Page 55 of Gamble
As he walked to the driver’s side, his mind latched on to the word ‘relationship.’ Was that what this was? The rational part of his brain—the part that remembered his aching joints and his kinky lifestyle and the twenty-year age gap—screamed that this had just been a Vegas weekend of debauchery. Another cliche. Nothing more.
But watching Reagan slide across the white leather bench seat, choosing to sit close enough to him that her bare knee brushed against his denim-covered thigh, made every rational thought evaporate like morning dew in the Nevada sun.
Doing his best to keep things cool, he answered her previous question. “I promise to share her,” he said, settling behind the wheel and breathing in the intoxicating combination of Reagan’s vanilla shampoo and the car’s leather interior. “Besides, she’s got plenty of room for both of us.”
Reagan snuggled closer against his side, her hand coming to rest on his thigh with a familiarity that should have terrified him. Instead, it felt like the most natural thing in the world.
“I love bench seats,” she said, looking up at him through those long lashes. “So much more... intimate than bucket seats.” Making her point, she playfully brushed her hand upwards to graze the fly of his pants before returning it to his inner thigh.
Christ, she’s going to be the death of me.
Forcing himself back to the task at hand, Elijah turned the key, and the 351 Cleveland V8 engine rumbled to life with a throaty growl that reverberated through his chest. The sound was pure mechanical poetry, almost as beautiful as the satisfied sigh Reagan released as she relaxed against him.
“Ready for this?” he asked, his hand hovering over the convertible top controls.
“More than ready. I love the wind in my hair.”
Twenty minutes later, with the Nevada landscape stretching endlessly ahead of them, Elijah realized Reagan’s enthusiasm for wind-blown hair had been optimistic. Her beautiful auburn locks whipped around her face like silk ribbons in a tornado, and she spent more time trying to tame the chaos than enjoying the scenery.
“I think I need you to pull over,” she laughed, still attempting to gather her hair into some semblance of order. “I’m going to look like I stuck my finger in an electrical socket by the time we get to LA.”
Just ahead, Elijah spotted a small roadside shop advertising “Native American Crafts and Gifts.” He pointed at the sign, confirming, “We’ll stop there.”
A few minutes later, he slowly pulled into the gravel parking lot, careful not to throw gravel against the pristine paint job on his car. The dilapidated building looked like it had been in service longer than his vintage Mustang, yet the weathered wood and faded paint gave it a kind of authentic character that couldn’t be manufactured.
“Come on,” he said, cutting the engine. “Let’s see if we can find you something to tame that beautiful mane of yours.”
He was pleased when Reagan waited for him to walk around opening the passenger door for her. The feel of her hand in his felt natural as they walked across the dusty lot.
Stepping into the air-conditioned shop, they realized they’d found a treasure trove of handmade goods—turquoise jewelry, pottery, and woven textiles that spoke of traditions passed down through generations. But it was a display of silk scarves near the back corner of the store that caught Elijah’s attention. He placedhis arm around Reagan’s waist so he could steer them in that direction.
The scarves were not Native American—more likely imported from somewhere in Asia. The display felt out of place, yet the fine-woven silk was exactly what Reagan needed.
Elijah watched her graze her hand across the fine fabrics, admiring each. He noted she gravitated toward a deep burgundy scarf with gold threads woven through the silk, holding it up to catch a small stream of natural light streaming through the shop’s window.
“This one’s beautiful,” she whispered as she flipped over the attached price tag before shaking her head.
Before she could return the coveted scarf to the shelf, Elijah plucked it from her hands and headed for the counter, reaching back to drag her into motion alongside him.
Pulling out his wallet, he declared, “We’ll take this one,” to the elderly woman looking bored behind the register.
“Elijah, you don’t need to—” Reagan protested until she caught the look in his eyes.
He had turned in her direction, deciding it was time to introduce her to what he called his ‘Dom stare’—the look that could stop a mouthy submissive mid-sentence at Black Light.
“What did I tell you about arguing with me about money this weekend?” He scolded, letting a small smile soften his rebuke.
Reagan’s cheeks flushed pink, and something flickered in her eyes that made his cock twitch with interest. She liked it when he took charge. The question was whether she understood what that might mean beyond their weekend bubble.
“Besides,” he added, his voice gentling, “a woman as beautiful as you deserves beautiful things. And I enjoy taking care of you.”
The shop owner broke out in a smile at their exchange as she wrapped the scarf in tissue paper. “You two remind me ofmy late husband and me when we were young,” she said. “He was always buying me little gifts. He said a woman should be treasured.”
Elijah felt Reagan stiffen against his side, and he wondered if the woman’s assumption about their relationship—whatever it was—made her as uncomfortable as it made him hopeful.
Back at the car, he helped Reagan position the scarf to protect her hair while still allowing her to feel the wind. His fingers lingered at the nape of her neck as he tied the silk, and he couldn’t resist leaning in to press a soft kiss to the spot where her pulse fluttered. Her sigh of pleasure went straight to his cock.
“Better?” he asked, nibbling along her neck a bit more before pulling away.
