Chapter 4
JENNIFER
The elevator doors slide shut with a soft pneumatic hiss, and the glittering sprawl of the Vegas Strip drops away behind smoked glass.
Mirrors line every wall of the car, turning the space into an infinite hall of reflections, gold light bouncing endlessly.
I see myself from every angle, red dress hugging my curvy frame, the silk stretched tight over my full breasts and the plush swell of my hips and ass, dark honey hair piled up with a few defiant strands curling against my warm olive skin.
And then I notice them.
The three alphas closing in, their bodies filling the small space until there's no room left for doubt.
Santos presses close behind me, his broad chest nearly brushing my back, hand resting light at the small of my waist, fingers splayed wide enough to span the soft give of my flesh through the fabric.
To my left, Matteo leans against the mirrored wall, his tall frame relaxed but eyes locked on me, pale blue and piercing under dark lashes.
Tomas stands to my right, shoulders squared, gray gaze steady on my reflection.
The air thickens immediately with their scents. My strawberry-rose scent flares in response, sweet and ripe, betraying the slick heat starting to gather between my thighs.
"We're taking you to our presidential suite."
The words rumble low, directly into my skin, sending a shiver racing down my neck to pool low in my belly, where my pussy clenches with sudden, unwelcome need.
His hand slides a fraction lower, thumb tracing the curve where my waist flares to hip, the callused pad scraping silk in a way that makes my nipples tighten against my bra.
I smooth my dress down over my soft belly and thick thighs, a nervous tic, but it only draws their eyes in the mirrors. Matteo's lips curve. Tomas's jaw ticks.
Omega, are we really doing this? I think, heart hammering loud in my ears over the elevator's hum.
My inner omega surges back, bold and hungry: Oh yes we are.
Heat floods my cheeks, my breasts feeling heavier, fuller under their stares, and I fight the urge to cross my arms. Self-doubt creeps in.
Girls like me, all curves and carbs and no polished perfection, don't end up boxed in with billionaire alphas.
My ex's voice echoes faintly: Too much woman for your own good.
But these men look at me like I'm the feast they've been starving for.
"Don't be scared," Santos murmurs, his free hand brushing a loose strand of hair from my neck, fingers lingering to stroke the sensitive skin there, rough texture sending goosebumps racing across my arms.
"Scared? Me?" I quip, voice higher than I want, forcing a grin at my reflection to hide the way my thighs rub together against the growing dampness in my thong. "Just worried you'll drag me up there and turn me into a human fondue set or something. Billionaires and their weird appetites, right?"
The joke lands quirky, a little shaky, but it cuts the tension.
Tomas chuckles from my right, a deep rumbling sound that vibrates the air, his gray eyes darkening as he shifts closer, thigh brushing mine, the wool of his slacks rough against my bare leg below the dress hem.
"No fondue, omega. But we do have appetites.
" He reaches out, captures my hand, thumb circling my knuckles slow and firm, the warmth sinking into my bones. "Big ones. For every soft inch of you."
His silver musk spikes, metallic tang sharpening, and I taste salt on my lips from nervous licking, my pussy fluttering at the blunt promise.
Matteo pushes off the wall on my left, closing the gap until his chest grazes my shoulder, he looks at me with lust in his eyes. He tilts my chin up with two fingers, forcing my eyes to his in the mirror, pale blue irises dilated, hungry.
"Jokes won't save you from how wet you're getting already," he says, voice smooth and controlled, but edged with growl. "I can smell that strawberry pussy begging for us."
His words hit like a lick to my clit, and I gasp, feeling fresh slick soak my folds, the musky sweet scent blooming stronger.
Santos's hand dips lower behind me, palming my ass cheek fully now, squeezing the plush flesh, fingers digging in just enough to make me arch.
"Listen to them talk, and your little joke turns you on, doesn't it?
" he purrs, lips brushing my earlobe, teeth grazing the lobe with a sharp nip that makes me moan softly, the wet sound echoing in the mirrors.
"Bet your tits are aching, nipples hard as pebbles. "
His other hand slides up my side, cupping the underside of one breast, thumb flicking the peak through silk and lace, the friction electric, drawing a whimper from my throat.
I see it all reflected. Matteo's hand trailing down my arm to lace fingers with mine, pulling my palm to his chest where I feel his heart pounding under crisp shirt, the texture of chest hair teasing through fabric.
Tomas leans in from the right, nose nuzzling my neck, inhaling deep, his beard scraping deliciously rough, tongue darting out to taste my skin.
"Taste like fucking candy," he growls, free hand gripping my hip, pulling me toward him so my curves press into his hard thigh.
My body lights up, every nerve alive. The elevator's cool metal wall at my back contrasting Santos's heat.
The mirrors showing my flushed face, heaving tits, the way my dress rides up revealing thigh.
Inside, omega hunger wars with lingering doubt.
They can't want all this softness. But the slick dripping down my inner thigh says otherwise, pussy throbbing empty, clit swollen and needy.
The elevator dings.
The elevator doors slide open to the penthouse suite's golden glow, floor-to-ceiling windows framing the Strip's neon chaos below.
I step out first, my heels sinking into the deep pile of the entrance rug, and just stop.
The space sprawls in every direction. Cream sofas sinking deep.
White lilies perfuming the air with clean floral sweetness.
A grand piano gleaming in the corner like it belongs in a museum.
City lights pulsing like a heartbeat beyond the glass.
"Well," I say, taking it all in. "I've clearly been gambling in the wrong places."
Santos laughs low behind me. "You have no idea."
They guide me further in, hands never leaving.
Santos at my back, Matteo and Tomas flanking, their touches easy and possessive at once.
I stop in the center of the main rug, toes sinking into fibers soft as fur, and look around at all of it, the lilies and the piano and the city laid out below like an offering, and then I look at the three of them looking at me.
"Maybe I've had too much to drink," I say.
Santos tilts his head. Matteo and Tomas exchange one of their looks.
"If you have," Santos says, his voice dropping low and careful, "then we wouldn't want to take advantage of you." He takes one slow step closer. "Say the word. And we won't do any of the things we're going to do to you."
The room goes very quiet.
Matteo watches me with those pale blue eyes, patient, not pushing. Tomas stands to my right, arms loose at his sides, giving me every inch of space I need to walk straight back to that elevator.
I look at all three of them.
I keep my mouth shut.
Santos's smile spreads slow and wicked. “Maybe eat something, and then see how you feel.”
I nod my head, unable to speak. My omega’s begging me not to have second thoughts. I let them lead me to the sofa.
Santos eases me down into cushions that cradle my ass and back like a lover. “What would you like to eat?” he says, as he pulls up the room service menu, but his eyes stay on my lips the entire time he does it.
Matteo pours water from a chilled pitcher and hands it over, his fingers brushing mine and lingering just long enough to be deliberate.
I take a sip.
Tomas sinks into the armchair opposite, legs spread wide, the bulge in his slacks doing absolutely nothing for my composure, his gray eyes tracking every swallow.
I focus very hard on the water.
I can't remember what I suggested he should order, but it seems to appear in record time. And not just bread. A whole situation arrives on a rolling cart that I wasn’t prepared for.
Bread with the crust crackling under the knife, soft cheese creamy and pungent.
But also charcuterie fanned out like a still life, thin slices of prosciutto draped over fat figs, grapes clustered dark and glossy, a little pot of honeycomb sweating gold under the warm light.
Strawberries. A chocolate thing in a ramekin that I can't identify but intend to eat entirely.
I eat like someone who skipped lunch, forgot about breakfast, and is thinking about having breakfast with three rich men. This suite, is bigger than any apartment I’ve ever stayed in, and I know it’s not cheap.
Tomas holds the yogurt-drizzled strawberry to my lips.
I part them slow, tongue lapping the thick drip first, then suck the fruit deep, cheeks hollowing soft around the ripe burst. He gasps ragged above me, licking his lips deliberate and hungry, sea-gray eyes darkening like he's picturing my mouth pulling on his big fat cock that way.
Matteo traces the grape along my lower lip, cool and slick. I draw it in humming, teeth nipping the crisp snap, tongue swirling to free the pit clean. His breath hitches sharp, lips licked slow and wet, pale blue gaze burning as if my sucking mimics worshipping his long thick shaft.
Santos dips the pastry in honey, feeding it close. I sink teeth into flaky warmth, tongue flicking crumbs lazy from my lips. He licks his lips salt-sharp, groaning low "cazzo," knot visibly throbbing like my bite strokes his curved girth.