by Tracy Wolff
But she’s skittish, ready to bolt and that’s the last thing I want. Not that I blame her—she gets hassled by rich men every day. Has, in her mind, even lost her job because of it. Why should she think I’m any different? Why should she think I want anything other than to take the last bit of control she’s hanging on to?
But the last thing I want to do is strip her of control—I want to give it to her, want to show her for the first time in her life what it means to be powerful. Strong. In control. But before I can do any of that she needs to understand just how different I am from the men she’s used to.
I start down that road with “I’m sorry about what happened to you last night. You were the only one on the floor who handled the situation and I think it’s appalling that David fired you for it.”
She looks at me like I’ve grown three extra heads. “I’m sorry?”
“I should be the one apologizing to you. I’m not in the habit of letting women be harassed in my casino and that’s exactly what was happening last night. You did what you could to stop it when the security guard, the dealer, even David wouldn’t. You shouldn’t be penalized for that.”
She still looks confused. “I don’t understand.”
“I’m not firing you, Aria. Not for doing what needed to be done. You can take today off, with pay, but your job will be waiting for you tomorrow if you still want it.”
If possible she looks even more astonished, eyes wide and mouth half-open in an adorable display of shock. “Are you serious right now?” she finally demands.
“I’m completely serious.”
“But I racked a whale.”
“I am aware of that.”
“With my drink tray.”
“Yes. I saw the footage.”
“Hard.” She draws the word out, stresses it, just in case I have any doubts about what I saw on the casino video. “I hit him hard.”
“And I’m really glad you did. My only regret is that you didn’t hit him harder—the bastard still managed to get up and hobble away a few minutes later. More’s the pity.”
“More’s the pity?”
I shrug. “He deserved that and a hell of a lot worse, in my opinion. Men who treat women like they’re property deserve what they get when it turns out that the property bites back.”
She does jump up from the chair then, and this time I don’t stop her because she’s not planning on running. She’s filled with nervous energy that needs an outlet. I have more than one suggestion on how she can deal with that energy, but sexually harassing my employees isn’t something I make a habit of. Ever. Especially ones who have to deal with it at work every night.
And so I clench my fists to keep from reaching for her and I watch, and wait, as she paces to the window and back.
“I don’t get it,” she says when she’s once again standing in front of me. “What’s the punch line?”
“No punch line. Your job is yours if you want it.”
“Even though I assaulted a customer?”
“Assault is such an ugly word. Let’s just say you defended a customer and leave it at that.”
“That’s not actually untrue. But you know, if you keep me here, he’s probably going to sue you.”
I smile then, a predatory baring of my teeth that has her eyebrows shooting up and her eyes sharpening with something that looks an awful lot like interest. Or fear. I can’t really tell at this point.
That makes me uncomfortable—I want a lot of things from Aria, things that include sweat-drenched sheets and unlimited access to every inch of her gorgeous body—but I don’t want her fear. Don’t want her to feel, even for a moment, like she isn’t safe with me.
“He can try to sue,” I tell her. “He won’t succeed.”
“How do you know?”
“It might be ten years since I’ve set foot in the Atlantis, Aria, but I grew up in Vegas. I know how this town works.”
“So do I. And I knew when I hit that bastard I was going to end up paying for it one way or another. So if I’m not losing my job, how exactly are you expecting me to pay?” She’s back to pacing toward the window.
Anger sparks inside me at the implication, pricks along the inside of my skin. At her for thinking all I want from her is a fast blow job or a faster fuck on my desk as payment for doing the right thing, for taking care of her. And at the world she’s living in that has taught her to be so suspicious. That has taught her all rich men want only one thing from her.
Because it won’t get me anywhere with her right now, I shove the anger down deep. Concentrate on being cool and rational, on showing her that I’m in control, since instinct tells me that’s the only way to reassure her at this point.
“I expect you to repay me by doing your job. From what I hear, you’re a hell of a cocktail waitress. That’s why David and Todd have you working the high roller area. I don’t plan on losing you because some asshole doesn’t know how to take no for an answer.”
I see the moment she picks up on my phrasing, and the double meaning that can be applied to the concept of me losing her. Still, she doesn’t respond the way I expect her to. Doesn’t seem relieved by my reassurance. Instead, she narrows her eyes at me and demands, “Are you fucking with me?”
The strength and the heat behind the question get me hot, have my dick growing harder even as my own temper flares. I push to my feet then, making sure my suit jacket is buttoned up and hiding my suddenly raging erection. And then I stalk toward her slowly, making her wait. Making her wonder.
I stop about a foot away from her—too close for regular business standards but not close enough to send her running for the hills. And then I ask, “Does it feel like I’m fucking with you, Aria?”
Those beautiful dark eyes of hers go wide and it’s all I can do not to touch her. Not to drag her into my arms and show her just how serious I am about her—about fucking her and about holding her afterward.
“I don’t know,” she says after a minute. “That’s the problem. I can’t figure you out.”
“That’s because you’re looking at me all wrong.” I step forward then, run the back of my hand softly down her cheek. “But I can assure you, love, when I’m fucking with you, you’ll know it.”
She jerks her head back from my touch. “So you do want sex.”
I like her bluntness. “From you? Absolutely.”
“I knew it.” She grabs for her purse, which is resting in the curve of the chair she’d been sitting in. “I don’t want the stupid job. You can keep it.”
She brushes past me on her way to the door, all fire and fury and long, fast steps. I grab her arm before she gets very far, swing her around to face me. She meets my eyes head-on, hers burning hotly as she tries to stare me down. And I can all but see the steel in her backbone, the force of will just waiting to come out.
I caught a glimpse of it hours ago, when I was watching the film of her working the tables. I didn’t focus on it then, was too caught up in my anger at her being placed in a situation like that to begin with. But looking at her now, I can definitely see it. The need for control—of herself and the world around her. The need to make her own rules, to set her own boundaries instead of having them set for her by men, by work, by life.
The low-grade arousal that has been growing inside me since the moment I opened my office door to find her standing on the other side suddenly bursts into full-blown want. Full-blown need. It’s not a response I’m used to, this sudden, insatiable desire to touch, to taste, to have. I’ve spent too many years working toward total control of myself and my environment to lose it like this over a woman. No matter how sexy, how smart, how real that woman is.
And yet, what’s the alternative? Let her walk out the door? Never talk to her, never see her, never think about her again? I know myself well enough to know that’s not going to happen.
She’s melting against me, her body going soft and languid where it rests against the heat of my own. And still she challenges me.
“You should let go of me.” Her voice is husky, but her eyes are steady. Resolved.
I uncurl my fingers from around her forearm, watch as she brings her elbow into her waist and lowers her arm to her side. She stares at it for a moment, almost like she’s trying to figure out what happened. Why it was so easy to get me to release her when she had obviously braced for a struggle. When she might even have wanted one.
But there can be no question of consent here, no thoughts of coercion or duress. Not with what I want to do to her, with her. Not for what I have planned.
And so I step away, hold my hands out to the sides, palms up, in the universal gesture of acquiescence. There’s a flash of disappointment in her eyes—so fleeting I would have missed it if I hadn’t been looking for it—but there, nonetheless.
It’s all the confirmation I need and I feel myself relax, the stress leaching out of my body like it never existed. My dick is still hard, my senses hyper-alert. But good things come to those who wait…and patience has always been one of my virtues.
“I need to go,” she tells me, and already there’s a hint of a question where fifteen minutes ago there would have been only assurance. Determination.
I nod, gesture to the door in a feel-free kind of motion.
For long seconds, she doesn’t move. She just stands there, staring at me, her hands clenching and unclenching at her sides and her lush bottom lip caught, worried, between her teeth.
“So I’ve got my job back?” she asks.
“Yes, of course.”
“I just report for work tomorrow at the normal time?”
“Absolutely.”
“And there are no strings?”
“Strings?”
“I don’t have to fuck you to keep my job.” She looks a little embarrassed at her blunt request for information, like she expects to be reprimanded for her vulgar language. But I like the bluntness, like the fact that she’s so frank and open. It will make things so much easier between us in the long run.
“Your job is yours no matter what happens—or doesn’t happen—between us.”
“I just want to make sure we’re clear. Nothing is going to happen between us. I don’t sleep with rich men.”
“Good thing I don’t plan on doing much sleeping then, isn’t it?”
“Mr. Caine—”
“Sebastian.”
She looks like she wants to argue, but in the end just gives in with an exasperated sigh. “Fine. Sebastian.”
“I like the way my name sounds on your lips, Aria.” I like the way hers sounds on mine.
“Since you’re playing semantics, let me be clear. I’m not going to fuck you.”
“Okay.” The word rolls off my tongue with a nonchalance I’m far from feeling.
She looks suspicious. “That’s it? Okay?”
“What did you expect?”
“I don’t know. You sounded so sure before…I guess I expected you to be upset, annoyed.”
“I don’t see the point in getting upset about something I have absolutely no control over. Either you’ll decide to fuck me”—I use the crude term deliberately, enjoying how she squirms a little as the word leaves my lips—“or you won’t. Either way, the decision is yours. I’m just along for the ride.”
“For the record, there will be no riding.”
I grin then, liking her quick wit almost as much as I like her backbone. “We’ll see.”
“We will see.” She pauses, ducks her head, and I can practically hear the wheels turning in her mind as she deliberates about what she wants to say next.
“Okay. Yeah. I’ll be here tomorrow. For work.” She turns to go then, striding toward the door with the long-legged, confident gait I first noticed in the video of her. At first I think that’s it, she’s going to walk out without so much as a backward glance. But she stops at the last minute, doorknob in hand, and shoots a look over her shoulder at me.
“Thank you,” she says.
And just that easily my body tightens up again, my muscles locking into place as heat sizzles beneath my skin. I love the sound of those words on her lips. Can’t help imagining other times, other places, other reasons for her to say them.
“There’s nothing to thank me for.”
She smiles then, just a quick uptick of the corners of her mouth that has me longing to lick along the seam of her lips.
“Sure there is. Most guys in this office would have fired me first and asked questions never.”
“I’m not most guys.”
“Yeah. I’m getting that.” She opens the door but still doesn’t tear her gaze from mine. “It was nice to meet you, Sebastian Caine.”
“Nice to meet you, Aria Winston.”
This is it. What she says here, how she leaves things, will determine absolutely how this thing proceeds. Will determine if I back off and leave her in peace or if I pursue her with the intention of taking everything she has to give, of pushing her limits—her control—right to the breaking point and beyond.
She clears her throat, looks past me as she murmurs, “Maybe I’ll see you around the casino sometime?”
Gotcha. I can almost see the handcuffs closing over her delicate little wrists now. “I think that’s probably a safe assumption.”
“Oh, right. Because you own the place.”
“Because I own the place, yes.”
“So I won’t say good-bye, then. Just thanks. And see you later.”
She slips through the door, closes it gently behind her.
And I…I do the only thing I can do considering the current situation. The only thing I can think to do with my cock throbbing in my pants and my brain wrapped up in what I need to do to make Aria mine.
I walk straight across my office and through the door that leads to my personal restroom.
I close the door, shrug out of my suit jacket and unzip my pants.
And then I wrap my hand around my rock-hard dick.
Relief floods me at the first touch, the first stroke. At the knowledge that relief is imminent. And still it isn’t enough, isn’t close to being enough.
Leaning back against the sink, I close my eyes. Keep my strokes long and languid. And think of Aria.
Aria, with her short skirt and fishnet stockings and mile long legs, carrying a tray as she cuts through the high rollers’ area like a general dividing his troops.
Aria, with her lush lips and dark, gypsy eyes laying into that Russian bastard.
Aria, with her tight jeans and lacy blouse sitting in my chair, in my office.
Aria brushing her sweet body against mine.
Aria challenging me.
Aria saying fuck.
Aria.
Aria.
Aria.
It doesn’t take long before I’m coming like a teenager, with a muffled groan and an orgasm so powerful it takes every ounce of control I have to stay upright. And still I’m not satisfied. Still it’s not enough.
Not when I can still smell her, cherries and vanilla and sweet, sweet sex.
Not when I can still feel her lush ass pressed against my cock.
Not when I still want her.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. I turn my head, sink my teeth into my bicep and wait for the pain to help bring my body under control. But this time it doesn’t work. This time the sharp press of my teeth only turns me on more because I imagine it’s her biting me, her on the brink of losing control.
I’m hard again, or hard still, and right now denial isn’t even in my vocabulary. So I fist my cock again, jerk off a second time. And pray, as I finally clean up the mess and tuck myself back into my suit, that twice is enough to keep me focused. Keep me sane. And keep me from jumping her like a crazed animal the next time I see her. It’s not much, but at the moment it’s all the control I can muster. At least when it comes to Aria.
Chapter Five
Aria
I can feel him watching me. Can feel his eyes raking over my hair, my breasts, my legs. It’s a near tangible feeling, like hi
s hands are just brushing against me, his rough palms skating softly, sweetly, over my shoulders and down my bare arms to my hands and the sensitive skin between each of my fingers. He’s everywhere—above me, beside me, in front of me, behind me, and I can’t catch a break. Can’t catch my breath.
Talk about jumping from the frying pan straight into the fire. Oh, the way he’s looking at me isn’t disrespectful—it’s not the way Mr. Cervantes looks at me when I deliver his shots of Patron and it’s not the way I feel Mr. Benson undressing me with his eyes every time I come anywhere near him.
But that doesn’t mean it’s a comfortable stare, either. Because it’s not. It’s hard to be comfortable when your boss’s boss’s boss’s boss is watching your every move.
I try to tell myself that that’s all it is. That the reason I’m so nervous as I slip an Absolut and grapefruit next to Mr. Torres’s elbow and a Glenfiddich on the rocks onto the table beside Mrs. Brandt is because I’m afraid of screwing up again in front of my boss. That I’m afraid of doing something that will get me fired.
But I’ve never been one to lie to myself often or well—what’s the point of it when deep down inside I know the truth. In this case, the truth is that it’s been twenty-eight hours since I walked out of Sebastian Caine’s office and still I can barely breathe without wanting. Without needing.
It’s stupid, so stupid, to be this tied in knots just from one meeting with him. Of course, it’s even more stupid to actually think about sleeping with him. I know it is. With my family and his business, my past and his present, any move to get together, no matter how temporary, is a disaster waiting to happen.
Intellectually I know all that. Just like I know sleeping with a rich man—any rich man let alone one who owns a Vegas casino—is absolute folly. And yet I can’t help thinking about the way he looked at me as I walked away from him in his office yesterday, his eyes a seething forest green and his face a mask of the same want that is sweeping through me even now.
“Hey, Aria.” Mr. Sheenan catches my attention, waves me over. Though I’m already trying to figure out how to avoid the groping I know is coming, I stop beside him anyway. And smile even as I angle my ass away from him and the craps table he’s standing at.
