You can go wrong with Sawyer Bennett. She writes for everyone, and this series is another book for those wanting some sinful and exciting scenes.
It’s naughty, it’s steamy, it’s all what you are looking for in this series. Good to read as standalone. Even better to read full series.
“Want another drink?” I ask Micah as he lounges on my couch and takes the final swallow of his scotch. He flew in about an hour ago, and we’re waiting for Jorie to arrive to go out to dinner tonight. My nerves are on edge. I definitely want another drink.
“Nah, man,” Micah says as he pushes up from the couch and moves to take his glass back into the kitchen that opens straight from the living room. “Tonight’s not about getting drunk. It’s about hanging out with my two favorite people in the world.”
I smile at him and nod, my stomach clenched.
“But just so you know,” he says with a laugh. “Jorie’s my first favorite, you’re my second.”
“As it should be,” I reply, and hope that sounds casual enough.
Micah rinses his glass out and sets it on the counter. As he walks back into the living room, he says, “And besides… I figure tomorrow night, you and I are going to hit the town, right?”
“You know it,” I say as I push up from the chair, head straight to the wet bar, and replenish my vodka. There is not enough alcohol in the world to get me through this weekend. I take a healthy slug as soon as I cap the bottle.
“Dying to go to The Wicked Horse,” Micah says with excitement in his voice. “Want to meet Jerico, too. He and I have been emailing about testing out some more of my designs in his club. Plus, you and me, dude… we haven’t had a woman together in a long time. Your stories about the stocks… we’ve got to hit that, man.”
My shoulders tighten and my gut rolls with nausea. How in the fuck I am going to weasel out of this is beyond me, but I’ve got to figure something out. I don’t want another fucking woman other than Jorie.
“Walsh?” Micah says in question, and I turn to look at him. “We good with going there tomorrow night?”
“Damn straight we are,” I say with a smile. “A night of debauchery for the both of us.”
Fuck, fuck, fuck.
Just then, the elevator doors give a slight hiss as they open, and Jorie is standing there. She looks fucking amazing, wearing a dress done in large black-and-white zebra stripes that’s loosely belted around her waist and comes down to her knees. She’s got on a pair of sexy-as-shit taupe heels to go with it and my mouth waters as I take in what they do to her legs. Hair in that sleek, angled bob that hangs halfway in between her jaw and shoulders, and that thick crop of bangs straight across her eyebrows make her green eyes brighter than ever.
I swallow hard and try to appear casual.
Her eyes go immediately to Micah, and she gives a squeal of excitement. He rushes to her, picks her up, and swings her around. The skirt of her dresses rises a bit in the back, and I look away guiltily.
“God, I missed you, squirt,” Micah says with a choked voice. My guilt intensifies over the naked display of love and affection he has for his sister.
Jorie’s voice quavers with equal love. “I missed you, too.”
She hugs him hard and looks over his shoulder at me. Her eyes are wary and nervous.
When Micah releases her, I step up and casually say, “Got a hug for me?”
It’s a shameless move to touch her, but not something that would raise Micah’s eyebrows. I’ve hugged Jorie a million times over our lives together growing up.
“It’s good to see you again,” she says to me as she walks into a very brotherly hug. I make the mistake of inhaling her scent, and I’m hit with a jolt of lust for her.
After we quickly release each other, she steps back and surveys my apartment as if it’s her first time. She told Micah we met for breakfast one day, but he sure as shit doesn’t know I’ve fucked her on almost every piece of furniture in this apartment. He’ll never know she went to her knees right where we’re standing in front of the elevator and swallowed every drop of cum I gave her.
Fuck, fuck, fuck.
I have an overwhelming urge to fake a stomachache, a migraine, a goddamn stroke for all I care at this moment, and beg off from this entire weekend.
Instead, I put a smile on my face and tell them, “Come on. We’ve got prime seats in Moulineaux tonight. I’ve not eaten there yet, but heard it’s amazing.”
Jorie smiles back at me before turning to hook her arm through Micah’s. She leans over and puts her head on his arm as she’s too short to reach his shoulder. They both stroll into the elevator.
This night can’t get over with fast enough for me.
Squaring my shoulders, I march into The Royale and head straight for the concierge desk. I haven’t been in this casino before. Hell, I haven’t been in hardly any of them. Sure, I’d only grown up about forty-five minutes away, but gambling and all-you-can-eat buffets held no interest to me.
From Micah bragging about his best friend over the years, I knew Walsh orchestrated the purchase of the land, then pulled together financing with two other partners to build this casino. It’s one of the most popular on the strip, boasting five-star dining, old-world elegance, and superior customer service. Again, all this from Micah, but honestly… I’m so proud of Walsh, too. We may have lost touch over the years, but I’ll never forget all the ways in which he acted as a big brother to me.
Okay… that’s gross. Thinking of Walsh like a brother.
I scrub my mind clean of that thought and demand myself never to do that again.
Rather, I’ll never forget all the ways in which Walsh provided me friendship and support in my formative years.
Yes… much better.
“Can I help you?” a man behind the concierge desk asks with a genuine and friendly smile. Not snooty as I would expect in a fancy hotel, and I guess that goes to the superior customer service The Royale strives for.
“Yes… hi,” I say as I nervously tuck my hair behind my ears on both sides. “I need to see Mr. Brooks. How do I go about getting access to his apartment?”
Micah told me some time ago that Walsh lives here.
The concierge never loses his friendly smile, but a single eyebrow arches high at my temerity.
“Oh, gosh,” I stammer. “That came out stalkerish. Mr. Brooks… I mean, Walsh… and I are longtime friends. He used to babysit me.”
“Your name?” the man asks as he pulls up something on his computer.
After a moment of scanning, he looks up at me. “Your name isn’t on the approved list.”
“Well, he’s not exactly expecting me.”
“I’m sorry, Miss Pearce,” he says with true regret in his voice. “But our policy is strict. No one gets up to the private penthouse without their name on the list.”
I lean on the desk with one elbow and lower my voice. “Just out of curiosity… are there any women on that list?”
The eyebrow shoots up again.
“No, wait,” I say hastily as I hold my palms toward him in a silent plea to not process my last request either mentally or on the computer. “That’s totally stalkerish, and I didn’t mean that.”
“Miss Pearce,” the concierge says, now with a hint of annoyance. “Perhaps you’d like to leave a message? I can get it up to Mr. Brooks today and he can call you.”
“No, I need to see him now,” I tell him firmly. “And I swear it’s not to cook a rabbit in a pot on his stove. Can you please just call up to his apartment?”
“That’s not our policy—”
“Look,” I snap as I lean across the desk slightly. “I’m a lifelong friend of Walsh’s. My brother is his best friend. We lost touch for a few years, but we ran into each other last night. I really need to talk to him about something that happened last night, and I’m not leaving this hotel until you call up to his apartment.”
The eyebrow doesn’t arch but it does draw inward to meet its match on the other side as he considers what I just said.
“I swear to you,” and here I pause to look at his name tag, “Bentley. Please just call him. He won’t be mad.”
With a sigh, he relents and picks up the phone receiver, punching in a five-digit number. After a pause, he says, “Mr. Brooks… I’m very sorry to disturb you, sir, but there’s a Miss Jorie Pearce here to see you. She says she’s a longtime friend.”
I watch as Bentley listens, but I can’t gauge what’s being said as his face remains blank. Finally, he says, “Very good, sir.”
I take this to mean I’ll be getting an escort to the penthouse suite, but Bentley replaces the receiver and says, “I’m sorry, Miss Pearce. But Mr. Walsh told me to tell you he’s busy and can’t receive you right now.”
My eyes narrow at Bentley. “I don’t believe you. Call back and let me talk to him.”
“I assure you, I just talked to him and that’s what he said.”
“Call him back,” I order as I point to the phone.
“I can’t,” he says almost with a wail. “If I do, he’ll fire me.”
Okay, that hits home. I don’t want to get anyone in trouble, so I say, “Fine. Give me just a moment.”
I take a few steps away from the concierge desk and pull my iPhone out. I shoot off a quick text to Micah. What’s Walsh’s phone number?
I wait a few moments, but I know Micah is awake in San Francisco at this hour. His phone is always on, and he never ignores a text from me.
He responds with the number before I can even start to tap my foot with impatience, adding on, Why?
I hate the lie, but I write back, Came to Vegas for the day. Thought I’d see if he could meet up for lunch. Haven’t seen him in years.
Cool, he writes back. Tell him I said, “what’s up, douche?”
I roll my eyes as I text back, Real mature. Love ya. Later.
After I save the number to my contacts, I open a new text to Walsh. Let me up to see you or I’m going straight back to The Wicked Horse to satisfy some further curiosities I have.
I hit send and then walk back to the concierge desk. I merely lean one elbow on it and watch Bentley with a silent smile. The phone rings about ten seconds after that.
Bentley’s eyes fly to mine as he listens, and then says, “Yes, sir. Right away.”
When he replaces the receiver, he says, “I’m to show you to the penthouse elevator.”
“Thank you, Bentley,” I say brightly.
About The Author
Since the release of her debut contemporary romance novel, Off Sides, in January 2013, Sawyer Bennett has released more than 30 books and has been featured on both the USA Today and New York Times bestseller lists on multiple occasions.
A reformed trial lawyer from North Carolina, Sawyer uses real life experience to create relatable, sexy stories that appeal to a wide array of readers. From new adult to erotic contemporary romance, Sawyer writes something for just about everyone.
Sawyer likes her Bloody Mary’s strong, her martinis dirty, and her heroes a combination of the two. When not bringing fictional romance to life, Sawyer is a chauffeur, stylist, chef, maid, and personal assistant to a very active toddler, as well as full-time servant to two adorably naughty dogs. She believes in the good of others, and that a bad day can be cured with a great work-out, cake, or a combination of the two.