Chapter 7
seven
GENEVA
Who knew gambling could be this fun? Not only does Peter look good enough to eat in his tux, but we’re winning to boot.
The last time I was in Vegas, my dick of a boyfriend took up with a showgirl. Who does that in real life? Anyway, this is much better. I should stay here and become a professional blackjack player. That’s probably just the martinis talking.
“Are you ready to call it a night?” Peter asks.
“But we’re just getting warmed up.” What is he thinking? The night is still young.
“We’ve been warmed up for hours now. It’s two in the morning.”
“Oh.” I guess I didn’t notice how late it had become. That’s probably also the martinis’ fault. “I guess if you think we should go.” I hop off the stool at the baccarat table. I sway for a minute before Peter wraps a strong arm around my waist.
“I think we should.” He tosses the dealer a chip. Our winnings will be sent to the room later.
Things are a little dizzy as we start from the room. It’s fine though; I’ve never been affected too badly by alcohol. My metabolism burns it off quickly. I imagine it comes from years of martial arts training.
Peter leads us through the casino to the elevator. Weirdly, I think the liquor is hitting harder the farther I walk. It takes me a minute to focus enough to punch the up button. Has he always been this gorgeous? But I remember something about being naked. Doesn’t matter; the elevator door is opening. He helps me inside, and we’re joined by an older couple.
“Have I ever told you how much I want to bite that jaw?” I slur. “I’d bite that ass too if you’d let me.” There’s a snicker behind me.
“Geneva,” he warns. Or is it an invitation? I can’t tell anymore. “Sorry,” he mumbles at whoever is behind me. I spin around so I can see them.
“He’s biteable everywhere, don’t you think?” I ask the lady. A hand clamps over my mouth.
“So sorry,” he says. I try licking his hand, but he doesn’t budge. The elevator opens, and I start forward. Peter pulls me back against him as the older couple steps out.
“Goodnight,” the gentleman says. “And good luck.”
Why would Peter need luck? I’m not going to say no.
“I can’t believe you licked my hand,” he complains when the doors close. He wipes his hand on his pants.
“You know you liked it.” I point to the erection filling his tux pants. I’d touch it, but he pushes my hand away and we get into a slapping match. The door of the elevator opens, and I stumble, trying to get my dress to cooperate so I can get out. With a sigh, Peter picks me up in his arms.
“Is this the start of naked fun time?” It seems like a reasonable question. In the past, if a man carried me to a Vegas room, it ended in sex.
“Behave, Geneva.” He sets me on my feet in front of a door. “Where’s your key?”
Oh, right. I dig through my purse until I find the card. He waves it over the panel. Yay, now I can get this tight dress off. I’m suddenly so tired.
“Geneva, wait.” Too late. My dress pools at my feet. I kick off my shoes and stagger toward the bedroom.
My bra is the next thing to go. I sling it to the floor next to the bed. Peter moans behind me. That reminds me, I haven’t thanked him for taking me out. Spinning on my heel, I grab the front of his shirt. We crash together as my lips find his.
At first, his body stiffens like he’s been bit. Then he relaxes into the kiss. His tongue slides against mine. The only way this could get better is if my nude breasts were pressed against his bare chest.
“No, Geneva.” He steps away from me, but I wasn’t done yet. My whole body tingles from that one kiss. “You’re drunk. Get in bed before you do something you regret in the morning.”
Jokes on him. Nothing I do with Peter will I ever regret. But I climb into bed like he wants. He pulls the blankets over me. The room is spinning. What did they put in those martinis?
“I put a trash can by the bed just in case,” he says. “I’m sorry, I should have been paying better attention to how much you drank. I promised Rand I’d take care of you.” The rest of his words are lost on me as I drift off to sleep.
* * *
When did a portal to hell open in my brain and allow a demon to crawl out? And why is the world so loud? I think I can hear it spinning on its axis.
I pry my eyes open, only to realize I’m not ready to be alive yet. The bed feels like lava, it’s so hot. I kick the heavy comforter off. I don’t remember the extra-large T-shirt I’m wearing. I pry my eyes open once again to read what’s on it. Virginia Tech.
“Did I break the no-nudity rule?” I mumble. I can feel Peter watching me from across the room. Or at least, I can feel his presence in the room. It’s like the air seems different when he’s around.
“Yeah.” His voice comes from the sunken living area.
“Have you been here long?” I ask, attempting to sit up. My head pounds. It takes a few minutes of swallowing to convince my stomach to behave.
“I ordered some lunch,” he says, ignoring my question. He appears at the side of the bed. “Here.” He hands a bottle of water to me. “I’ll get you something for your head after you eat.”
“Did you at least have fun last night?” I take a sip of the water.
“You know,” he says after some consideration, “I did. We won around five grand.”
“Are you serious?”
“As death and taxes.”
“Where did we do the best?”
“Probably at one of the poker tables. I think everyone was too busy trying to look down your dress to pay attention. You kept bending to whisper in my ear. It was a brilliant strategy,” he admits.
There’s a knock at the door. Peter lets the server in with a cart of food. It smells both amazing and disgusting at the same time.
Crawling out of bed, I pull on a pair of leggings. The T-shirt is already warm, so there’s no reason to trade it out. I start down the steps into the living area when my bladder reminds me I drank a lot of vodka last night. By the time I return, Peter has everything on the table and the server is gone.
“Did you leave anything for the rest of the hotel?” I sass, sliding into one of the chairs at the small dining table.
“Don’t bite the hand that’s feeding you.”
“But you’re so very biteable,” I tease back.
“Or so you told the old couple in the elevator last night.”
“I did not.”
“You did. I think she was scandalized. He thought it was hilarious.”
“I wish I had it on video.” I laugh. The look on his face must have been priceless. “Did you pop a chub?”
“Geneva,” he scolds.
Have I mentioned how much I like the way my name rolls off his tongue? Why else would I taunt him so much?
His eyes suddenly narrow as they home in on me. “Why? Does the idea make you wet?”
“Shame on you, Peter Winsloe.” I wave a french fry at him. “Breaking your own rules.”
He rolls his eyes and shakes his head. It’s an impressive act of multitasking.
“What would your mother say if she knew you talk like that?”
“My mother would beat me bloody if she heard me say that to a lady,” he says.
“Good thing there’re no ladies around here.”
His eyebrows draw together in a scowl. “When you say things like that, it makes me want to bend you over my knee.”
“Now that idea makes me wet,” I say.
“How about you put that mouth to better use?” I raise an eyebrow at him. “I mean by eating.”
“Eating what?” I bat my eyes at him.
“Geneva, eat.” He jabs a finger at my plate. Looks like I won this round. Peter never stood a chance.
I wolf down the burger and fries he ordered me. I know: carbs, carbs, carbs. Sue me. It’s been a long time since that salad yesterday. Peter shakes two ibuprofen into his hand,and I wash them down with a diet soda. I already feel better.
“What are we doing with the rest of the day?” I ask.
“What would you like to do?”
“Hmmm.” I think about it for a minute. I don’t think I can do another night of gambling. There’s a very good chance the last one almost killed me. “You know what sounds nice? An afternoon by the pool.”
“I don’t have a swimsuit with me.”
“Me either, but five grand will buy one hell of a swimsuit. How about if I let you pick mine out and I’ll do the same for you?” He studies me the way he always does when he thinks I’m trying to put one over on him. I’m not. I just think he’d look amazing in a Bond-style suit. After all, we’re still in Vegas. Except that the suit I have in mind, I’m hoping to see it more in Austin.
“Do you want me to book you a message after?” he asks.
“Only if you do one with me. They can finish working on those sore muscles.”
“Fine, you get dressed. I’ll make the reservations.”
He moves to the phone in the living area, and I head for the bathroom and a much-needed shower. I can smell the vodka trying to leave my body. It’s not a good smell. By the time I’m finished getting ready, Peter has everything booked. He even knows the best place to find swimsuits.
The shops are teeming with people when we reach them. Peter stays close to me so we don’t get separated. That’s what he claims anyway. It doesn’t explain why that includes his hand on my lower back as we walk around. The shop that sells swimsuits is past the restaurant from last night. It looks like it has some possibilities.
“What do you think about this one?” I ask, stepping out of the dressing room. Peter decided he would simply approve or veto what I choose. The first number is a blue Brazilian bikini that fades to white on the top. He nods when I show him the front. Then I turn around. He grunts.
“No.” That’s all he says.
“What’s wrong with it? I think it’s cute.”
“Your ass is in full view of any letch by the pool. It’s a hard no.”
“Are you one of the letches?”
“Absolutely. Next.”
I laugh and return to the dressing room. Based on the way he adjusted his jeans, this one is a keeper. I’ll just slip it in when he’s not looking. The next one is a little more conservative. It’s a tankini with a skirt. It’s red with white polka dots all over it. I step out of the dressing room. He scowls.
“Well, you don’t have to dress like a nun from the nineteen-twenties.” He twirls his hand, and I turn around. “You look like a nightmare Minnie Mouse.” I cock a hip. “You do,” he insists.
With a huff, I return behind the curtain.
I hurl back the curtain with an indignant flourish this time. The current swimsuit is a simple black bikini. The only frill is the mesh at my hips holding the bottom together. My boobs are pressed into a rather impressive handful inside the full cups.
Peter is sitting with one leg crossed over the other. He looks like a Mafia don inspecting his merchandise.
“Turn,” he growls, and I obey. He stands and stalks toward me. With his hand sliding over my stomach, he spins us toward the mirror. In our reflection, he stands behind me with his large hand splayed on my torso. It’s possessive and demanding. My core heats as he leans forward. “It’s perfect,” he whispers in my ear.
He’s not lying; it is perfect. Even if I didn’t know that Peter was incapable of lying to me, the bulge pressing against my ass tells the story. He has a very obvious tell when it comes to my body. I first noticed it when I was in high school.
Rand and I had accepted an invitation to the Winsloes for Thanksgiving. I bent over to pull a board game off the lower shelf. When I stood back up, I found Peter staring at me. His pants had grown much tighter in that brief period. He finally cleared his throat and excused himself from the room. Since then, I’ve watched how certain things I do or wear affect him.
“You like it?” I ask.
“I do.”
“Now we just have to find you something.” I step away. “Give me a second to change back.” What I don’t say is just how wet this swimsuit already is. I have to buy it now.
Quickly, I change back into my street clothes. I know exactly where to find Peter’s next swimsuit.
“Head into the dressing room. I’ll be right there,” I tell him as I brush past. They don’t have the La Perla one Daniel Craig wore, but I find the next best thing. My mouth is watering just thinking about him in it.