Page 87 of Holiday Hire

I glance back and blurt out, "Tycoon, move it," all of a sudden worried he might not win.

Sweetie Pie and Tycoon take the last turn, continuing the pace, leaving other horses eating their dust. About five feet in front of the finish line, Sweetie Pie makes a tiny break, crossing the line a horsehead before Tycoon.

"Yes! Oh my gosh! Yes! Yes! Yes!" Phoebe shouts, clapping. Then she surprises me by jumping up and throwing her arms around me, squealing, "She won!"

I slide my arm around her, grip her ass cheek, and plant my other palm on the back of her head. Before she can get out of the way or I can think better about it, I press my lips to hers.

14

Phoebe

The world tilts on its axis, and my knees buckle. Alexander keeps me pinned to his warm, hard flesh. His tongue takes control of mine, stealing my breath.

My blood ignites into a fiery rush of intoxication. I run my fingers over his neck and through the soft strands of hair that escape from under his cowboy hat.

His entire palm spans the back of my head. His thumb strokes behind my ear, creating a wave of tingles that burst under his touch.

A violent tremble consumes me until I'm shaking so hard I'm sure if he wasn't holding me up, I'd fall to the ground. Instead of letting me go, he holds me tighter against him.

His erection hardens against my stomach to the point my pussy's throbbing. He gently squeezes my ass.

I whimper, closing my eyes, submitting to whatever rhythm he decides to play with my tongue.

He deepens our kiss, then murmurs against my lips, "Good girl," besieging me with another round of desire.

I drown out the crowd around us, lost in him, devoured by his dominance, pressed against him, and aching for more.

He retreats an inch. I try to move closer, but he holds me in place. I open my eyes to find his dark, heated blues studying me, as if searching for something, but I'm unsure what.

I swallow, attempting to catch my breath.

He gives me a quick peck on the lips. "Let's go collect your winnings." He turns me, grips the curve of my waist, keeping me close to him, and steers me toward the door.

The crowd outside the suite grows. Alexander weaves us through it, offering thanks to those who congratulate him on Sweetie Pie winning, never stopping to converse further.

We get to the bookie's station, and he instructs, "Give them your ticket, Pheebs."

Pheebs.

My flutters intensify so much I get dizzy again.

"Ticket?" Alexander nudges, pulling me out of my daze.

Flustered, I reach into my pocket and pull it out, sliding the paper under the glass.

The man reads it and states, "Congratulations. Good bet."

"Beginners luck," Alexander teases, then winks.

"Seven to two," the man says, picking up a stack of hundred-dollar bills. He slaps them on the counter counting out loud.

I look at Alexander in question.

He explains, "For every two bets on Sweetie Pie, you get seven times that amount. So $4.50 for every $1 wagered."

I calculate it in my head, then burst out, "That's $4,500!"

Amusement fills his expression. "Yep."

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