Chapter 36
THIRTY-SIX
Emerson
We had a really fun day at the pool today. We ordered lunch poolside, soaked up some sun, made some friends, filmed some BingBangs to post later, and partook in an aggressive game of pool volleyball, in which we dominated.
My girl is competitive .
Afterward, we dashed back to our suite where I devoured Twila again, making her scream as she came. Then, we showered together, and she jacked me until I came all over her stomach. I nearly passed out from the sheer pleasure of her touch, and I can’t stop thinking about it.
How Twila’s caresses affect me in a way I’ve never felt before. How good it feels, having her hands on my body. How I want her to never stop touching me. Ever.
Now, she’s in her room getting ready for our second night out, and I’m torn between waiting here in the living room like a gentleman and doing what I really want to do, which is walking in there to watch her get ready. Of course, if I do that, we may never leave.
Which isn’t necessarily a bad thing, in my honest opinion.
She comes out before I decide, and I’m struck dumb at the sight of her.
She looks amazing in a white sheath dress that hugs her body and skims the tops of her thighs.
She’s paired the dress with a pair of strappy white sandals with chunky heels.
Her long, brown hair is pulled up into a high, sleek ponytail, and her makeup is on point and dramatic.
I’m suddenly glad I opted for slacks, a black button down, and a slim-fitting burgundy blazer instead of something more casual.
“You look…divine,” I say after searching for the right word.
Her eyes are drinking me in, and when they lift back up to meet mine, they’re a bit dazed and there’s a bright blush on her cheeks. I chuckle and strike a bodybuilder pose.
“You like?”
She nods and licks her lips. “I do. And thank you. I was afraid my outfit is a bit too much.”
“Not too much,” I say, nodding. “You’re perfect. Are you ready to go?”
She nods again, and when I hold out a hand, she smiles and slips hers into it. We braid our fingers together and leave the room, and God, I can’t stop smiling. I’m just so happy .
When we exit the elevator near the lobby, I release her hand to press mine against the small of her back.
Guiding her lightly, I head for the exit and look for the rideshare I ordered during the ride down.
The car is here, so I hold the door for her as she climbs in, then I slide in beside her.
I take her hand again, and she holds on tightly.
We head for Elite, a hotel casino that hosts a lavish party in its nightclub every Saturday night. I made reservations both for the club and an Italian restaurant onsite so we can have some dinner before we head upstairs to party.
Dinner is a nice, quiet affair, and Twila and I dine on pasta and bread while counting no less than three phones aimed in our direction. We grin at each other, knowing footage of us having a romantic meal together while dressed to the nines will appear on BingBang very soon.
When I catch another person filming from the corner of my eye, I reach across the table to run a fingertip over the back of Twila’s hand.
Her lips part as she inhales sharply, then settle into a seductive smile.
I look toward the person filming, using only my eyes so they won’t see, and Twila gives me an almost imperceptible nod. She’s sees them, too.
Even though we’re hamming it up for the camera, it doesn’t feel…false. I don’t think either of us is faking anything, anymore, which means that little gasp when I touched her hand was real. And knowing that sends the blood in my veins rushing southward.
After I’ve paid the tab, I get up and move around to hold Twila’s chair for her as she stands. Unable to help myself, I pop a kiss on the corner of her mouth before curling my arm around her waist. She smiles as we leave the restaurant, and I can tell it’s a secret smile just for me.
I hold onto her once we’re in the elevator, and she leans into my chest like she knows she belongs there. My chin lifts, and my eyes fall closed as I relish the moment. God, this feels right.
I don’t know what’s going to happen when this little weekend trip is over. I’ve been trying not to think about it. But if I get my way, what we’ve started won’t end here in Vegas. I’ll find a way to make it work.
“Oh, my God,” Twila gasps as the elevator doors open, revealing the dance club.
We step out, then pause, looking around in awe.
There are aerial acrobats spinning and flipping between long sheets of fabric that hang from the ceiling.
As the heavy bass of the music thumps against my chest, I watch delicate soap bubbles float around the large space before popping against the sweaty skin of people bumping and grinding in the center of the room.
Groups of people sit on oversized couches around the perimeter of the dancefloor, and there’s a long bar that spans the entirety of the back wall.
Taking Twila’s hand, I head in that direction.
Her eyes are wide as she takes in all the sights, and while she’s distracted, I quickly order two frozen margaritas from the bartender.
Twila points out one of the acrobats rolling herself up in a long sheet of fabric hanging from the ceiling, then stiffens when the woman seems to let go, twisting and tumbling downward until she stops herself on a dime.
“She’s insane,” Twila says with a laugh.
“Or incredibly talented,” I counter, and she shakes her head.
“No one is denying her talent, but how many times did she fail and fall before she got it perfect?”
“I’m sure they practice with a net, or something,” I say, and she nods as she watches another performer swing through the air.
I pay for our drinks when they arrive, and while Twila’s still distracted, I pull out my phone and film my hand as I pick one of them up and hold it out in her direction. When she sees what I’m doing, her face lights up with laughter, and she shakes her head as she accepts the margarita.
I stop recording and pocket my phone before picking up my own drink. I hold it aloft for a silent toast, and Twila clinks the rim of her glass against mine.
“I swore off margaritas after I messaged you the first time,” she says before taking a sip.
“Why’s that?” I ask. “Nothing but good came of it, right?”
“True,” she says, grinning, “but it still doesn’t change the fact that tequila is the devil. It makes me do things I probably shouldn’t.”
“I’m glad you did,” I say in a low voice, and she nods in agreement.
“Me, too.”
We people-watch while we finish our drinks, then Twila pulls me out onto the dancefloor. The warmth of the alcohol in my stomach spreads to my extremities before flowing back into my chest. My heart pounds with the exertion of dancing and with the joy of being here with her .
No one has ever made me feel this good before. This happy.
After a couple of songs, Twila taps her throat and mouths, “I’m parched,” so we head back to the bar for another drink. We stick with the margaritas, letting the frozen concoction cool us down from the inside.
We dance some more, and Twila’s body rubbing against mine leaves my mind blank.
There are no thoughts. Just feelings. I skim my palms down her arms and back up again, then circle them loosely around her neck before leaning in to peck a kiss against her mouth.
She kisses me back, licking a stripe along my sealed lips before dancing out of my grip with a laugh.
I follow her off the floor and back to the bar. She surprises me by ordering four tequila shots, foregoing the mixer, altogether. I shrug and go with it, especially when she pours salt into her palm, holds it out to me, and clenches a lime wedge between her teeth.
I lock eyes with her as I lick the salt from her palm, and she shivers. I throw back the shot, then press my lips to hers as I take the lime from her mouth. Pulling back an inch, I bite down, letting the acidic tartness wash away the burn of alcohol.
Twila readies and takes her first shot without my help, then we both down our second ones together. A pleasant buzz vibrates in my bones, and I ignore the little voice in my head that tells me I should slow down. It feels too good.
We head out and dance for a while longer, our movements slower and less intentional as the alcohol loosens our muscles. Twila presses up against me, and her hand slips between us to brush over the bulge in my pants.
I catch her wrist with a laugh, pulling her hand up to kiss her knuckles. She grins and nods, catching my drift. We’re public figures in a packed club. Anyone could be filming us, and the last thing we want to end up on BingBang is a shot of Twila drunkenly groping me on a crowded dancefloor.
She can grope me any way she wants the second we’re safely behind the doors of our suite.
Twila motions toward the bathrooms, and I nod before following her off the floor. I wait by the restroom’s exit while she uses the facilities, and when she comes out, we head to the bar again. Twila orders another round of shots for us, but this time she asks for two glasses of water, as well.
“We need to stay hydrated so we don’t feel like hell, warmed over, in the morning,” she explains, and after we throw back the shots, we chase them with the water.
“Oh, my God! Twila and Emerson! It’s GreeneHouse, guys!”
We turn toward the shouting to find a woman in a white dress, a short veil, and a sash that reads, “Bride.” Behind her are a group of ladies, all wearing various shades of purple and lavender, wearing sashes with funny sayings on them.
“I love you guys,” slurs a woman with a sash that reads, “I bring the bad decisions.”
“Thanks. We love you, too,” Twila says, smiling warmly at her.
“Can we take some selfies?” the bride asks, and Twila and I agree.
The six of them crowd around us, each of them snapping shots and gushing about their luck at finding us out in the wild.
They invite us to a roped off VIP section to hang out with them, and when I look at Twila, she shrugs before nodding in agreement.
Champagne flows as the night wears on, and though some part of my brain warns against mixing it with the tequila already buzzing through my system, the bachelorettes won’t take no for an answer.
I have no idea how much Twila or I drink of the bubbly. Our glasses are refilled as soon as we empty them. Everyone is laughing and having a great time, and at some point, I look over at Twila and freeze.
She’s wearing the bride’s sash, as well as her veil. She sashays back and forth across the space, her white dress and shoes making her look like the most beautiful bride I’ve ever seen. I stare at her in awe as my heart beats faster than it should.
God damn, she’s going to make some lucky guy so fucking happy one day.