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For my three little loves who make everything better, always.
- Mom
Description
Crew Forrester is the ultimate Vegas Playboy.
He’s never met a card game he couldn’t beat, and he’s never met a showgirl he couldn’t bed. He plays by his own rules, and he plays to win.
At twenty-four, he’s on top of the world, basking in his bachelorhood one debaucherous night at a time, when an early morning knock on his door changes everything.
He’s a daddy. He has a daughter. And he’s never changed a diaper in his life.
But just when he’s getting a grip on this whole fatherhood thing, he meets Calypso, the intriguing lavender-and-patchouli-scented hippie in the apartment next door. She refuses to discuss her past, but Crew didn’t win a dozen high stakes poker tournaments without learning a thing or two about reading people.
Calypso’s hiding something.
But she’s not just a mystery, she’s the ultimate jackpot. And Crew’s bet money before but never happiness. If he wants her, he’ll have to take the biggest gamble of his life. But having her for his own would be the ultimate win.
1
Crew
“Open your eyes . . .”
My head is heavy on my pillow as a flirty voice whispers in my ear. I offer a moan, still half-asleep and unable to form a coherent response. A hot pink fingernail, manicured to a point, traces down my bicep before spreading into an open palm, slipping under the covers, and taking a detour south. I roll to my back and squeeze my eyes, silently bargaining with myself to do everything in my power to wake up.
My body wants to sleep for at least another couple of hundred years.
“Come on,” she coos, climbing under the covers. Three impatient seconds later, her tongue is working my shaft, coaxing me to life one teasing lick at a time.
Yep. That’ll do it. I’m up.
I clear my throat and tuck my hands under my head, basking in what’s surely about to be the most glorious morning head I’ve had in months. When my eyes have a chance to adjust, I slide my phone off my nightstand and check the time as her head bobs up and down under the covers.
9:02 AM.
Fuck me, it’s early. We left the strip around two thirty, cabbed it to my place, and then fucked until the sun came up. Literally. I’ve had all of a couple of hours of sleep.
I drop the phone and settle back into the mattress as her left hand snakes up my thigh, careens through the grooves of my abs, and presses flat against my chest.
I’d probably feel bad about the fact that I can’t recall her name if last night’s highlight reel wasn’t on instant replay in my head. My Neanderthal brain can only focus on one thing at a time.
“Feel good for you, Crew?” Her purred words are stifled from the blankets.
Apparently, she needs more reassurance than my fully engorged cock can provide.
“Yeah, baby, don’t stop.” I yank the sheets off so I can secure a front-row seat to the action below.
Lyric. That’s her name. Lyric. She’s a dancer at The Tropicana. She’s twenty-two . . . and that’s about all I know about her.
She slowly slides my cock out of her mouth, carefully dragging her lips over the tip, before we make eye contact for the first time this morning. The outer edges of her mouth pull up, and her makeup-stained eyes flash.
“Fuck me one more time.” Her breathy voice is complimented with a saucy smile and accented with a quick rake of her tongue along her lower lip. Lyric moves toward me, her dancer’s legs straddling my hips as she rocks back and forth. “One last time before I leave here and never see you again . . .”
She speaks my language, this one.
My hands hook on her lower back and slide up the curve of her waist.
“Give me one sec,” I say.
She moves aside, pouting. Crossing her arms across her taut breasts, she sighs, blowing a wisp of sandy hair out of her eyes.
“Don’t take too long. I might have to start without you,”