Sex with John had always been an unremarkable affair. Short and sweet. Sometimes short and dismissive. Mostly I’d begged off the act and laid my head in his lap and watched him jack off, silently urging him to finish so I could study or sleep. I had never once come from him, only from myself, often after he’d fallen asleep with his mouth half open in a snore.
After John, I’d spent the following five years with the hope that Dario Capece would be my next lover. That possibility had crashed on our second date when he’d seemed to suddenly lose interest—and burned when Gwen Hawk had shown up. I’d heard the whispers of our visitors—a rich casino owner from Vegas and his beautiful daughter. I’d watched Dario walk through our office with the pair and had carefully studied the woman. She had been beautiful. Very graceful. Obviously from money. I’d curled my toes against my cheap hose and avoided Dario’s eyes when they’d passed by my desk. That evening, they’d all gone to dinner at Filet House.
The next morning, I’d reviewed their restaurant bill on his expense report. Five lobsters, eaten between the three of them. Three steaks. A bottle of nine-hundred-dollar wine and four desserts. Housekeeping records showed that she never slept in her bed, and I’d had a sneaking suspicion where she ended up. Three days ago, my fears were confirmed in the worst possible way: Dario’s announcement that he would be leaving us and moving to Vegas.
I straightened before the mirror, my anger still simmering and pushed my hair away from my face. I needed to get my act together. Dario was leaving. Any future between us was dead. Would going up to Tripp’s room really solve anything?
I picked up the key card and examined it, thinking over his last words, husky against my neck. “You know my room number. I’ll be up there. Waiting.”
Sleeping with Tripp wouldn’t solve anything. It wouldn’t win Dario back and would cause Tripp to toss away any respect for my accounting skills. The prudent thing to do would be to toss his key card in the trash, get in my car, and get the heck out of here before this storm hit.
But I didn’t want to go, and that was the scary thing. I wanted more of Tripp. I wanted to know if his dick matched his long and lean build. I wanted to feel those lips. I wanted those intense eyes burning down the length of my naked body. I wanted to be—for just one night—someone other than Goody-Two-Shoes Stephanie. I wanted to live, and be desired, and get my brains fucked out by someone who knew how to do it.
I hitched my bag on my shoulder, my decision made, and moved into the hall and toward the service elevator.
* * *
In the elevator, I jabbed the button for Trip’s floor, impatient when the car didn’t move. Reaching out, I hit it again, frowning when it didn’t light up. Oh. I dug for his key card, inserting it into the slot and tried the lower penthouse floor again, letting out a breath of relief when the car began to move. With any luck, I’d make it all the three floors up without running into anyone.
While the high-rollers occupied the top three floors of the tower, the fourth floor held the more executive-style of penthouses. No six-person hot-tubs, but big walk-in closets and full-sized kitchens. Dario and Tripp both held residences on that floor, along with some out-of-town owners and three other execs. In addition to their giant suites, they got 24-7 room service, daily housekeeping, dry-cleaning, and a company car. Who knew what they spent their salaries on.
The ride was slow, the soothing background music doing nothing to calm the avalanche of thoughts that ran through my mind.
Maybe this wasn’t a mistake. My self-confidence, which had been crushed by Dario’s snub, had bloomed in the bar. My body was still humming from my orgasm. The doors were opening to Tripp’s floor and I was about to—
Holy shit. The doors were opening to Tripp’s floor and I wasn’t ready. I hadn’t emotionally prepared for—
“Hello, Stephanie.”
* * *
I had two playing cards in my hand, my bare pussy against a stool in Tripp Reinhart’s kitchen, and a shot of tequila in front of me. Depending on the next card, I was either going to shoot the tequila or he was. Next to the golden bottle of liquor, was a plate of chocolate-covered strawberries we’d already worked through most of.
He flipped over the gold card and I eyed the three. Without waiting for him to reveal his hand, I reached out and downed the shot.
“Easy, Steph…” he murmured, taking the empty glass from me and skimming it down the bar. “You’re going to pass out if we aren’t careful.”