Good Girl(10)

"Oh, you definitely offered spanking and anal."

"Argggh," I groan from behind my hands.

"You made his day, young grasshopper. Trust me on this. Besides, I saw the guy, you cannot be the only woman who's ever propositioned him. He's hot as fuck."

"So perhaps he's so used to women coming onto him that he won't even remember today?"

"Totally." She nods seriously and pops another Cheez-It.

"Doubtful, but I appreciate you lying to me in order to talk me off the ledge."





Six





RHYS



Whatever else you want.

I drum my fingertips on the conference table and try to focus on the meeting Canon is leading about security, but I can't. I can't because my mind is on Lydia.

This pisses me off because I'm not the type of man to be distracted by pussy.

Especially not good-girl pussy.

Goddammit.

This girl makes me feel something. Irritation mostly, because I'm thinking about her instead of this meeting.

Whatever else you want. If you're interested.

I must groan out loud replaying those words in my head because Canon shoots me a look before refocusing his attention on the president of the company we purchased our surveillance equipment from. They're discussing a technology package that uncovers connections between people—connections that could be used to fraudulently game the house. The moment you appear on one of our cameras the image will be fed into the data mine and begin making connections, meaning when a customer takes a seat at a table the system will immediately attempt to draw a connection between the customer and the dealer. It also checks all known databases for mug shots, missing persons, and registered firearm holders. Social media sites, of course. Yearbooks, any photo uploaded to a public database. If the security system can't identify who you are within fourteen seconds an alert is sent to the security team because it means there is no recorded image of you anywhere on the Internet. And that's questionable as fuck.

Lawson interjects with a string of legal questions, questions I should be thinking about as well, but I'm not. Good thing Lawson is adept at his job.

My attention is shot to hell. It's on a sweet twenty-something who makes my dick hard. Harder than it should be based on the limited interactions we've had. Way harder than it should be for a girl like her. Yet my mind drifts to the memory of how her lips felt on mine, so soft, so eager. The way she smelled of sunshine and tasted of peppermint lip balm. The way her eyelashes fluttered against her cheeks before she turned her big green eyes on me, looking at me like I hung the moon. Her pupils softened with arousal as she blinked when I broke off the kiss, holding her steady so she didn't topple over. So I wouldn't be tempted to press my hard-on into her stomach.

A hard-on from a simple goddamned kiss.

I don't do good girls. Not anymore. Not ever, really.

What I do is temporary. Beautiful, fast, temporary women. Which has made Vegas a perfect fit for me. It's a never-ending refill of women looking for their 'what happens in Vegas stays in Vegas' moments. Then they leave and return to their tranquil lives, or their high-powered jobs, or their boyfriends. I don't know, and I don't care.

When not tourists, strippers. I like hookers too. That's crass, I know. I'm a piece of shit, I know. I can do better, I know.

I know, I know, I know.

I'm not unhappy with my life. I'm not searching for anything, or anyone. I'm not. I've simply learned there are some women you can ask certain things of and some you can't. 'Spread your legs. Bend over. Choke on it. Get out.' Those kind of things.

Fuck. Lydia was using the break room closest to my office, so she must work on four. Just fucking great.

Whatever else you want.

We don't want the same things, Lydia.





Seven





LYDIA



"What time do you want to go to Ikea?" Payton yawns as she passes me on her way into the kitchen.

"You want to go to Ikea with me?" I look up in surprise as I raise the presser foot on my sewing machine and pull the fabric free. I snip the threads and stand, holding the completed pajama bottoms in front of me for inspection.

"Of course I don't want to go, I'm just that good of a friend," Payton quips as she pours herself a cup of coffee. She turns, mug in hand, and watches me examine the PJs. "Hey, those are really cute." She sets her coffee down and takes the bottoms from me, holding them up against her hips.

"Ha! I told you you'd want a pair when they were done!"

"So you're a secret sewing ninja or something?" She pulls the pants away from her hips and examines the wide hem I made from the border of a set of pillowcases. "I'm starting to think you were picking up life skills while I was making out with boys in the backs of cars."

"I think I'll make a dress next."

"Okay, let's not get crazy." Payton folds the pajama bottoms in half then drapes them over a kitchen chair. "Wait, how many pairs have you made so far? You did sleep last night, right?" She frowns as she picks up a pair of pajama shorts with a satin drawstring bow.

"I've only been up for a couple hours. These are just easy to make. Look, I made a matching top for that one." I hold up a simple tank with spaghetti straps and a scrap of eyelet lace added to the scoop neckline.