Tyler
“Babe, you about ready? The Strip is calling us,” I shouted toward the bedroom, still riding the lazy, champagne-soaked high from our afternoon down at the pool.
Hours of sun, too many drinks, her torturing me in that little red bikini and the kind of lounging in a private cabana that made it way too easy to forget the outside world even existed.
The bottle now was long gone, and I was half-convinced she was keeping me waiting on purpose.
Thirty minutes later, I got my answer.
She walked out spraying the perfume I’d bought her, the one that made my mouth water and want to trace my tongue over every inch of her.
The dress… Hell, dress was a generous word for it.
Black satin so tight it could’ve been painted on, lace trim at the cups.
That dress could get a guy arrested just for looking.
Her lips were a deep cherry red, hair loose in soft curls that hit just below her collarbone, and every step toward me was a slow, silent threat to my self-control.
“Okay, fuck Vegas,” I muttered, sliding my hands around her waist before she could even reach the door. “I’m staying right here with you. No way in hell am I sharing this with anyone.”
She smiled smugly. “No chance, Reed. I’ve never been to Vegas before, and we’re doing it right.”
I groaned into her neck, pressing my mouth there because I couldn’t help myself. “You’re killing me, baby.”
She laughed, pulling back just enough to grab her new purse. I’d taken her down to the plaza after breakfast and told her to go buy herself something new. I practically had to force her into a designer store against her will. “You can survive a few hours. Then you can have me all to yourself.”
“All to myself,” I repeated, already imagining it as I took her hand and headed for the door. “That’s the only thing keeping me alive right now. You’re such a brat”.
I watched her move toward the door, the new leather of the bag looking expensive against her skin. Over her shoulder she shot me a wink before she stepped through it. Yeah, I was never going to survive this woman.
We went to the casino first, and the first round of drinks hit faster than I expected, champagne still fizzing in my blood.
The lights flashing so bright it felt like the room had a heartbeat; or maybe it was just her, walking beside me in that black satin dress, every head turning like she owned the damn place.
“Try not to get us banned before we’ve even sat down,” she teased, eyes flicking to the blackjack table.
“No promises.” I took her hand and steered us straight to the high-stakes section. If we were doing this, we were doing it my way.
She gave me that raised-eyebrow look, half daring me, half certain I’d blow through a stack of chips just to make her laugh. Which, honestly, wasn’t far from the truth.
Five hands in, she was leaning over my shoulder, whispering bets in my ear, and I was following every damn one because I was too distracted by the sound of her voice, and her tempting cleavage, to think straight. We won three in a row and she grinned like she’d just discovered a secret superpower.
“Beginner’s luck,” I said, even though we both knew she was sharper than half the guys I’d played cards with on tour.
“Or maybe I’m just good at knowing when to push you.” She brushed her fingers along the back of my neck, sending a shiver straight down my spine that ended at my dick.
Somewhere between the blackjack table and the bar, she managed to track down two tequila shots. There was a glint in her eye that said she’d regret it tomorrow but didn’t give a damn tonight. Vegas was made for that kind of look.
She tipped hers back, and before she could swallow, I caught her by the chin, pressed my mouth to hers, and took it straight from her crimson lips.
“Tyler!” she gasped with a scandalized laugh.
“Relax, babe. I’m gonna be doing them off your tits later.”
Her jaw dropped, but that grin slipped through anyway, the one that told me she was in just as deep as I was.
“You wanted the full Tyler Reed Vegas experience,” I said, letting my hands slide low on her hips. “You’re getting it.”
The buzz hit hard as we stumbled down the Strip, neon lights bleeding into the night. Tipsy Orla was out in full force, louder, looser, her excitement practically vibrating through her skin.
When we happened to pass a tattoo parlor, she stopped dead, yanking on my arm. “Wait! You should sooo get another tattoo,” she said, her voice at least ten decibels too high.
I laughed, cocking an eyebrow. “Oh yeah? And what should I get?”
She bit her lip. Her eyes narrowed in serious, drunken thought before a wicked grin spread across her face. “You should get my name.”
I practically barked out a laugh. “You really want me to get your name inked on me? Because I’ll do it, babe.”
“I mean…maybe just an O, then,” she shrugged, gripping my arm to steady herself.
“Deal.”
Her eyes widened. “What?”
“I’ll do it.”
“Seriously?”
“Yeah, why not?”
She clapped a hand over her mouth, giggling like I’d just suggested robbing a bank. “Okay.”
It was the easiest 'yes' of my life. She thought it was the tequila talking, but I’d been looking for a way to mark myself as hers since that first drink in Wimbledon.
I laughed, looking at the neon sign of the shop—Sink or Swim Tattoos. It looked just quirky enough that they wouldn't ask too many questions about the tequila on our breath.
I pushed open the door, dragging her by the hand behind me, the sound of her giggle mingling with the door chime.
I caught the eye of the guy behind the counter; he recognized me instantly, his eyes widening.
I approached the glass counter that he was standing behind “you available for some ink?” I asked.
“We aren't strictly supposed to ink anyone with a glow like that, man,” the guy muttered, glancing at Orla as she giggled at a flash sheet on the wall.
I pulled out my wallet, peeling off a couple of hundreds and sliding them across the glass. “It’s a single letter, man. Five minutes. I’m steady as a rock, I promise.”
He looked at the cash, then back at me, and shrugged. “Your funeral, man. Sit in the chair.”
Next thing I knew, I was in the chair, the buzz of the needle filling the room as I watched her from across the counter.
She leaned on the glass, fascinated, eyes wide like she couldn’t quite believe I’d gone through with it.
I couldn’t take my eyes off her, not even when the needle bit into my skin.
Her smile, those shimmering dark eyes, took any and every pain away.
When the buzzing needle finally stopped, the tattooist wiped across my chest, but I barely felt it. All I could see was her, biting her lip, laughing in disbelief, like she couldn’t decide if I was the dumbest bastard alive or the most reckless romantic.
She had no idea. No idea what I’d do for her. No idea that I’d already built a hundred futures in my head with her in them, and every one without her left me gutted.
To me, that O above my heart wasn’t a dare, wasn’t a joke, it was the truest thing I’d ever put on my body. She was already under my skin. Permanently. The reality was this thing between us wasn’t casual or temporary. It was inevitable.
Maybe it was the tequila. Maybe it was the way she was looking at me like she couldn’t believe I was hers. But the words slipped out before I could stop them. “You know, we could skip the rest of the bad decisions and go straight for the big one.”
Her brows pulled together as she slinked over to me, a smile still playing at her lips. “The big one?”
“Marry me,” I said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world, because to me, it was. The certainty hit so hard it felt like it reverberated through my whole damn body.
She burst out laughing. “Tyler, don’t be daft.”
“Why the hell not? You’re it for me, O. Might as well make it official before we sober up and overthink it.”
She stared for a moment, as if she was waiting for the punchline. When it didn’t come, her laugh broke again, bright and disbelieving. “You’re insane.”
“Probably,” I said, pulling her closer, “but I’m also deadly serious. You know I want it all with you, so why delay the inevitable?”
I’d never been more certain of anything, not a win, not a trophy, not a damn thing.
She studied me, the gears turning behind her eyes, still trying to decide if I was bluffing. Then her lips parted, and she let out a shaky breath. “Fuck it. Let’s do it.”
For a second, I just stared deep into her eyes in disbelief, grinning so wide it hurt. “We’re doing it?”
She nodded fast and breathless, her cheeks flushed from tequila and complete insanity. “We’re doing it.”
I scooped her up right there in the doorway, nearly tripping over my own feet as I stumbled both of us out onto the Strip. “Let’s go make you Mrs. Reed.”
She laughed, burying her face against my neck like she couldn’t believe we were actually doing this. Vegas blurred around us, lights flashing, spurring us on, strangers cheering, music spilling from every doorway and all I could hear was her laugh against my ear, daring me to follow through.
It didn’t take us long to find a chapel which wasn’t half as tacky as I expected. It actually made the whole thing feel slightly less insane. It was modern looking, clean, with soft lighting and flickering candles that almost felt intimate. Outside was chaos, but in here, it was quiet. Just us.
At the desk, a woman with a sleeve of tattoos and a nose ring looked us over with an expression that screamed another drunk Vegas couple.
I fumbled for my wallet while Orla handed me her licence.
My hands shook filling out the paperwork, partly nerves, part disbelief, part sheer need to get her name written next to mine.
When Orla leaned in to sign, she glanced up at me with that sly little flourish in her smile, like she couldn’t believe it either, but she was damn well committing.