All In: A Vegas Reverse Harem Romance Read online

  Fire. Shit. That didn’t sound like just an idle threat, and it sent ice running up my spine. I couldn’t lose this job.

  I made my face as remorseful as possible and prayed he took it as genuine. “You’re right. We did discuss this once already, and you were nice enough to give me a warning. It’s my fault and I have no excuse. I promise it won’t happen again.”

  The three seconds he considered me felt like an hour. Then he caught sight of something behind me and quickly shouldered by. I turned to watch him leave and quickly realized what it was.

  Coming down the enormous grand staircase was an entourage of men in grey and black suits. They walked in a protective formation around a man in a flawless ivory suit who looked around the casino like he owned the place.

  Because he did.

  Vladimir Yegorovich, the owner of the Volga Hotel and Casino, was completely bald and held himself with an air of power. Even from this far away I could tell by the way he moved in slow, confident strides, head gazing this way and that. As Zeke approached two of the bodyguards seamlessly changed their stride to block his path with their bodies, causing Zeke to stop dead in his tracks with only the look on their face.

  Yegorovich approached and gave Zeke a smile, slapping him amicably on the arm. The two exchanged some words and then Zeke grinned and went running off, presumably to complete one task or another for the Russian boss.

  “You gunna get my cranberry juice or what?”

  I flinched and smiled at the man. “Of course,” I said, trying to regain my composure.

  “Don’t feel bad, honey,” one of the drunk blackjack players said. “If you get fired I’ve got a job I can hire you for.”

  His buddies sitting next to him snickered and waited to see how I would react to that. Fortunately the blackjack dealer cut in with a loud and authoritative voice.

  “Dealer has 15, hits, and… oof. Dealer has 21. Tough luck, buddy.”

  The drunk guy cursed as the dealer took away his chips. The dealer gave me a sympathetic look. He had the most piercing blue eyes, eyes I wished I could stare into longer.

  I gave him a tight smile and moved on.

  *

  Being a waitress sucked.

  The tips could be good, especially if you were lucky enough to work the table games on a busy night. Slot machine players were notoriously stingy and never tipped, but card players always tipped in cash or house chips. On a good evening shift on Friday or Saturday I could pull $500 in tips, which was especially important since we got paid less than minimum wage.

  But we also had to deal with assholes. It sucked, but it was part of the abuse women took every day, especially as a scantily-clad waitress in a casino.

  Sometimes, when I was having a bad night, I imagined the roles reversed. Rich women sipping expensive liquor and pinching the asses of nearly-nude beefcakes who served martinis. But then I’d get my own ass pinched and the fantasy would vanish like cigarette smoke.

  Just another reason to work hard as a singer.

  Tonight was surprisingly busy for a Wednesday. There were a lot of Russian men playing at the high-stakes blackjack tables, all of them wearing nice suits and ordering glasses of Stolichnaya vodka like it was water. It seemed weird for Russian visitors to come to a Russian-themed Casino, but they tipped well and didn’t leer or say anything rude so I didn’t mind at all.

  I let my eyes linger on a table while passing out drinks. One Russian guy with ridiculous bleached hair had a big stack of silver chips bet on this hand, at least $35,000. He had 17 (a Queen and a seven) while the dealer was showing an 8. The Russian tapped the table with a finger to signal hit, which made me and several other players wince. You weren’t supposed to hit on 17, even when the dealer was showing an 8. Sure enough, the next card he was given was a 6. Bust.

  If the Russian was bothered by losing a waitress’s salary on a single hand, he hid it well. He shrugged and thanked me as I handed him his drink, then pushed another stack of chips forward for the next hand.

  My shift went quickly since it was a busy night, for which I was grateful. I only had my ass pinched twice, “accidentally,” brushed against three times, and I was only propositioned by not-as-clever-as-they-think patrons two more times, so all in all it was better than most nights. Plus I was able to catch most of the country singer’s performance which provided a delightful distraction.

  I clocked out without seeing Zeke again for which I was thankful.

  It was exhausting being on your feet for so long. I didn’t want to change into my other outfit just yet—my Volga uniform was more comfortable than the cocktail dress and heels—so I skipped the locker room and went straight to the kitchen. The smell of roasting meat, baked bread, and platters of shrimp made my mouth water and my stomach growl like a rabid dog. I weaved through the working cooks until I reached the pantry in the back.

  The Volga had only been open a month but the service staff already had a special routine. It started after Candice got chewed out by Zeke two weeks ago but had become a nightly thing. One person would bring a bottle of hard liquor to the pantry to share among the others. People would chip in their own tips for a share of the bottle, and we’d pass it around and bitch about the night we’d just had.

  It was fun because it was a different group every night. Tonight six people were already there when I arrived: three card dealers, two waitresses, and a bartender who looked like he was already three sheets to the wind.

  My eye was on the bottle tonight. I pulled out a red $5 chip that I’d been tipped, tossed it into the costume Soviet hat on the floor with the other buy-in, and said, “Deal me in.”

  “With pleasure,” one of the other waitresses said, handing me the bottle. I drank deep of the brown liquid, savoring the burning sensation as it went down my throat and warmed my belly. It was good shit, higher quality than someone normally brought.

  “Your money’s no good here,” said the guy sitting on a crate of potatoes across from me. He pulled my chip out of the hat and tossed it to me. “You get to drink for free after the ass-chewing you took.”

  I winced. I realized it was the blond blackjack dealer with the piercing blue eyes, the one who’d seen me get chewed out by Zeke. His name tag said Bryce.

  “I wish nobody had seen that,” I said.

  “Nobody should have seen that,” he said. “Dude was being a real dick. You don’t bring that drama onto the casino floor where customers can see it. They’re trying to have a good time.”

  I tossed my chip back into the hat. “Thanks, but I pay my own way. And I intend to drink my fair share of that bottle tonight.”

  He put his hands up. No wedding ring. “Fair enough.”

  The seven of us shot the shit while passing the bottle around for half an hour. It was nice spending some time with fellow grunts being ground into powder by the cash-hungry machine of the casino. We all had a mutual struggle in our shitty roles. One card dealer mentioned that she had a customer tell her she had pretty hands, then tried to grab one of her hands when she took his chips. They had to get the pit boss involved, who ended up calling security to haul him out. Another waitress mentioned how one middle-aged couple invited her back to their room because they’d always wanted to have a threesome.

  “Well?” I asked. “How much did they offer?”

  “I never found out—I walked away!” the girl said.

  “Should have at least gotten a number,” Bryce said, nodding in agreement with me. “Everyone has a price.”

  “Not me!” the girl said.

  Bryce arched an eyebrow. “Oh? What about a million dollars, Indecent Proposal style?”

  “I would do some disgusting stuff for a million bucks,” I said.

  “I’ll drink to that,” Bryce said, taking another sip of the bottle. “For a million dollars I’d sleep with just about anyone, man or woman.”

  “Shit,” another guy said, “my number would probably be more like half a mil.”

  We went back and forth abo
ut what our lowest number would be to sleep with someone completely hideous. One of the waitresses, a blonde woman in her 30s, said she would do it for $1,000. “What? Ugly people need fucking too!” she said to a chorus of laughter.

  It was all playful banter. Prostitution was one of those things that happened at every casino in Las Vegas, but it was always discreet. Women sitting by themselves at the bar in a red dress, waiting for someone to come up and buy them a drink. A casino waitress even joking about it with a customer was liable to get caught on the security cameras and fired on the spot.

  People came and went, but eventually the number of us dwindled. Soon it was just me and Bryce in the pantry. I picked up the bottle and poured the last few drops into my open mouth.

  “Empty bottle, sad,” I said with a pout.

  “All good things,” Bryce said. He leaned back on his elbows and fixed me with a curious stare. “How about you let me buy you a proper drink. In a different casino, of course. Or even an honest-to-God bar, if we’re feeling fancy.”

  “I don’t accept drinks from men,” I said.

  “Why not?”

  “Because that makes it a date,” I said. “And I don’t date.”

  He stared at me, trying to puzzle out if I was serious. “You don’t date.”

  “Nope.”

  I expected him to bombard me with more questions, but he didn’t push it. “Then how about we go somewhere and buy our own drinks. Maybe sit adjacent to one another. Share friendly conversation.”

  “That sounds suspiciously like a date,” I pointed out.

  “Then what was this?” he said, using the empty bottle to gesture around the pantry.

  “This was just a bunch of Volga employees unwinding after work.”

  He stabbed the air with the bottle. “That sounds great! Two Volga employees unwinding after work. Let’s go do that. At a place with food.”

  “Two people getting food and drinks together,” I mused. “Yep, sounds suspiciously like a date.”

  His voice softened. “It doesn’t need to be anything else. It can just be drinks.” He put his hand over his heart. “Swear to God.”

  Christ, he was handsome. And too charming by half. I could handle my liquor more than most girls but I was the right kind of tipsy to want to climb on top of him and see what his lips tasted like right here in the pantry.

  And he just kept smiling at me. A completely disarming smile without being too pushy.

  “Alright, let’s go get something to eat,” I said. “But nothing more.”

  “Nothing more,” he agreed.

  3

  Sage

  We were making out by the time we reached his apartment door.

  I can’t explain what happened. We got in his car in the employee lot, started discussing where to go, and then suddenly at a red light we were kissing like long-lost lovers.

  Thankfully his apartment was only a few blocks away, with quick make-out sessions at every red light along the way. Somehow he got the key into his door and we fell inside, our lips staying locked onto each other the entire time. Bryce scraped his hands along the wall for the light switch but missed it, and then I was tangling him up on the way to the couch.

  His leg slipped and he fell with me on top of him, hitting the carpet with a loud grunt. “Are you okay?” I asked, my body on top of his.

  “I’m okay,” he said, face close to mine. “I’m really, really okay.”

  With my body on top of his, so was I. His short-cropped blond hair was smooth and soft, and he had a perfectly trimmed thin beard along his jaw and around his mouth. Even in the semi-darkness of his apartment his eyes were piercing, with wonderful diagonal eyebrows that accentuated his attentive, curious look.

  He grabbed me by the arms and threw me sideways so he could roll on top of me. He maneuvered his way smoothly between my legs, my cocktail dress hiking up as I spread my legs for him, savoring the way his weight felt pressed down on me. He kissed me hard with need, and I melted into the carpet underneath his gorgeous body.

  Is this really happening?

  I pawed at his back to get his shirt off until he got the idea. He pushed up to his knees and pulled his work shirt over his head, revealing a white tank-top undershirt that was practically glued onto his muscular frame. He pulled that off too and I ran my hands over his defined chest, down his pecs and across the sand dunes of his abs.

  “I want to taste you,” he said, pulling back and then lowering his mouth to my belly. My panties slid over my skin and he forced my legs apart with his strength, hiking my ass up for him.

  This is really happening.

  I squirmed on the carpet as he teasingly moved down my navel, nose scratching into my landing strip. His hot breath on my skin was pure ecstasy as his hands caressed my thighs and then he buried himself in me, planting a wet kiss on my wet lower lips.

  “Ohh,” I shuddered with sensitivity and pleasure and excitement.

  I gazed down at the beautiful sight: this blond supermodel of a man spreading my legs wide while his head moved between my legs, eating me out. He took my outer lips in his mouth and sucked on them gently, then did the same with my clitoris. Then his tongue was swirling, up and down and all around, touching every nerve ending I had.

  “Yes,” I moaned. “Yes, yes…”

  His tongue went rigid and he fucked me with it, shoving my lips apart and pressing as deep as he could inside my pussy. Back and forth he moved like that, a steady fucking with his long tongue, and I wanted to press my hips into his face but his grip on my legs wouldn’t let me move.

  I was his to be pleasured however he saw fit.

  I melted into the carpet while my pleasure rose with his steady strokes. Soon he was adding a tongue flick to the end of his thrust, licking deep within my inner walls. All the while his nose rubbed against my clit, the tiniest amount of friction each time he buried his tongue inside my pussy. It drove me insane. The good kind of insane. The kind that wipes away all other thought until the world narrows to this man’s gorgeous face and what it was doing to me.

  Abruptly he switched his focus to my clit, long tongue strokes up and down the surface and then increasing speed until they were rapid little flutters, like a drumroll of pleasure on my special little bean. My breathing became shallow and his grip on my legs tightened as if he was afraid I would run away.

  I came suddenly and without warning; the pleasure grabbed me like a giant fist and threw me into the air, weightless and screaming as everything swirled and glowed and pulsed.

  When I opened my eyes Bryce was looking up at me, grinning with satisfaction.

  “I love how you taste,” he said, giving my thigh a soft kiss. He was laying across my legs, propped up on one elbow, and his rock hard cock was warm against my calf.

  It wasn’t fair that I had all the fun.

  I ran my fingers along his arm. “How do you want me?” I asked in a breathless voice.

  His smile was hungry. “How do you want me?”

  I felt a tingle of naughtiness run up my spine. I was so comfortable with Bryce even though we’d only just met. I could be vulnerable with him. I wanted to do things with him.

  Pulling myself off the carpet, I stretched my back to show off my body for him. He rested back on his elbows to savor my profile, eyes sparkling in the dim light. Then I went to the couch, widened my stance, and bent over as slowly as I could.

  I gave my ass a little shake. “This is how I want you.”

  He stood smoothly, approaching like a cat. I shivered with excitement as I felt his thighs press against mine, his hard manhood sliding in between my legs and along the underside of my belly. He gripped my hips and pushed into me, a phantom thrust which pressed his body against my ass.

  “God, you’re sexy,” he said.

  “Don’t just tell me,” I said. “Show me.”

  He pulled back and spread my ass wide, then used his hips to guide his manhood into my lips. There was no need for teasing things out now: he slid
all the way in, the wonderful circumference of his shaft filling me completely.

  I pushed back against him, eager to feel every single grain of him. Eager for him to feel me. The moan he let out was like pure, concentrated elation.

  “I’ll say it again,” he purred as he fucked me in slow, steady strokes. “You’re sexy.”

  I looked back at him. A beautiful V-shaped torso and arms corded with muscle. “You’re not so bad yourself. I like how you look back there.”

  “I like how you look from back here,” he groaned, fingers digging into my hips.

  He was going slow. Trying to hold himself back, either because he thought that’s how I wanted it or because he didn’t think he would last long if he went faster. Whatever the reason, I bent my knees and pushed back against him, meeting his stroke halfway. Rocking back and forth in a vertical dance of love.

  His grip tightened. “Good lord, Sage. The way you feel…”

  I liked hearing his voice. “Yeah?”

  He leaned back his head and moaned to the ceiling. Yeah, he wasn’t going to last very long.

  “Fuck me,” I whispered, pushing faster. “Fuck me faster.”

  “Sage…”

  “Fuck me!”

  With the training wheels off, he grabbed my waist and thrust as deep as he could. I stopped rocking with him because he was jackhammering me into the couch, the kind of rough, skin-on-skin slapping sex that drove me wild. I dropped to my knees on the couch and he leaned over me, fucking me down into the cushions. I twisted until I could see him, biting his lip while a bead of sweat ran down his temple.

  His eyes widened with surprise and almost pain.

  “Come for me,” I gasped, feeding off his intense pleasure.

  “Oh Sage.”

  “Come for me Bryce.”

  “I’m coming so hard!”

  I reached back and pressed my palm against his hard chest as he came inside me, filling me with his hot seed in long, climactic strokes. Shuddering strokes that made his firm thighs tremble and his entire muscular body tense.