If Las Vegas isn’t the cure, I don’t know what is. I need a distraction, something—or someone—to take my mind off this constant feeling of unrest.
I’m bored out of my fucking mind.
And that’s a problem.
What kind of prick travels the world doing what they love, what they dreamed of their whole life, and still isn’t happy?
Me. I’m that kind of prick.
I rise, stretching my legs. I never have been able to sit still for very long. Virgin Atlantic offers the perfect solution for restless people like me: you just can’t beat a bar on an airplane. It gets you out of your seat and fills your belly with booze. What could be better?
Pussy. A good fuck is better than a belly full of booze. But I’m in the mood for both.
A woman sits at the bar, her nose in a book and her jet black hair pulled tightly into a bun. Her red pinstriped suit jacket dips in at the waist, then spans out above a plump ass in a matching skirt. I let my gaze dip lower to her feet below the barstool. Black high heels cap off perfectly pale legs, crossed neatly at the ankles. A black pinstripe stretches up the back of each leg, disappearing into her skirt.
I’m going to reinstate my mile high club membership on this flight.
“Can I help you?” the in-flight bartender asks, drawing my attention away from the woman at the bar.
I raise my bottle of Dom in the air and wink as I bring the bottle to my lips. He scowls his disapproval, then resumes his work behind the bar. I take a long drink, step up beside the woman and set the bubbly on the bar, then slide it toward her. Sharing is caring.
She glances up from her book long enough to acknowledge the champagne bottle, giving me an unobstructed view of her blood red pout. Lips so luscious they could lure a celibate monk to the dark side. She frowns at my bottle of Dom, but she somehow manages to make the motion look sexy. “No, thank you. I’m good with my glass.” She taps the base of the flute with her fingernails as if to show me that champagne belongs in a glass.
Her bright red fingernails match her lips, but unlike her soft, full lips, her nails are long and slightly pointed like claws. She’s the perfect contradiction, all sharp edges and plump clouds. I’d like to fuck her until those nails tear into the skin of my back. I lick my lips and bring the bottle to my mouth once more. “Where are you headed?”
“Las Vegas.” She says this with such boredom, like I must be a total moron since this plane is set to land in Vegas in an hour. Hey, she could have a connecting flight at McCarran. How the hell am I supposed to know?
“Cool.” I crane my neck to see if there’s anyone more suitable to talk to in economy. The curtain is closed, but I could always just walk back there. It’s a flight to Vegas, for fuck’s sake. There’s got to be at least one more hot chick on this plane. Maybe I can get Red to drag his ass back to coach and recruit some clientele—
The woman clears her throat.
I look back at her and her blue-gray gaze meets mine, one eyebrow raised.
I flash her a wide grin. “I’m Atlas Reynolds.” Extending my hand, I wait for her eyes to widen at the mention of my name. Everyone knows who Banging Cade is.
She glances down at my hand, then back up at me. “Your nails are black. Are you a mechanic?”
I look down at my hand still hanging between us, then bring it up to inspect my nails. Black polish is stuck around the edges of my fingernails. I was still half-drunk when I scratched it off this morning. I laugh and settle my hand around the bottle. “No, I am not a mechanic.”
She reaches for my free hand and startles me when she wraps her fingers around my palm, turning my fingertips toward her to look them over. “Not a mechanic, so that’s not grease.” She inspects my hand further, and her brow furrows as she looks up at me through thick black lashes. “Nail polish?”
I nod, smirking.
“Black nail polish… callused fingertips…” she whispers the words as she trails her soft, completely un-callused fingers over mine. Her touch sends a spark straight up my arm and right down into my dick. “Should ‘Atlas Reynolds’ ring a bell?”
She says my name like it’s an invitation.
I haven’t been laid since the night of our gig in Boston, and that was like, six whole days ago. I swallow hard. She catches the movement and a slight smile cracks that stony façade. She’s into me. That uptight suit and bun-thing had me fooled, but this chick is down to fuck, and my first night in Vegas is going to be just the distraction I need.
I lick my lips and clear my throat. She’s running her fingers over my palm and down my arm, and this might be the most torturous thing I’ve ever experienced. Each gentle graze of her fingertips might as well connect directly with my cock.
“Can I get you another glass of champagne, Miss?” one of the stewards asks as he steps behind the bar. When she doesn’t respond, he looks at me, then at our hands, then at the side of this woman’s head. His lips twitch, but he doesn’t say another word. He starts to step out from behind the bar—
“A blanket,” she says, her eyes locked on mine. “It’s a bit chilly in here, don’t you think?” She releases my hand and reaches for the bottle of champagne on the bar. “And another bottle of Dom.” She raises her brows as she brings the bottle to her lips, and I nod.
“On me,” I say, not dropping her gaze.
She tilts her head. “I can afford a bottle of Dom Perignon, Atlas.” Amusement sweetens her tone.
It’s really not about the champagne at this point, and neither of us could care less who pays for it. She returns the champagne bottle to the bar, then closes her book and swivels the barstool toward me. Her knees are slightly parted, an invitation for me to step between them. I pull my gaze away from that opening between her legs, only to get stuck on her chest. Her red suit jacket is open, exposing a white dress shirt unbuttoned low enough to expose the curved black lace cupping each tit.
When I think I can speak without sounding like I’ve never seen a set of perfect, store-bought tits before, I clear my throat and go for it. “I never did get your name.” Dropping my hand to her knee, I tuck my thumb just beneath her skirt.
“We seem to have run out of Dom Perignon. Can I get you something else? A bottle of Veuve Clicquot, perhaps?”
The woman’s eyes close on a long blink. “We seem to have taken a major leap in quality.” She shakes her head. “But we’ll take it. If we must.” She dismisses him with a quick flick of her wrist. Looking back at me, she grins, her eyes playful again. “What brings you to Vegas, Atlas?”
I narrow my eyes. Why won’t she tell me her name? Is she famous? Searching her eyes, I wait for a hint of familiarity, but nothing comes to me. She’s older than me, but I’m not sure how much. Her eyes have the faintest smile lines in the corners, but not even a hint of a line between her eyebrows. She’s taken care of herself. Botox? I focus on her lips, but I can’t tell if they’re naturally full or if they’ve been injected. I really don’t care. She’s one of those women who don’t age. Or refuse to. Either way, I win.
She pulls her bottom lip into her teeth and I meet her gaze. The challenging look in her eyes tells me I should already know who she is.
I want to.
I slide my hand a little further up her skirt, and the calluses on my fingers catch on the thin fabric of her tights. I grip her thigh, then lean forward to whisper in her ear. “I’m here for a distraction, Miss…?”
She runs her tongue over her lower lip, slowly, torturously. Definitely DTF. Gradually, she brings her gaze up to meet mine, and I wait, hopeful, for a name.
“I’m in the market for the very same thing, Atlas.” Her voice drips with honey, smooth and thick, and it’s all I can do not to claim her mouth with mine and taste that honey for myself.
I tighten my grip on her thigh, then watch the motion of her throat when she swallows.
“I’m heading to Vegas to see my divorce attorney.” She pauses to gauge my reaction, but I give her nothing. “If my husband can screw anything and everything that walks, why can’t I have a little fun?” She brings the bottle to her lips once more, then takes a long pull of champagne. “Plus, I’ve never joined the mile high club.” With these words, she opens her legs further.
I drop my gaze and fight back a moan of pleasure when the skirt slides up to expose the lace tops of her nylons. She’s wearing one of those things that straps to the pantyhose to hold them up. Fuck me. With my hand so close to the bare skin of her thigh, I can barely think straight. Just a couple inches further and I’m in. But would she let me finger her right here in the middle of the first class bar?
If she were a Banger, the answer would be yes. I could fuck her and five of her friends, right here, right now, with little to no hesitation.
But she’s not a Banging Cade groupie. I don’t think she has even the slightest clue who I am.
And that makes me want her even more.
I try to compose myself and drag my focus back to her face. “Sorry about your divorce,” I say, and it sounds like the dumbest thing I’ve ever said. I could have invited her to join the club with me, but I keep us on topic. A topic she’d probably like to get off of.
I’d like to get her off.
“We got married young.” She shrugs. “Once my career took off, I guess he just couldn’t handle not being the bread winner.” She narrows her eyes. “You know, he’s suing me for alimony. Can you believe that?” She laughs, but it’s a bitter sound. “The bastard is a goddamn surgeon who’s fucked every RN west of Texas, and he wants alimony from me.”
If he’s a surgeon and he’s asking her for money, this chick makes bank. Hello, Curiosity, I’m Atlas. “What do you do?”
She pins me with that grayish-blue gaze. “No more questions, Atlas.” She places her hand firmly on my dick and leans forward, bringing her lips to my ear. “I’d like to keep this as impersonal as possible.” She pulls her head back just enough to meet my gaze. “Deal?”
I swallow hard. Maybe I’ve had it wrong all this time. Young chicks aren’t where it’s at. Older women with confidence and experience and a desperate need to get back at their cheating ex-husbands might be my new bag. “Deal.” The word is choked off when she squeezes my cock.
The bartender shows up at the perfectly wrong time and clears his throat.
My new friend removes her hand from my crotch, then laces her fingers together in her lap, perfectly poised. I’d almost think I imagined the way she just groped me, but the spark in her gaze is unmistakable.
Like the pressure in my pants.
He sets the second bottle in an ice bucket, then places two flutes beside it, the blanket folded up neatly on the bar. “Can I get you anything else?”
She shakes her head slowly, holding my gaze. When the bartender leaves, she smiles. “Join me at my seat? Or should we stay here?”
I shake my head. It really doesn’t matter at this point; I’d fuck her right here on the bar. The floor. Against the wall. On the wing of the motherfucking plane, if she’d let me.
Destiny’s downward dog is pretty on point, but I wish she was just doing yoga, not regretting the Taco Bell she had on the way to work tonight.
I hold my breath as I pass her on my way to my locker. “Girl, you need to stop eating that shit.”
She twists her head sideways to look up at me through her armpit. “I stay skinny because of that shit.” She grins. “Instant laxative.”
I frown. “And look at what it does to you.”
She grimaces. “Par for the course. I can handle a little gas.”
“I can’t.” Scar comes through the black curtain from the main stage and stops a few feet away from Destiny. “Again, Des?” She shakes her head and meets my gaze. “We really shouldn’t have to suffer through this.”
Destiny laughs, then slowly curls and exits the pose. “It doesn’t even smell.”
Scar scoffs. “We shouldn’t even have to breathe it.”
I snort. “Who knew yoga would be so helpful for flatulence.”
Destiny grins as she stands, then steps into her stilettos. “It’s not bad for the body either.” She gives me a little shake, then heads toward the curtains.
“Try not to fart on the customers.”
Destiny disappears onto the stage and Scar laughs. “Classy.”
I turn to her and widen my eyes. “If only they knew what really goes on in the dressing room of a strip club, right?”
“We’d be broke.”
“Definitely out of work.” I laugh. “What’s it like out there?”
“It’s not great for a Wednesday.” She holds up her wad of singles. “But I think I may take a few days off, maybe relax until that tech convention rolls through next week.”
“Probably a good idea.” For her, not me. I don’t take time off. Which is why I’m retiring at the end of the week. I’ve worked my ass off on that stage for five long years, and aside from Mondays when we’re closed, or the bi-monthly trips to clubs around the country where I spotlight, I’m at Top Tier every damn night.
I love these girls, but very few of them have the desire—drive?—to get out of here anytime soon. My best friend here loves the lifestyle. The gifts, the adoration, the money—
“There are a couple of hotties sitting at the stage.”
—she wouldn’t leave the spotlight, even if she’d saved a mill in the bank. Hell, knowing her, she might have already done that.
“They want to go out tonight.”
The limelight is great and all, but it’s not really for me. I have dreams that don’t involve nudity, if you can believe it—
Scar’s use of my first and middle name brings me back to the present. I roll my eyes. “Scarlet Rae,” I say, giving it right back to her. “You know the rules.”
She tsks her tongue. “Friday’s your last day.”
“Then I’ll have fun on Saturday.”
“Lies. You’ll use packing as your excuse on Saturday.”
She knows me way too well.
“I think you can make an exception to the rule just this one time, no?”
“No.” I pull my red sequin dress from my locker and hold it up, inspecting the sequins for any bare spots. My Jessica Rabbit routine is up next.
“Kayyyyy,” Scar whines. “You never have any fun.”
“I have fun.”
Scar snorts, so I turn around. She’s naked.
Because of course she is. My best friend would live at a nudist colony if there was one close enough to the club. She strides toward me, wavy blonde hair cascading down over her breasts. She looks up at me through her falsies, like this will have the same effect on me that it does on the dudes who are always taking her out. She places her hands on my upper arms. “Come on, Kay, it’s just one night. You, me, two incredible looking men with deep”—her eyes widen dramatically—“pockets. Let loose onetime. For me.”
I narrow my eyes, then sigh. “Let me guess. Since there are two of them, they’ll only hang out if you bring a friend.”
Her lips pull into a wide smile and she releases my arms as her hands start to go a mile a minute, trying to keep up with her words. “Yes, oh my gosh, the one, his name’s Brandon, and oh, Kayla, he’s so gorgeous. He wears a suit like no one I’ve ever seen before, all snug and”—she shivers—“and he’s tall, with dark hair and these pale blue eyes. He’s only in town for a few days, but his friend—he would be your date—is only in town tonight.” She flips her hair and pulls in a breath of air. “And they really want to have a good time, but Brandon doesn’t want to ditch his buddy, so I said I’d bring you.”
“Me?” Shaking my head, I hold her gaze. “You already told them it was me?”
“Well, yeah, I mean…” She lowers her gaze to the floor. Smart girl. “You’re Kincaid Summers, babe, of course they’d want you to come.”
I plop down on the bench. It’s cool on my ass cheeks, reminding me that I’m in nothing but a thong. I jump up quickly then step into my dress before sitting back down.
Scar watches me, waiting for me to give in. Which I will. Because I always do.
I sigh loudly, overdoing it so she knows just how annoyed I am.
She squeals before I’ve even voiced my acquiescence. “Thank you! Thank you!” She rushes toward me and throws her arms around my neck, pressing her bare chest against deep red sequins. “Ow, shit.” She pulls back, rubbing her nipples. “Babe, I’m not into pain play.”
I shake my head. “You’re ridiculous.”
“You love me.” She teases her nipples a bit before releasing them and shaking her breasts at me.
Ignoring boobs I’ve seen more than I’ve seen my own, I pull my red wig on and tuck any loose strands of brown hair up into it, then secure it with wig pins. I do love her. And, truth be told, I’d do anything for Scarlet. She’s the sister I never had. Family. “Is my guy at least cute?” If I’m going to have to shoot the shit with him all night, I’d at least like to know that he’s easy on the eyes.
“Oh yeah, totally your type.”
Oh, so, unavailable and emotionally damaged. Gotcha.
Add a wedding ring and we have the trifecta.
Des comes back through the black curtain and steps down the stairs into the dressing room, winking as she passes me. “Big tippers front and center. Go get ‘em, girl.” She slaps my ass gently.
I look at Scar. “Your guys?”
She grins, nodding vigorously.
With a quick shake of my head, I laugh. “I’m going to regret saying yes to you, aren’t I?”
“Let’s hope so!” She laughs, then pulls an outfit from her locker so she can get ready to make the lap dance rounds. “The best regrets start with something really, really naughty.”
Rolling my eyes, I take a few deep breaths and I step up to the curtain as our DJ starts hyping the crowd. I crack my knuckles, then pull each foot up to my ass in turn, to stretch my quads. Never can be too nimble. When he announces me, the crowd goes wild, and I close my eyes, absorbing the applause. It’s not like I’m not going to miss this.
After a few long seconds, the first chords of Why Don’t You Do Right start up, the applause dies down, and I make my way out onto the stage. My stage.
Following her to her seat in first class is torture. She walks like she knows her ass calls to me, like each sway of her hips is intentional, each step saying, “Fuck me, Atlas.”
She stops at an empty seat and turns toward me, so I lift my eyes from her hips and meet her gaze. A slow smile spreads across her face as she trails her fingertips back and forth over her chest, following the delicate curved tops of her breasts. She extends her hand toward her seat. I look down at it, then at the one just beyond, and wonder how I hadn’t noticed her before finding her in the bar, when our seat assignments were right fucking next to one another. All I had to do was be a bit less self-absorbed and look past the divider, and I could have been hooking up hours ago.
I glance across the way and meet Red’s questioning gaze, then smile and nod toward the hot piece of ass I just found. My security guard shakes his head as he slides his eye mask over his eyes. He hates flying, and landing is his least favorite part, so he always tries to fall asleep at the one hour ‘til arrival mark.
He makes a decent salary following me around and keeping my ass out of trouble, but I owe him a little something extra for ditching the tour bus with me and hopping on a plane.
Stepping into the small area, I take the seat near the window, then watch as she sits down just as gracefully as she walks. Pure torture. I want that perfectly round ass bobbing up and down on my dick, not sitting in a goddamn airplane seat beside me.
She hands me the champagne flutes and pours a little into each glass, then sets the bottle back into the bucket when the steward secures it into the locked position just inside our little cubbyhole. He doesn’t leave, so I look up at him, letting my irritation with his presence show in my expression.
He gives me a fake smile, then leans forward. “Sir, the captain has put on the fasten seatbelt sign overhead. Please return to your seat.” He looks blatantly at my assigned seat.
My new friend doesn’t even acknowledge his existence, just sits turned toward me in her seat, champagne glass in hand and eyes boring a hole through my head.
The steward holds my gaze for a long time, then huffs.
“Bro, everyone is asleep. Don’t make a scene.” When it’s clear he won’t budge, I pull my wallet out and slip him a hundee. “We good?” The guy glares at me, but eventually nods. When he turns to walk away, I flip him off and finish the glass of champagne in one gulp. Does he know who the fuck I am? I turn to her and she’s smirking. “What?”
“You’re used to getting what you want.”
I nod. You bet your ass I get what I want.
She leans forward and undoes the top button of my black shirt, trailing her fingernail down my chest to the next button. She undoes it while keeping her eyes locked with mine and suddenly it’s not a question of whether or not older women are where it’s at. This new revelation is a goddamn fact. She knows what she’s doing. Every move is calculated. She watches me with eyes that dare me to argue, dare me to try to stop her. Her lips are slightly parted, a hint of wetness that dares me to taste them. Her breasts rise and fall with each breath, the slow breathing of a woman who knows what she wants, not someone who is nervous and looking to me for guidance.
I hit the jackpot with this one.
She reaches across me and presses the button to recline my seat, then leans forward and pulls my shirt apart to expose my chest. She trails a fingernail over the tattoo on my left bicep. “A compass.”
“Always trying to find my way, I guess.”
She pauses, her brows furrowing just slightly as she brings her gaze up to mine. “What’s the name of your band, Atlas?”
I tilt my head at the change in subject. I should ignore the question, like she’s ignored all of mine, but with her nails on my chest and that hungry look in her eyes, I’d tell her my deepest darkest secrets. “Banging Cade.”
Plus, I never pass up an opportunity to see that look on their faces.
Her lips fall open on a soft gasp, and she quickly covers it up by licking her lips. Yep. That look. “Hmm,” she whispers, “turns out I have heard of you.”
“You’ve hear of me… or the band?”
“The band.” She winks, then leans forward and places a kiss on my collar bone. “But they’re not really my style.”
I chuckle, then my breath catches as she grazes my nipple with her teeth. “Am I your style?” I whisper. Shaking my head, I squeeze my eyes shut. What a fucking tool. You’d think I’d be used to pretty girls by now, but when I’m this close to getting my dick sucked, I revert into a fucking idiot every single time.
Too bad Red only keeps me physically out of harm’s way. If he could monitor the shit that comes out of my mouth, we’d be golden.
She crawls in between my legs, and I reach up and turn off the light above the seat, then grab the blanket. Looking down at her, I hesitate. Covering my lap with the blanket could keep us from getting in deep shit with TSA, but then I won’t be able to see her face bobbing up and down on my dick.
She looks at me, then at the blanket in my hands, and shakes her head, a slow smirk pulling at her lips. She slowly unhooks my belt, then pushes up on her knees to kiss my stomach, following the trail of dark hair down into my pants as she unzips them. She runs her fingers through the patch of hair right above my dick, then smiles as a quiver shakes my body. She’s taking her sweet time, and I love every second of this torture, but we’re going to land soon and I can’t leave this plane with full balls. I reach for my cock, but she pushes my hand away and shakes her head, giving off this naughty teacher vibe that makes me nearly come apart.
I close my eyes and grit my teeth, then suck in a hiss of air when her tongue grazes the tip of my dick. My eyes fly open in time to watch her twirl her tongue around the head, then slowly slide her lips down around my shaft.
The captain announces our descent into Las Vegas as a muscle in my thigh starts to twitch. She cradles the base of my cock and cups my balls with one hand, while the other hand is stretched up to grip my chest, her nails digging deep into my flesh as she sucks me off.
She claims me like my dick already belongs to her.
As we fly over the strip, the spotlight from the Luxor rises up into the darkening sky and my cock rises to life in her exquisite mouth.
Did you enjoy that sneak peek? Continue the series with the rest of ATLAS by clicking on the button below!