There were two of them.”

  Her jaw falls to the floor of the limo. She pretends to pick it up. “Yes. Everything. I require every dirty detail.”

  And I’m dying to share every detail, because tonight was all new. Tonight was a revelation. I discovered things about myself I never expected. “I never thought I would like that. The things they did to me. Both of them. The way they touched me.” I shake my head, not quite believing it. “I want it again.”

  Eliza clears her throat dramatically, then pretends to write in a book. “Dear diary, today my best friend discovered her brand-new kink.”

  My smile morphs into a huge grin as I slide a hand through my hair. “What am I going to do with myself? I should shove that dalliance out of my mind and forget about it.” I wave my other hand in front of my face, the memory singeing me with its hotness. “But it’s hard to forget. I think it was the most powerful, most intoxicating sexual experience of my life. The most exquisite touch I’ve ever felt.”

  Her grin is worthy of a portrait. “Good. You should feel good again. We deserve pleasure, don’t you think?”

  I shrug, not sure how to answer. Does anyone deserve anything?

  Eliza keeps going though. “And I know what it’s like to have to wiggle free from a past with a jackass, one who barely knew how to find his way around the female anatomy. Now you’ve got two men who know their way around, you lucky woman. It’s like you just went double on a double-or-nothing bet.”

  Perfect analogy. I draw a deep breath, one that seems to flood me with another round of endorphins. That quarter-hour will feed my imagination for a long time to come, I suspect. “I feel that way too.”

  “And are you going to see them again, whoever they are?”

  That’s the question, isn’t it? Will they show up in two weeks? And who are those masked men? Will I know them when I see them? Will I want them without their masks? “Yes. No. Maybe. We said we’d meet at a party at The Invitation the weekend after next.”

  Eliza wiggles a brow, the party planner in her sitting up, taking notes. “Then we will be going to The Invitation. And I can’t wait.”

  A spark of something flickers in Eliza’s pretty eyes. Maybe anticipation? Possibly desire? Something that tells me she has her own reasons for wanting to go.

  “Is there someone you met at the party?” I ask, nudging her with my elbow. “Someone you want to see again? The man with the beard, maybe?”

  She nibbles on her lower lip, then shakes her head. “He’s . . .” She takes a beat, like she’s searching for the right words. “Helping me with a project.”

  I give a tilt of my head. “Uh, hello? How about telling me everything?”

  “All in due time, I promise. All in due time. But right now, it’s nascent. It’s delicate.”

  “I can handle delicate,” I say, pouting, stomping my foot playfully on the car floor.

  “I know you can. But I need to do a little more . . . baking, if you will.” She mimes mixing a batter. “I promise I’ll tell you soon.”

  “You better share what you’re cooking up.”

  “I will. I promise.”

  We reach her condo on the Strip and drop her off, then Carlos whisks me to The Extravagant. I say good night to him. As I walk through the lobby of the hotel I own, I feel like I’m looking at everything—from the art on the walls to the slot machines, from the blackjack tables to the jewelry box sculpture—with new eyes.

  With new desires too.

  As if tonight unlocked a part of me.

  Perhaps a part I’d been denying for too long?

  A part that was eager to come out to play . . . and that had found not only one playmate but two.

  When I arrive in my suite, I unlace my boots, set them in the closet, then put my mask on a hook on the wall. I reach for my hair so I can unclip my barrette, but it’s not there. I pat my head, searching for it, then spin around in front of the mirror, looking.

  I check the folds of my dress.

  Search my mask again.

  My heart speeds, hammering too fast.

  That clip is from my parents.

  Have I lost it?

  Panic kicks in. I need to find it.

  I call Carlos, asking him to search for it in the car, but he says he comes up empty. With a racing heart and worried nerves, I call the Aria and ask the front desk to look for it.

  They tell me they’ll keep their eyes open. I say a prayer to the universe that someone will find it and turn it in.

  Thanking them, I take a breath, then do my best to put i
t out of my mind for now.

  But I can’t do the same with tonight.

  The memory of the alcove keeps me up for another hour.

  I’m wired, tuned to a new frequency, one I didn’t know I could reach.

  As I slide into bed in a cotton tank and panties, the memory tangos in front of me.

  Two men. Two sets of hands. Two hard bodies.

  The way they touched me. The way they knew how to hand off to each other, to trade me, to treat me as theirs.

  I shudder, my whole body lighting up as those last few seconds in the alcove replay.

  The American’s hands. His fingers.

  The other man’s lips. His words.

  My skin tingles, and I slide my fingers inside my panties, where I’m wet and aroused beyond reason.

  I’ve already come hard, harder than I thought possible, and yet I want more. More bliss, more touch, more bodies.

  More stolen trysts in alcoves, with crowds nearby none the wiser.

  That’s what I imagine as I take myself there again, no toys needed tonight, thank you very much.

  Only the fresh image of earlier, as I stroke and moan and spread my legs.

  As I imagine.

  As I beg.

  As I picture things I’ve never pictured before.

  And as I come again, sated.

  But not quite.

  I’m not sure I can be until I experience that again.

  And I pray to the gods of sexy masked men that my next encounter is even better than the first.

  8

  Sage

  The morning after the party, as I’m getting dressed for the day, my phone lights up with a we’ve decided to go elsewhere email from The Exquisite Show.

  I grit my teeth in frustration.

  Yes, The Exquisite Show was a long shot, but our pitch was strong.

  And this stings. I wanted that show here. But it turns out the producers have chosen another hotel for their brand-new production.

  I text my sister and let her know.

  Ivy replies with an emoticon of a cartoon character’s head encased in fiery rage.

  Then a GIF with a celebrity shrugging off bad news with a Whatever-style hair flip.

  And a final text: Onward and upward!

  I laugh as I read the rapid-fire notes.

  * * *

  Sage: Glad to see your ability to process your emotions at rocket speed is still top-notch.

  * * *

  Ivy: That’s me! I drop emotions like college students drop boring 101 classes. In any case, I’ll see you in thirty minutes downstairs. Be the badass you are for our Sunday morning planning meeting. Since we’re workaholics.

  * * *

  Sage: As if I’d be anything other than a badass.

  * * *

  With tailored slacks and a white silk blouse, I do look the part. When my hair is done in its French twist, I slide into basic black heels and head to the executive offices to tackle the day, replying along the way to The Exquisite Show producers, letting them know we were grateful to be considered and that whoever won the show will surely do a fantastic job.

  Briefly, I run through my Rolodex of Strip hotels, picturing where the acrobatic fiesta would work best.

  The Bellagio maybe?

  Possibly The Venetian?

  It could fit at The Invitation too. But it seems unlikely that the new kid on the block would nab such a coveted show already.

  Wherever it winds up, though, I’ll see it.

  For pleasure and for intel, of course.

  It’s a shame we didn’t win it, but I won’t let that loss get me down. Competition is de rigueur in this town, and I’m already eyeing other fabulous forms of entertainment to bring to The Extravagant.

  That includes a hot new magic act that’s been rising up on the scene, with Penn & Teller-esque payoffs that boggle the mind and delight the eyes. Their names are Max and Alex, and I love that a pair of female magicians are getting their due.

  The next day, Ivy and I meet with the magicians’ managers on a golf course off the Strip. We both know how to play. Our father taught us, saying golf was an essential skill for any executive to possess. Along with knowing a martial art, another language, and how to compromise. I learned Mandarin Chinese growing up, and Ivy can speak Spanish.

  Both help, since Max is from Beijing, and Alex hails from Madrid. Their managers are also multilingual, and as we golf, we tell them we’re putting together a proposal for their act.

  The meeting goes well, the golf game even better, and I have a good feeling after we say goodbye.

  But feelings aren’t enough.

  Rock-solid deals with terrific terms are.

  In the limo on our way back to The Extravagant, Ivy and I brainstorm how the magic act can fit into our new One Night Only lineup of entertainment.

  “I could see Max and Alex starting as a One Night Only act, but quickly moving beyond. To become a regular,” I say.

  Ivy gives an excited ooh. “Yes, I love that idea. Like we’re doing with Stone,” she says, mentioning the rock star who kicked off our One Night Only series of concerts a month ago.

  “Yes, his residency starts next month, and I can’t wait. We’re already selling out all his shows.”

  I offer her a palm to high-five, since she brought him into the fold, and he brings the crowds and the big spenders. “Here’s my idea,” I say. “What if we propose that Max and Alex start with a One Night Only, but we offer them the regular gig too?”

  Her blue eyes glint with enthusiasm as the limo turns onto the Strip. “I love their style of magic. It would be a risk to lock them in early, but I also think the payoff could be huge.”

  She’s right—it’s a gamble. But as I gaze out the window at the sky-rise hotels, the billboards taller than life, and the promise of thousands of dollars turning into millions, I see a whole city built on gambles. “And they want the security of a regular gig. We can give them that.”

  “Let’s do it.” Ivy wiggles her brows. “Wonder-twin powers activate.”

  I roll my eyes. “You are such a dork.”

  “So are you.”

  I stick out my tongue. She does the same to me.

  I love having a twin sister. Always have.

  We put our heads together that afternoon and send off a brilliant proposal that night.

  The pace continues into the next day and the next, when I spend the morning prepping for a solo meeting with the new hotel owner in town—Cole Donovan, who runs The Invitation. We’ll be working with the city’s marketing manager on a new ad campaign, now that “What Happens in Vegas” has run its course. The city wants marketing that focuses on the experiences that we offer them, and as such, all the hotel owners are working together on “Experience Las Vegas.”

  But before that meeting, I want to say hello to the man across the street.

  I’ve never met him. He moved to town a mere few weeks ago, but he’s the new competition. He’s supposedly ruthless, supposedly heartless.

  I’ll need to play nice with him, since that’s how we do things here, even though he’s the rival across the way.

  I’ll welcome him to the family, to this place marked by cutthroat competition under a veneer of friendliness. All of us here on the Strip, owning and operating these hotels, must come together at times, even if we tussle daily for everything—rooms, customers, money, employees.

  But manners are manners. And I was raised to welcome the new kid on the block with a gift.

  He won’t need champagne. A wildly wealthy hotelier has plenty of his own. Caviar is so horrid I refuse to give it. And it’s not as if he needs a weekend at a spa, or a retreat at a luxury hotel, so those are out.

  I’ve found the best gifts for men like him and women like me are the simplest ones.

  The ones everyone can love. Things we learn from, things we all enjoy.

  Books and chocolate.

  Since I don’t want to give him any of the brilliant nonfiction books I’ve f
inished recently on economics, social justice, or science—lest they provide a window into my other thoughts—I dip into my stash of chocolate from Paris.

  As my mother used to say, You can’t go wrong with chocolate from Paris.

  I select a few bars of dark chocolate, then a milk chocolate for good measure, add a silver bow, and place them into a small gift bag.

  I head to my office, check the time, and then make sure my lipstick looks good for my first meeting with the man across the street.

  He’ll be arriving any minute.

  I walk over to the window in my office that looks out on the casino floor, watching the crowds weave in and out, savoring the view of the hustle and bustle of my hotel.

  9

  Cole

  Things I don’t want to think about when I go shopping with my mother in our luxury stores: the woman from the party.

  Things I can’t stop thinking about no matter what I do: the woman from the party a few nights ago.

  As we wander into a classy store in my hotel, my mother gestures to the maps of the world hanging on the wood-paneled walls, then to an antique globe on a shelf. “What do you think about this one? Should I get it for my office? It’s so professorial, isn’t it?”

  I give her a smile. “That would seem an ideal fit, then.”

  She wiggles a well-groomed eyebrow. “I get what you’re saying, Cole. Just embrace the whole persona. Perhaps I should start wearing tweed jackets next and add some horn-rimmed glasses to my look,” she says in a teasing little tone. I laugh, giving her a quick once-over in her designer jeans and silk blouse, paired with Jimmy Choos. She wears ultramodern clothes and teaches ancient history. She is a woman of contradictions, and she relishes that.

  “And as you embrace it, you should get anything you want,” I say, then I gesture to a map of the ancient world hanging on the wall. “But I have to admit, when I first stopped in here when it opened, I thought that would be perfect for you.”