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Rolling the Dice (All In Duet #0.5)
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There was a reason I was handcuffed to the bed, chocolate syrup smeared over both nipples. Dario Capece was getting married, and if he thought he’d ditch me to marry some rich Vegas bitch, then he had another thing coming.
I was taking my revenge in the best way possible: his best friend. Seduction was a new game for me, but thankfully, Trip Reinnet was good at reading signs and delivering orgasms. While a hurricane gathered force and moved closer, I played a risky game of love, luck and sex, with my most valuable possession up for grabs: my heart.
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Let’s imagine the perfect man. Six three, with a body like The Rock, but a face that could have its own modeling career. Then let’s add in some bad boy. A background in security, and fists that knew how to protect himself. Toss in enough shady dealings to add an air of mystery and danger. Now, the kicker: a promotion that makes him your boss, a smile that reveals his playful side, and bedroom eyes that manage to unzip your dress without even trying.
I found that man. Hell, every woman in Biloxi, Mississippi found that man. Dario Capece. And we’ve all been making fools of ourselves over him for the last umpteen years.
But I had come close. SO close. Close enough that he asked me on a date. Three blissful hours. And then a second, though it hadn’t ended in the panty-ripping way I had hoped for.
Then disaster struck in the form of a leggy brunette with diamonds in her ears the size of cherries. Gwen Hawk strolled in our casino on her daddy’s arm and somehow managed, in the course of three days, to snatch Biloxi’s most eligible bachelor away.
Like AWAY, away. This afternoon he will be Vegas-bound on a private jet, heading off to run one of Gwen’s daddy’s hotels. Rumor is, he’s getting seven figures a year and all the Gwen Hawk pussy he wants.
Do I sound bitter? I might be. Just A WEE BIT. Bitter…and hell-bent on revenge, in whatever way I could get it.
Which brings us to the decidedly unperfect man.
Tripp Reinhart. Also tall. Thinner than Dario, with a different sort of beauty. He’s the scowling type, when he’s not glaring, or ignoring you all together. He grew up on the same rough streets as Dario, but it didn’t make him dangerously attractive—just scary. And rumor has it, he has a kinky streak and a ginormous penis—a combination which seems to give me an equal measure of confusion and arousal whenever his icy stare makes its way over to me.
He’s fired me—twice. Hired me back, but with stiff reprimands each time. And he’s like a brother to Dario, a closeness which makes him my best (and worst) chance at attention-getting revenge.
So… yeah. That’s why I’m in the casino bar, three hours after our accounting manager told us to go home, pack a bag, and evacuate. An hour ago, an alarm blared, clearing the casino floor. Thirty minutes ago, I heard a housekeeper say that they were going room-to-room, kicking out guests. And five minutes ago, I pulled off my panties in the bathroom and returned to my barstool, ordering a second Cosmo and waiting for Tripp’s meeting with casino executives to finish.
“We’re closing up soon.” Clint pushed the martini toward me. “Shouldn’t you be out of Mississippi by now?”
I shrugged. “Shouldn’t you be?”
“The top dogs have to drink. You know that.” He smiled at me. “Their tips make it worth the risk.”
I eyed the trio of men at the high-top by the High Roller Slots room. Tripp and two suits from corporate. They had a map of the property spread out and were going over, best I could tell, evacuation proceedings. In the last half hour, they’d been interrupted several times by the security managers, reporting on different parts of the building.
One of the suits stood and offered Tripp his hand. I took a deep sip of the martini and steeled myself. The second exec followed suit, and I watched the men walk out together, and Tripp’s head drop, his attention back on the map.
I swiveled on the stool, facing him, and snuck a glance around, verifying that the bar was empty. Crossing my legs, I pinched the hem of my skirt, inching it higher on my thighs. My normal seduction skills maxed out with a few saucy looks. I’d attracted Dario with the unlikely combination of stuttering and blushes. But I’d need to up my game with Tripp, which is why I was sporting my first Brazilian wax and about to go full Sharon Stone at him across the bar.
I waited until he straightened, running his hand through his hair, his attention caught by a large Korean couple who hustled past the bar toward the exit, their suitcases rattling behind them. He glanced back, then paused, his gaze flitting to me and sticking.
While Dario Capece could charm the dress off any woman with his cocky smile, Tripp Reinhart had an entirely different weapon: his glare. He pinned me with it, his face darkening, and I uncrossed my legs slowly, attempting the sultry motion that Sharon Stone had perfected, and left one heel hooked on the bar rail, while the other brushed the floor, the angle one which should give him a clear view up my short skirt.
I held my breath, masking my nerves behind my martini glass, and I slowly took a sip, holding his eye contact as I forced myself to weather his storm.