Vegas Miracle

by Crowe, Liz

  "Come," he called out. Grace glared at him. He raised an eyebrow as if in question as she slunk back into the shadows near the bathroom.

  "Grace?"

  She clapped a hand over her mouth. Ryan was out there, right now, looking for her. He probably had been for the last however many minutes as she let the man now lying naked on the bed, his great thick rod flopped up against his lower belly, fuck her completely silly. Jesus. What had she done?

  Henri grinned and Grace’s heart skipped a beat. Was this some kind of set up? Was Ryan trying to catch her, force her into a situation he could use to cut her loose? The very thought of her life without the amazing, difficult, charming, moody man who had literally swept her off her feet made her dizzy.

  Henri sat up and looked at her, concern filling his eyes.

  "Grace, it’s okay," he walked around the bed and pulled her into his arms but she struggled away from his embrace. "He won’t be mad." His strong arms kept her close until she stopped struggling and let tears leak out of her clenched eyes. "I’ll let him in."

  "No! I mean, it’s, I sh-sh-should," she stammered, completely out of her element.

  Henri kissed the tip of her nose and ran a hand over her messy hair.

  "My God, he was right," he muttered before turning to grab a towel to wrap around his waist as he ambled to the door.

  Grace sniffled, his latest comment in keeping with her extreme confusion about the course of events over the last several hours. Who was right? About what?

  Using the thick hand towel she found in the bathroom to try and clean up before facing her husband, Grace couldn’t help but admire Henri’s bare torso as he pulled the thick walnut door open to reveal Ryan, eyes stormy, lips pressed in a thin line, glaring at the smaller, darker young man who leaned on the door way in front of him.

  Ryan brushed past him, leaving Henri with an eyebrow raised in what Grace would come to learn was his "what now?" face when it came to her husband. Grace watched Ryan stride over to her, the look in his eyes a challenge to the fact that he set this night in motion. He brought her here, let her watch as he fucked a women kneeling between her own legs while the man who’d just given her an operatic orgasm got fucked by another man right in front of them. Grace’s head spun and she had to sit on the edge of the bed before her knees gave out.

  Ryan sat and pulled her close, kissing the top of her head.

  "God, I’m sorry," he muttered in her ear. Grace flushed and pulled away to stare at him. His intense blue gaze pierced her soul and all thoughts of the amazing guy behind them fled. This was her man. He was challenging yes, emotionally aloof a lot of the time, but he always had her best interests at heart. He was more about action, proving his love by providing her with things she didn’t even know she needed until she got them. Like this night. In spite of her efforts to control it, a sob broke loose and she stood.

  Ryan leapt to his feet and was at Henri’s side in a flash, his large hand on the other man’s bicep, eyes flashing with fury.

  "What the fuck did you do?" He bit each word off at the end as if clipping them with pruning shears.

  Henri stared down at the hand on his bicep until Ryan removed it, keeping both hands clenched at his side. Glancing around Ryan’s tall frame to look at Grace, Henri lifted his chin and stared at the man in front of him.

  "Nothing she didn’t want me to."

  Ryan followed Henri’s gaze and Grace was faced with the two men, polar opposites in every possible way, one set of bright blue and one set of dark mocha eyes, staring straight at her. She gulped and pulled the robe tight around her. Not ready to feel bad about what she'd done, this Alpha male chest beating bullshit was starting to piss her off. As Henri had said, it was why they were here.

  "I’m fine, Ryan." Grace wiped the tears off her cheeks and crossed her arms.

  "Yes, Ryan she’s fine," Henri started to walk past him but Ryan shot an arm out to stop him. Grace watched in shocked amazement as her husband pinned the younger man against the door, their handsome faces near enough to kiss. She gasped at the look on Henri’s face. The younger man leaned up and whispered in her husband’s ear. The sight of the two of them touching, with the tension in the room at a rate where anything seemed possible, Grace’s knees gave out with a sudden glint of realization. She shook her head and in the time it took for her to come back to reality, Ryan had removed his hands from Henri’s body and walked to the middle of the room between them, his shoulders heaving in suppressed emotion.

  He stared over at Henri, his gaze inscrutable—a familiar sight to Grace. But when she looked over at Henri, she caught something resembling agony on his dark face. As her mind tried to process what was happening, Ryan spat out.

  "I’ll be downtown."

  It was his code for "I’m not coming home. Sleeping at the office. You don’t want to be around me because I’m stressed and I'll just be an asshole." Realization blossomed inside her chest just as she and Henri both took a step towards him from either side. Ryan held out both hands to stop them.

  "I’ll be downtown," his strong jaw clenched. Grace felt tears form again and in a gesture that would soon become familiar to all of them, she glanced over at Henri, catching a similar dismay in his eyes. Before anyone could say a word, Ryan spun on his heel and stalked out of the room.

  Chapter Eight

  Grace flopped into a soft leather chair after tipping the bell boy, always $10 Ryan counseled her, never more, never less. Bellboys could be your closest allies at a hotel. The usual cold bottles of water were on the table with an artfully arranged bowl of fresh and exotic fruits. Twisting off a cap, Grace took a long, icy swallow, the smooth mineral infused water easing her throat. Vegas was dry as a bone, and the one beer she’d had in the car over dehydrated her more than she’d thought.

  Pulling her hair out of its clip, Grace ran a hand through it, noting she really ought to make an appointment with her favorite hairdresser here in the Aria’s spa as she drained the bottle. Feeling somehow light headed, nervous about the coming "serious talk" she and Ryan were due, Grace stripped out of her wilted travel clothes and pulled on exercise gear. A nice solid hour or so of mindless cardio in the hotel’s fancy gym, then a soak in the hot tub ought to kill a few hours. Ignoring the laptop which held many more hours of editing work on her latest novel, and two versions of the proposed pilot screenplay for the cable series based on her last set of books, she tied her running shoes and headed for the elevator.

  A small slip of cream-colored paper lay at her feet, apparently slipped under the door while she'd been sitting. Grace opened it.

  "One Private Massage Reservation for Grace Sullivan. Friday. 8:30 pm. Penthouse Suite A."

  Grace frowned. Ryan was at it again. Placating her with expensive gifts and pampering, trying to buy his way out of any sort of real emotional connection. She sighed, tossed the card on the large bed and made a mental note that she had about two hours before massage time as she made for the elevator and down into the swirl of an exclusive Las Vegas resort casino, as memories crowded her thoughts once again.

  ****

  After spinning out of the parking lot, music cranked and windows down to let the cool Michigan breeze calm his nerves, Ryan put the Caddy on cruise at eighty miles an hour for the brief trip back downtown, passing the familiar landmarks he’d been driving by most of his life. The former Ferris wheel, now giant Goodyear tire alongside Interstate 94 was his favorite, a symbol of what was both great and terrible about his home city of Detroit. Ryan’s dad had been a union organizer at General Motors, one of the last of a dying breed able to make a solid living for his family of five with an hourly wage and the guarantee of a pension and lifetime health and dental insurance. He'd also been a mean drunk, forcing Ryan and his brothers to constantly look over their shoulders for his quick temper and even quicker fists.

  Ryan shoved the memory of his turbulent upbringing away, locking it in the compartment labeled "what I'll never be" and threw the mental key out the car windo
w. Images of his wife immediately pressed in, making his skin prickle.

  Grace had been the elusive prize he never thought he’d bother seeking. The treasure among a sea of women he swam in as an adult while still denying his true self. Smart, witty, but understated and beautiful in a classic, old world way, she was talented and able to hold her own in a room full of complete strangers he had to wine and dine. Ryan had been obsessed with her the moment they met.

  As it always did, his cock stirred at the memory of that day; of her soft skin reddened from a day spent on the beach at Lake Michigan, glowing and inviting, he’d been unable to resist running a hand across her bare shoulder and down her arm within hours of meeting her and chatting with her about God knows what, he could never remember. His mind had been saturated with her, her deep green eyes and the dark blond hair she kept sweeping up off her neck.

  By the time she slipped her sandals off to walk barefoot and looped a familiar arm through his as they walked and talked about the innocuous shit you discuss when you first meet someone you’d rather just kiss, Ryan was a goner. The fluttery small flirtations, the sudden moment they locked eyes and that big moment when she stopped, put her hand on his shoulder and stood up on tiptoes to touch her lips to his--he'd never forget any of it.

  The pure animal way he’d taken her when they’d raced back to their friend’s house and found an empty guest room still made his dick hard as he turned into the parking garage of his downtown office. Ryan remembered distinctly the way he stared into her eyes as he came inside her, having broken his cardinal rule about condoms, his need to possess her so overwhelming. He’d walked on eggshells the next few weeks as they danced around a burgeoning relationship. Waiting for that moment when she said "I’m pregnant," it was something that made him ill with worry to this day.

  He had vowed to never subject a child to his own moody lifestyle no matter how desirable the woman who might carry it. Even now he sighed in relief every month Grace put him off because of her period. He knew it was becoming a sore point with her. That she really and truly wanted a baby—his baby, but it was something he would never consider, not after what he'd gone through with his own father.

  Grabbing his suit jacket out the passenger seat, Ryan punched the elevator buttons, anger and frustration making him clumsy. Damn Henri. He was going to fuck everything up. Ryan was on the cusp of admitting everything to Grace but he had to do it his own way, at his own pace, so he could gauge her reaction every step of the way. He knew if she demanded it, he'd stop. He loved her with a desperation born of a childhood full of unrequited, unconditional love. He wouldn't risk it just for his own selfish need for—what? A hard dick? Henri’s dick in particular?

  Christ. Ryan passed a shaking hand over his eyes as the elevator made its way to the top floor and the private office-slash-apartment he’d maintained for the last fifteen years. Ryan entered the penthouse, hung his coat in the closet and emptied his pockets into the organizer he kept on the foyer table, the little compartments mocking him with their false sense of control.

  "Fuck!"

  Ryan swept the entire thing off the glass topped table, creating a divot in the drywall opposite.

  Bourbon, and right away. That's what the doctor ordered.

  Ryan took his generous pour of whiskey out onto the balcony, the views of the Detroit River and Windsor, Ontario, a familiar backdrop as he gulped down the brown elixir. The alcohol sent warmth spreading through his chest but he resisted grabbing the crystal decanter for a second. Another fatherly lesson learned—Sullivans cannot hold their liquor. Ryan learned that one the hard way.

  Slumped down in the lounge chair, he brooded about his predicament, palming his phone in one hand and toying with the idea of just calling his wife and bringing her to the condo – mere blocks from the one he shared with her—and laying it all out on the table. She wasn’t stupid. The intense moment back at the party was pretty telling, Ryan realized. It wouldn’t take her long to put the pieces together and God only knows what Henri told her after Ryan had stomped out instead of facing them together.

  Visions of Grace, her sleeping face, her body hunched over a keyboard as she entered her writing zone, biting her lip while she picked out the right bottle of wine for dinner, he couldn’t get enough of her. But he knew damn good and well he was cheating her. Not merely cheating on her because he was doing that make no mistake, but cheating her out of his whole self. He was only just realizing it after several arguments over his "emotional constipation" and "aloof, bullshit attitude" about things that mattered to her, like kids.

  What he couldn’t tell her was that he was terrified. Down deep petrified at the concept of failing at his own marriage, of her finding out about Henri, about his need for the man. She was going to be crushed but he had hoped to ease her into it. To convince her he could love them equally somehow.

  "Right," he scoffed to himself. He couldn’t even effectively convince her he felt anything beyond the drive to succeed. She reminded him of this repeatedly. And she was right, on one level. He was driven and successful and enjoyed the trappings and rewards and tried to share them with her. He stood up and leaned on the balcony railing, taking deep breaths of cool night air, trying like hell to calm his wildly spinning brain.

  Ryan closed his eyes at the sound of the key in the lock and he didn’t move as Henri entered, made a tsk-tsk sound over the mess in the foyer, grabbed a glass and the bourbon decanter and joined him on the balcony. The sound of liquid splashing into over ice and the hiss of the fabric as Henri eased back into his chair brought no response from Ryan. He remained standing, staring at the night sky, unable to form words as his lover of nearly two years sat and watched him in silence. Then he spoke out to the air.

  "Just what, exactly were you hoping to accomplish by fucking my wife?"

  Henri stood and leaned over the balcony, mirroring Ryan’s stance.

  "I thought it was why you brought her. But I'll say, you were right. She's amazing." Henri sipped his bourbon and looked at the tall blonde beside him.

  Ryan turned to look into Henri’s deep brown eyes, the eyes that held him the moment they met in Cannes two years ago. That compulsion, the weekend they shared together, led him places he never imagined he’d go and now he couldn’t give it up. He shook his head and looked back out over the Detroit River, remorse and dread twisting his gut in knots.

  He shut his eyes once more as he felt Henri’s hands on his shoulders, kneading, smoothing out the tension in his muscles.

  "You can’t distract me. I’m hugely pissed off at you."

  "I know, but at least you won’t be tense so you can really focus on the anger. Now sit so I can reach you properly."

  Ryan sighed, suppressing a smile at the man’s ability to defuse. It was a talent he wished Grace had. Her tendency was to ramp up the ante, to find the sore spot and grind her heel into it until Ryan lashed out, making the whole thing much worse than it usually was. Sitting, pouring himself one final splash of bourbon, he let Henri work on his shoulders and upper back, groaning as the knots untied and his neck lost some of its rigid stress.

  "Ow, Jesus," Ryan yelped when Henri’s knuckle dug into his trapezoid.

  "Shut up already," the young man’s voice was airy, relaxed. "Let me work."

  After about twenty solid minutes spent over Ryan’s shoulders and upper back, Henri leaned down to his ear.

  "She’ll be okay." Ryan turned and frowned, wincing as the freshly released nerves in his neck sang out in protest.

  "You don’t have to treat her with kid gloves, Ryan. She’s a grown woman, a successful author. She's used to being on her own. Just because you swept her off her feet in an admittedly romantic fashion doesn’t mean she needs to be coddled like some hot house rose."

  "I think I know how to..."

  Henri took his hands off Ryan’s shoulders.

  You know what, I don’t think you do. And that’s part of the problem."

  Henri flopped into his chair and propped his
bare feet up as Ryan stared at him.

  "I hardly think a guy who managed to stay married about thirty minutes is qualified to…"

  Henri held a hand up cutting him off yet again.

  "Don’t be condescending. I never claimed to know anything about women. I just think I have a handle on this one—you know, they one we want to share our lives with?" He raised an eyebrow at Ryan.

  Ryan pushed the younger man’s feet off his lap and stalked back inside the condo.

  "How did she get home?"

  "I took her."

  Ryan stuck his head back outside as he unbuttoned his shirt and yanked it off.

  "Great."

  Henri rose and took the two steps between them quickly, hands on Ryan’s biceps, pinning the taller man against the French doors, his dark eyes angry and hurt. Ryan glared at him.

  "Park the attitude all right? I’m just trying to fucking help you get over yourself long enough to salvage your marriage. If you stepped out of your God-damned pity party for half a second you’d see that, you ass."

  Ryan’s body reacted to his lover’s closeness as it always did. His scalp prickled and his skin flushed but he set his jaw and pushed back on Henri’s strong chest just enough to make him take a step back. Henri crossed his arms but didn’t move out of Ryan’s space. Drawing himself up to his full six feet, six inches, he opened his mouth to retort but watched as his arms reached out and pulled Henri to him. The young man resisted at first then let himself be drawn into the circle of Ryan’s strong embrace.

  "I’m sorry," Ryan muttered into Henri’s hair, reveling in his familiar scent and the feel of his body.

  Henri sighed before wrapping his arms around Ryan’s waist and planting a soft kiss on the man’s full lips. What started as tender turned tumultuous as Ryan grasped Henri’s face and held him, letting his tongue dance across his lover’s lips and into his mouth. Ryan felt his cock harden instantly as he tasted his lover’s lips. Leaning back against the door where he’d been pinned in anger earlier, he let Henri press into him, loving the feel of their cocks pressed together, the sense of fulfillment he got whenever they touched. Henri’s dark skin seemed to glow in the dim light of the balcony.