Atlas

The server instructs us to fall in line behind him, Miss November’s hand on his shoulder and my hand on her shoulder, then he leads us single file to a table. I’m not digging this whole dining in the dark thing, and I haven’t even dined yet. I definitely don’t feel titillated, whatever that means.

I’d much rather be doing anything else.

With Kayla.

At least until she moves back home, wherever that is.

I look back over my shoulder, but can’t see her. She better be waiting for me when this thing is over. Hell, even before that. I’ll eat the appetizer and maybe the main course, depending on what it is, then bolt.

Kayla can be my dessert.

I shouldn’t be disappointed about her retiring—it’s not like I’ve ever seen her perform live until tonight, which, judging by tonight, is a real fucking shame. And I should definitely not be disappointed about her moving back to wherever she’s from, because I didn’t even know her before yesterday. And what would even come from knowing her?

A relationship?

I don’t do relationships.

And a rock star and an ex-stripper? What a fucking cliché.

As we sit down, the server helps us locate our silverware, and I can’t stand this not seeing bullshit. I place my napkin in my lap and pray that it’s black cloth because white cloth will leave tiny white specks all over this fucking suit.

Airplane chick—Collette Rhone, apparently—is classy enough to know not to provide white napkins, right?

I groan and scoot my chair back from the table a bit.

“What’s wrong?” Miss November sits to my left, and her voice is a bit closer than I would like. I want to reach out and see how much distance is between us, but if I accidentally graze her thigh or something, she might take that as an invitation.

Fuck, what’s wrong with me? I should be all over this chick. She could drop down to her knees right here and suck me off in front of all these people and no one would even know. I shouldn’t be wishing she were Kayla. I shouldn’t be so hung up on a girl I already spent the night with. This is not who I am.

Sloppy seconds are what I leave for other dudes, not what I go back for—

“Mr. Reynolds?”

I look up, but can’t see shit. “Yes?” I sound as irritated as I feel. There better be booze delivered soon. And by soon I mean ten minutes ago.

“I have that champagne you ordered.”

“What...?”

The hand on my shoulder nearly makes me jump up and swing at the guy until my brain catches up to my senses and I realize it’s not the server’s hand I feel.

I smile and lick my lips, then reach up and slide my hand over hers.

The champagne I ordered. Ha ha.

I guide Kayla around my chair and she sits on my lap quietly.

“Ooh,” Miss November says. “Can I get some champagne too?”

I press my lips together to keep from laughing.

The server takes the blonde chick’s order and Kayla brings her lips to my ear. “Be good,” she whispers. “No touching.”

I chuckle. She’s about to drive me fucking wild, isn’t she?

God, I hope so.

“Did you say something, Atlas?” Miss November asks from just a foot or so away.

Kayla runs her hand over my cock as she stands, and I clear my throat. “No, sorry. Just a tickle in my throat.”

The voices around us have picked up as people get used to the darkness and continue their conversations from earlier, none of them privy to the goddess that currently stands between my legs. I think they put bread on the table, but who can eat at a time like this? Kayla moves her ass closer to me, and I hate that I can’t see it, hate that I’ve never cared about any lap dance quite like I care about this one, yet I can’t fully appreciate it.

She’s going to repeat this for me later. With every damn light on in my hotel room.

She slides her ass down my lap, and my cock twitches, rising to the occasion. She turns around and brings her breasts to my face, moving them slowly back and forth. My hands itch to grab those perfect mounds, so I clench my fists at my sides. She brushes the soft skin of her cleavage across my face, and when she slides her hand through the back of my hair, I lean my head back to revel in her touch.

I’m not supposed to touch her.

But I’ve never been very good with rules.

She slides her legs on either side of me to straddle my lap, bringing her mouth so close to my ear that when I slide my hand over one round cheek and claim that ass like its mine, her soft intake of breath sends a wave of pressure into my dick. I squeeze again, waiting for her to chastise me, challenging her to tell me to keep my hands to myself...

But she doesn’t. Instead, she settles in more firmly on top of me.

Her breathing picks up speed, soft and quick in my ear as she grinds slowly in my lap. Is she also remembering the way she slid that soft pussy over my cock last night? I massage her ass with both hands now, and bring my nose to her throat to inhale deeply. I fucking love the way she smells.

And I finally realize why.

She smells like that trip I took to Maui when I was seven.

Coconuts... and the sea... and family. Home.

She makes me miss things I haven’t thought of in years.

Things I wanted to forget.

My heart pinches and my hands still. Then she slowly starts to slide her lips from my ear to my mouth and when her tongue slides across my bottom lip, it’s all I can do not to groan into her mouth. She tastes even sweeter than she smells.

Conversation continues around us as more of Las Vegas’ elite grow comfortable in the darkness. They discuss the flavors of their cocktails, the way their other senses have heightened at the loss of sight, what a unique evening this is, how wonderful the aerialists were, especially Kincaid Summers...

Blah. Blah. Blah.

They jabber on, unaware of what the two of us are doing right in front of them.

They hold cocktails and conversations; I hold an ass worthy of a fucking monument.

But they’re right about one thing: my senses have stepped forward to work overtime while my sight takes a back seat. And I’ve never felt, smelled, or tasted anything—or anyone—quite as fucking enjoyable as this woman in my lap.

They can talk about how amazing Kincaid Summers is all night long.

But I’m over here with the real thing.

And I’ve just broken the third rule with her, because I’m right in the middle of my second serving.

What the fuck has Kayla done to me?