Submitting in Vegas: (Vegas Morellis, #3)

by Sam Mariano

  “I don’t dislike kids or anything. They’re cute. They’re fun. I like them well enough when they belong to other people. I just like my freedom. I know who I am, I know the life I want, and I know kids don’t fit into it.”

  Virginia nods her head. “I understand. Not everyone has the desire for procreation. I think it’s good that you know that about yourself already. It’s shitty when guys know they don’t care about having kids, but they meet a woman who wants them so they have some anyway, and then they don’t care. Or worse, they don’t like it, and they leave and start a new life, and she’s stuck alone in a life she planned to have with someone else.”

  “No, I wouldn’t do that,” I remark. “Even Laurel, we may not be in a relationship, but naturally I’ll provide whatever she or the baby needs financially. That’s my responsibility; I won’t bail on it just because we aren’t together. I’m just not equipped to be as into the daddy thing as Sin is, and that’s what she wanted. He clearly gets something out of it, good for him, but to be honest, I don’t understand what.”

  Sighing, Virginia says, “I have so many questions about your childhood.”

  My lips curve up faintly. “You show me yours, I’ll show you mine.”

  “What were you like as a little kid?” she asks, shifting Nicky’s weight and leaning into me a little more.

  “Quiet. My parents fought a lot, gave me headaches, I tried to stay out of the way. Even as young as five, I remember thinking if I ever got married, I would never be like that. I would never scream at my wife. Never give her reasons to lose sleep and stay up all hours, wondering where I was.” My lips curve up faintly. “That’s probably not true, though. The screaming part, sure, I’m pretty even-tempered, but if you ask Laurel for the review of what living with me was like, there was probably a lot of wondering where the hell I was. If she even wondered. To be honest, I’m not sure. She gave very few fucks.”

  Virginia shakes her head. “That’s not indicative of what you would be like as a husband. You and Laurel never chose one another, you just got stuck with each other because of Nicky. You’re not a man suited to being trapped. Your natural response is to make her want out, thereby escaping the trap yourself. That might be what you were like when you felt stuck in a relationship, but… much as I hate bringing her up, that’s not at all how you were with Cassandra. You chose that relationship, that’s the difference. A loveless relationship is bound to be unhappy. It sounds like that’s what your parents had.”

  “Yeah,” I murmur. “All of the men in my father’s generation had terrible relationships, but they were all terrible men. It’s not easy for many women to have lasting happiness with terrible men.”

  Her smaller hand comes to rest over mine. “You’re not a terrible man,” she states. “You won’t have that problem.”

  She’s only being nice, but it’s starting to make me itch, like I’m wearing a collar. Just the mention of Cassandra reminds me of relationships, and when combined with Virginia sitting here curled up against me on Christmas day, holding my baby…. Jesus Christ, what is this sweater made of?

  Commitment issues. This sweater is made of commitment issues.

  Goddammit.

  Seeking to change the subject, I reach over and take the sleeping bundle of my genetic material and settle him against my chest. “All right, enough of that. Why don’t you open your gifts?” I suggest.

  “Gifts?” she questions, dropping to the floor and crawling over to the tree to retrieve the gift she put back when everyone was awake. “As in, more than one?”

  “There should be three under there for you,” I tell her, watching her ass. Now I just want to fuck with her. “I think it’s in the back, bend down lower and crawl under the tree.”

  “There’s nothing back there,” she mutters, but she pushes her ass up and creeps back there to look anyway.

  I smirk. “Keep looking, you’ve gotta be close.”

  It takes her a minute, but finally she backs out from under the tree and peers at me over her shoulder. “You’re just looking at my ass, aren’t you?”

  “It’s a very nice ass,” I say, in my own defense.

  Virginia rolls her eyes, sitting back on her legs. Then she sees the third present—it got pushed under the tree skirt. Scooting back toward the couch, she remains on the gray-carpeted floor and tears into the first present. I can’t help a faint rush of anticipation. It’s the cheapest of the three presents, but my favorite.

  As soon as she rips open enough of the paper to see the picture and title on the thin, square CD case, she gasps with delight, then brings a hand to her face and laughs her ass off. “Oh, my God, this is the best gift I’ve ever been given,” she informs me, flipping the Christina Aguilera CD over to make sure it’s the right one. Nodding when she sees her track, she grins and looks up at me. “This is amazing. Thank you. I hope there’s a picture of you working out inside.”

  “Didn’t have time to make that happen, sorry. Feel free to take a picture tomorrow.”

  “Don’t tempt me,” she says, her brown eyes glistening with pleasure. “I do know what we’re going to listen to during that morning workout, though. It has to happen.”

  I nudge the smallest box with my big toe. “That one next.”

  “Yes, master,” she mocks, nonetheless taking the gift and ripping the paper off. It’s small, a jewelry box. I’ve never bought Virginia a present before, outside of that godforsaken black dress, so I don’t know what her favorite kind of present is. I watch for signs that a jewelry box excites her, but she just seems curious. If I hadn’t fucked her last night—and this morning—I would fuck with her now, make a joke about how I hope it’s not too soon, since it’s the shape of a ring box. Now that I’ve gone and let my dick make my decisions for me, however, I probably shouldn’t. It would be mean instead of amusing.

  I figure I might have to explain why I got it for her when she opens it. The gift itself is pretty straightforward—it’s a small stocking charm with the year engraved at the top of the stocking, but I didn’t buy it for the charm. I bought it because it was the first thing I saw packaged the way I wanted it when I walked into Pandora. I bought it for the box.

  Virginia immediately grins up at me. “You got me Pandora’s box! You got me a genie in a bottle and Pandora’s box. You rock at Christmas, Rafe Morelli.” As an afterthought, she adds, “Oh, and this charm is super cute, too. I love it. Now I’ll always have it to remember my Christmas with you guys.”

  “I’m glad you like it.”

  “I love both of these things. They’re fantastic.”

  I knew she would like inside joke presents. The next one is not an inside joke, it was the real gift, in case she thought both of those were stupid. Since the first two were light-hearted, she isn’t prepared for it. There’s a helpless smile on her face as she rips into the next package, waiting to see which inside joke of ours is waiting inside the next package, but her smile melts when she cracks the oval case open. Instead of a joke, she finds a cultured pearl bracelet on a bed of crushed black velvet.

  “Oh, Rafe,” she murmurs, gingerly running her fingers over the pearls. She unclasps it and catches the tiny “M” charm hanging off the clasp. Her smile comes back at the sight of it—it’s just the initial of the brand of that bracelet, but since it’s also the first letter of my last name, I assume that’s why she smiles.

  Once she gets the bracelet out of its storage case, she pushes her sleeve back and drapes the pearls around her left wrist. Once it’s clasped, she holds it up for me to see.

  “Beautiful,” I tell her.

  “Thank you so much. This is… I did not expect jewelry. I didn’t expect anything. Usually I get a tip.”

  I crack a smile. “I’m not sure a tip would have been an appropriate gift after last night.”

  “It wouldn’t be the first time you made me seem like a hooker. Probably won’t be the last.”

  She climbs to her feet and scoops Nicholas up, cradling him against h
er chest and carrying him over to the bassinet they have set up in the corner. Then she comes back over to the couch, climbs on top of me, and threads her fingers through my hair.

  “Thank you,” she says, sincerely.

  I settle my hands around her waist. “You are welcome.”

  Then she kisses me, her hand drifting down between my legs so she can rub me through my slacks. Between kisses, she murmurs against my mouth, “How about I improvise a Christmas gift for you?”

  I smile against her mouth. “What’d you have in mind?”

  She breaks away from my lips, slides down into the floor, and starts unbuttoning my pants.

  Perfect.

  Just the kind of Christmas present I like best.

  17

  Virginia

  I shouldn’t wear $1,400 worth of pearls to work, but I couldn’t convince myself to take them off. I love them so much and I’ve already had to take them off so many times: to sleep in Rafe’s bed, since I didn’t want them to break during sex; to work out with him in his personal gym; to steam up his sauna in more ways than one; to get clean—and get fucked—in the shower afterward.

  A shiver of arousal moves through me just thinking about the sheer heaven of the last 48 hours. I’m in a constant state of feeling like Cinderella at the ball. My inner buzzkill reminds me that midnight came around and fucked all her shit up, but I catch that negativity like a Kevlar vest catches bullets. Can’t be bothered with that shit. I’m living a fairy tale, dammit. It’s real and it’s mine, and I won’t hear otherwise.

  I admire my bracelet for a couple seconds, then pull my phone out to check the time. Rafe should be coming in for dinner soon. The dining room is buzzing with people, but of course I kept his favorite booth open. Every time I go out to deliver a plate, I catch myself searching the room for the sight of his handsome face.

  Louis Armstrong starts singing in my head about what a wonderful world it is, and I feel like a real marshmallow, but I don’t even care.

  I finish fixing the two salads for my table, grab their bruschetta, and head back to the dining room. My heart pumps as I look toward his booth, but it’s still empty. I wonder if he’ll want me to spend the night again. Since we were leaving the Christmas bubble and heading back to work, when I left his house today, we didn’t address the future—not even as far as later tonight. I leaned up on my toes to kiss him goodbye, he grabbed my butt, and then we separated and I drove here.

  I already miss him. I’m so stupid.

  I can’t help grinning, though. I don’t care if I’m stupid, as long as I get to feel this giddy.

  Another new table comes in, so I go over to sell them on some drinks. They bite, naturally, and I make my way to the bar.

  “What’ve you got for me?” the bartender asks.

  Felix is bartending tonight. Depending on the bartender, I always make my own drinks, but he’s quite efficient, so I could probably let him do it, especially considering there aren’t many people over here right now. Three older couples are scattered around the bar—all tourists with too much sun on their cheeks. A pair of young, dolled-up girls sits directly across from me, heads huddled together, both of their eyes glued to Felix—the blonde checks out his ass, while the brunette bites her lip, gazing at the biceps bulging out from under his tight black T-shirt.

  They clearly want his attention, so instead of letting him make my drinks, I move behind the bar. “Why don’t you go entertain your own customers?” I advise him. “I’ve got these.”

  “‘Cause I’m not a piece of meat,” he tells me, leaning close. “Those girls are crazy.”

  “They do have crazy eyes,” I agree, grabbing the olives. “They’ll probably give you a good tip.”

  “Eh, I’m gonna play it aloof. Dole out my attention in shot-form instead of a beer they can nurse. I bet they like assholes anyway.”

  I can’t help smiling. “We all like assholes.”

  “Ain’t that the fucking truth,” he mutters. “Let me make the second drink. I need something to do.”

  Without looking up, I nod down the bar where a tourist in a white shirt is dangerously close to finishing her wine. “Why don’t you go sell that lady a refill?”

  “They’re ready to leave.”

  “They’re in Vegas. They should buy more alcohol and have more fun. Come on, you can do it. I believe in you.”

  Felix rolls his eyes, but nonetheless wanders down the bar to check on the couple.

  I like Felix. He’s a really good bartender, and a really good server. He only serves the people who sit at the bar when they want food, but I think we should cross train him. He remembers orders—even complicated ones—without writing them down, he knows the menu well enough to give customers opinions on different dishes, he can sell customers on more food or alcohol without being pushy and turning the dining experience into an obnoxious one, and he’s attractive, so he’s nice to look at for the groups of single ladies we get in here. Maybe when Rafe makes me head waitress, I’ll see if I can get Felix interested in learning the floor.

  I’m distracted by my future plans for the restaurant when suddenly a firm hand lands on my hip, and I feel the masculine presence of Rafe Morelli behind me. A grin steals across my face as he tugs me back against him, running his other hand down my side.

  “Hello, Virginia.”

  I let my head fall back against his shoulder briefly, since we’re more or less alone over here. “Good evening, Mr. Morelli,” I return playfully.

  Suddenly, he steps away and his arms fall. It’s a smooth, subtle movement, but he’s not touching me anymore, so I sure notice. I glance up to see why and Felix is approaching.

  “Evening, Felix,” Rafe says, more formally.

  “Rafe,” Felix says, inclining his head slightly.

  “Been busy tonight?”

  “Not too busy,” Felix responds, not expanding on that like he normally would.

  Rafe doesn’t linger. Now that Felix is glued to my side, apparently, Rafe makes his way around the bar, telling me he’ll be at his booth.

  I clear my throat, wondering if I should poke around and see if Felix saw Rafe touch my hip. Even if Rafe and I are sleeping together, it’s not something I want anyone at the restaurant to know about. Not only because Rafe’s always professional here and I don’t want anyone thinking otherwise, but because people are assholes, and then when he promotes me, instead of saying, “Oh, after four years of busting her ass at this restaurant, Virginia is finally getting a promotion; good for her!” they will gossip about how I slept with Rafe to get a raise.

  Which I would, to be honest. I would sleep with Rafe for a piece of candy that had been dropped on the floor; it’s just a fun thing to do. I now completely understand every random booth girl he has ever brought through this restaurant. In fact, I’m wondering if my dismissal of them as uninteresting is inaccurate. Maybe they weren’t being interesting on purpose, because they figured the more they bored him, the faster he would get them out of their clothes and move on to much more fun activities. Maybe they were secret geniuses.

  As I place the martini and cocktail on my serving tray, Felix’s voice pulls me out of thoughts of Rafe’s former booth girls.

  “Look, I know you can take care of yourself, and I’m not trying to patronize you, but...”

  Great. He did see it.

  “You can stop right there, Felix.”

  “He is not a good guy, Virginia,” he warns.

  “He’s better than you think.”

  Felix moves a bottle of tequila restlessly and levels me a skeptical look. “See, if you had said ‘I know,’ then I might believe you know what you’re getting yourself into.”

  I won’t tell him he doesn’t know Rafe the way I do because I know exactly how it sounds. He’ll be thinking I have the same intellectual capacity as the dumbest booth girl Rafe has ever brought in.

  Instead, I say, “Look, please have enough respect for me not to say anything to anyone else about this. It’s
really nobody’s business.”

  “I don’t want to see you get hurt,” Felix says seriously. “He goes through women like Kleenex, Virginia. He uses and discards them. He’s not the kind of guy you can tame.”

  “I don’t want to tame him,” I state, lifting my tray.

  “Then what the hell are you doing?”

  “I don’t know,” I answer honestly, since no one else knows enough to ask. I spin around, look at him, and shrug, honest in my bafflement. “I don’t know, okay?”

  He watches me for a moment, then slowly nods and looks down at the bar. “All right. Well… when he breaks your heart, come see me; I’ll buy you some shots.”

  That was both the meanest and the most honest thing he could have said to me. I swallow, lift my chin, and turn around, not sparing him another word.

  Monday night ends much the same as the night before—with me in Rafe’s bed, both our bodies sated and slick with perspiration. I am completely limp in the aftermath of a pair of mind-blowing, drawn out orgasms that have robbed me of the ability to think, and his strong arms are wrapped around me, keeping me close.

  Heaven, basically. The only place I ever want to be.

  When I get enough strength into my body to move, I turn on my side so I can face Rafe. He hasn’t said much this evening. I mentioned that Felix saw his hand on my hip earlier because I thought being forthright was the right thing to do, but I’m not sure it was. He told me he’d talk to him, I assured him I already handled it, and he told me he’d talk to him anyway. Then I felt bad. I didn’t want to sic Rafe on Felix—especially because I like Felix, and while Rafe doesn’t generally bring his gangster face to the restaurant, in my experience, when he “talks to someone” he’s more forceful than friendly. I would feel horrible if Felix came in tomorrow with a black eye, or even just a chip on his shoulder, since he would know I ratted him out.

  I noticed Rafe watching me over at the bar every time I went to get a drink after that. I felt oddly uncomfortable, so I avoided talking to Felix even though I normally would, and things have been weird ever since.