Page 85 of Vegas Daddies

It was probably a weak-ass kick.

“She’s not moving in with Tammy, by the way,” I say.

“Well, Peter can still see the tracker on her phone.”

“Get Brander to disable it, then.”

“You wanna get us in even more shit?” he asks.

I scoff. “You want Alice back in that strip club?”

He goes silent. A snappy “Fair enough” leaves his lips.

And then he hangs up.

I pocket my phone.

A snapping branch bolts me upright. I assess the surroundings, relaxing slightly when I see a black and white cat stalking across the sidewalk.

A text pings through on my phone.

To my surprise, it’s Alice texting the group chat.

Alice: It’s still in.

Saucy minx. Things might be tense with Alice and her father, but that doesn’t mean I want to fuck her any less. She’s been wearing the butt plug out in public. Apparently it keeps turning her on. Visions of her bent over in the shower frequent my mind. They’re vivid now, especially since I have nothing to do but be on guard for any potential Russians.

Fuck. The urge to stroke my dick here and come for her hard is tempting. It’s dark. I’m away from the streetlights. Nobody will notice, and if they do, they can mind their own fucking business.

God, that woman. I filled her with my cum the other night. Watched it ooze out of her. She screams so loud. Shouts all of our names at the top of her lungs. Normally I can sleep with a woman once and lose interest, but the opposite seems to happen with Alice. It’s like I’m always thirsty. Like, no matter how much water I drink, I just can’t get enough. At one point, I saw her press her hard pink nipples to the tiled wall. Just watching her body edges me to climax.

I slip a hand beneath my waistband, where my dick is already hard. Rearranging myself on the motorcycle, I smooth it through my hands.

I imagine Alice circling her tongue over the tip. I’m opening her legs and buttering her in her own wetness.

God, she tastes divine.

A public jerk off could get me into trouble with the cops, but I don’t care. I close my eyes. Her puffy lips part around my dick as she takes it into her mouth. The beautiful, blushed shell between her legs oozes with wetness.

A branch snaps, so I look up again, expecting to see black and white fur.

Instead, I see a person.

“Crap!” I curse to myself. Slot my dick back into my pants before he releases the knife he probably has under that big black jacket and chops it off. He looks like the type. At least from this distance.

I straighten up on the bike and peel open my eyes. The dim lights offer very little visibility, but enough for me to know that the guy isn’t intending to pay the ER a visit. Those that do are either coughing up blood or walking funny, and this dude strides across the parking lot, turning his head around in circles like an owl.

He’s looking for something.

I swing a leg off the bike and creep closer, ducking behind a vehicle before his head swings my way again. Either he forgot which bay he parked in, or he’s up to mischief.

Observing through a car window, I wager the latter. Normal citizensin Vegas don’t wear black jackets twice their size unless they’re borrowing it from their friend. That would eliminate the above suspicion—the guy looks like he doesn’t have any friends.

He disappears behind a car.

Reappears.

Narrowing my eyes, I catch another look at him. What I thought was the back of a black head of hair actually turns out to be a balaclava.

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