Page 11 of Vegas Heat

Fuck.

I haven’t been this attracted to a woman in a long, long time.

Hell, I haven’t been thishornyfor a woman in a long time, either.

I can’t keep my mouth off hers. I can’t stop kissing her. I don’t want to stop unless it’s to taste more of her, and it’s a brand-new phenomenon for me to feel this connected to a woman. It certainly started as physical, but I already likeher, too. I like her dirty jokes. She’s funny and smart, and she isn’t afraid to tell me my jokes are cheesy.

Women rarely tell me like it is. They usually want me because of what I used to do for a living, because of my bank account, because of my connections. They tell me what I want to hear. They don’t challenge me. They laugh at my cheesy jokes, or they ditch their friends to spend time with me. They tell me to do whatever will most benefit themselves instead of telling me to choose joy.

This girl isn’t like that, and it’s a fucking breath of fresh air.

It’s the kind of fresh air I want to spend more time around, and I’m not sure I’ll be able to let her go when morning comes.

The elevator doors open to let us off on our floor, and I hold her hand as we stroll down the hallway toward my room. I open the door, and I let her into a suite.

At first I think she’ll be impressed by the suite until I remember that she was planning to stay in one herself—with six of her closest friends, by the way.

“What do you need all this space for by yourself?” she asks.

I shrug. The truth is that Troy flew me out here and got the room for me. He probably figured I’d spend more time exploring his club, but I wasn’t really feeling it.

I’m glad I didn’t. If I would’ve stayed there, fate might not have intervened by putting Gabby at the same blackjack table as mine tonight, and she might not be walking over toward my windows to look down at the view.

“This place is ridiculous,” she mutters, and I move in beside her to look down at the traffic.

“Did you grow up in Vegas?” I ask.

She shakes her head. “I’ve only been here about three years. I grew up near Denver.”

“What brought you to Vegas?”

“A combination of things,” she says vaguely. “What about you? Did you grow up in San Diego?”

I shake my head. “I grew up in the suburbs of Chicago, but I moved to California when I was eighteen and that’s home now.”

“How long has it been home?”

“Almost fifteen years,” I say, and her eyes widen a little as she does the math. “How long was Colorado home for you?”

She clears her throat. “Eighteen years.”

I raise my brows. “Today’s your twenty-first birthday?”

Twenty-one.

The same number you need to score a blackjack.

The same number I’ve worn on the back of my uniform since little league.

The number that’s been my lucky number my entire life.

She giggles a little cautiously and nods.

I wouldn’t have guessed that. I don’t hang with a lot of women in their early twenties, but she strikes me as much more mature than her twenty-one years, like maybe she’s lived through some things but came out the other side with that same sunny disposition.

“Twelve years between us,” she murmurs, turning toward me. “Is this crazy?”

“I don’t think the age thing is what makes this crazy.” I reach over and pull her into my arms, and I drop a kiss to her forehead as she links her arms around my waist. “I don’t know what this is, Gabby, but I like you. A lot. I could throw out the cliché about age just being a number, but somehow I don’t think it would matter. It doesn’t bother me. Does it bother you?”

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