What happened in vegas, p.2
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       What Happened in Vegas, p.2

           Sylvia Day
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  He sank back into her with a low hiss of pleasure. “You’re so sexy, baby. So damn perfect and beautiful. I have no fucking idea what you’re doing with a guy like me, but I’m grateful. Every damned day.”

  God help her. She loved him so much.

  He tugged the tie at her waist and pushed the two halves of her dress open. He released the center clasp of her bra, freeing her breasts into his waiting palms. Her pussy tightened around him, echoing the gentle rolling of her nipples between his talented fingers.

  “I’m so sorry.” He was flushed and shiny with sweat, his beautiful hazel eyes as red as hers felt. “So damn fucking sorry that I ever let you think, for even a moment, that you were nothing but a convenient piece of ass to me. I loved you the moment I saw you. I should have told you—”

  “I need things from you.” She wrapped her hands around his wrists, anchoring herself as the pleasure threatened to sweep her away.

  “I know.” His hips rocked in a slow and easy tempo. “I need things from you, too.”

  That caught her. She wanted him to need her. She wanted to be

  valuable to him, to serve a purpose in his life. To share his life. “Such as?”

  “I need your travel schedule.” His lips kicked into a smile when she scowled. “So I can plan my trips to match up with yours. And I need you to move in with me. Your jewelry business is you, right? You can design your pieces anywhere?”

  Robin nodded, unable to speak while he was saying everything she’d longed to hear and fucking her so perfectly. The fluid, rhythmic plunges

  of his cock were driving her half out of her mind. Her entire body was straining with the need to come, her hips lifting to meet his downstrokes.

  He was so hard and it felt so good to be with him again. To smell the scent of his skin and feel his flesh beneath her hands.

  “I’m stuck for now with the brewery in Portland.” His words slurred slightly as the pleasure built for him, too. “But if you don’t like the city or the house or anything, I’ll go where you’re happy. I just need time, time I don’t want to spend without you.”

  “Harder,” she urged, grabbing his taut perfect ass in her hands. Her neck arched, her head pressing into the bedding as her climax hovered just out of reach. “Fuck me hard.”

  Gripping her waist, Paul gave her what she needed. His aggressive strokes set her off in a rush.

  “I’m right there with you,” he groaned, driving powerfully into her.

  He made that sexy little noise that made her hot, a cross between a grunt and a hum that said more than words how much pleasure she gave him.

  “Right there... Right. There. ”

  His gaze locked with hers as he came, the heady rush of pleasure shared between them.

  “I love you,” he grated, shaking with the force of his climax.

  She couldn’t look away, daring to believe.

  * * *

  Paul got her naked. Robin missed how he accomplished the feat

  while in her euphoric postclimax haze, but she was grateful for the result.

  She lay curled against his side, her legs tangled with his. Her head lay on his chest, her fingertips tracing her name imprinted in his skin.

  “I was going to fuck you and walk out,” she confessed.

  “I caught that.” He pressed his lips to her forehead. “I wouldn’t have let you leave. I would’ve followed you with my junk hanging out if I had to and hauled you back.”

  She lifted her head. “Like I’d ever let other women get an eyeful of you.”

  Paul smiled. “I’m all yours, honey. Flaws, baggage, and all.”

  Her hand stilled and settled over his heart. “You’re not ready, Paul. I wish you were.”

  “The counselor I’ve been talking to says otherwise.”

  Robin’s heartbeat skipped. “Counselor?”

  He nodded. “I’ll need to keep seeing him for a while, but I know enough about what losing Curt did to me to have my head on straight


  Her heart ached for the tragedy he’d suffered. She couldn’t imagine what it would feel like to outlive your child.

  His fingers linked with hers. “I should have talked to someone a lot sooner, most especially after I started seeing you. It wasn’t fair to you that I didn’t.”

  “You can’t take all the blame,” she said softly. “When we started out, our arrangement was perfect for me, too. No strings, hot sex, and a guy who listened to me ramble on about jewelry. Things were fine until I changed my expectations.”

  He reached over with his free hand and opened the nightstand

  drawer. She thought he might be reaching for a condom, and her pulse quickened. Then a dark blue velvet box appeared in her line of vision, and her heart stopped altogether.

  Paul set the box on his washboard abs and took a deep breath. “Do you have any idea how hard it is to buy an engagement ring for a jewelry designer who’s kicked your ass to the curb?”

  Unable to help herself, she reached for the box.

  “Wait,” he said, staying her. “Going back to the list of things I need from you... I need you to marry me, Robin. The next time we leave this room, I want us to come back to it as man and wife. I promise you’ll have the wedding of your dreams, with our friends and family and doves and swans and whatever the hell you want, but I’d really like the vows now—

  today—and getting married here in Vegas feels like it fits us.”

  Us. She looked at him with wide eyes, her mind telling her how crazy that was. There were so many courtship steps they were skipping.

  What they’d had in their year together—not counting the four miserable months apart—was emails, phone calls, six days a month of the hottest sex of her life...

  ...and a sharp, pure feeling of connection that had hit them both like lightning the moment they’d laid eyes on each other.

  “I know it’s crazy,” he said, reading her mind as he so often did.

  “But we’ve been crazy over each other from the start. I’m lovesick over you, baby. I swear you’ll never regret taking a chance on me. I’ll make you happier than you’ve ever been in your life.”

  Swallowing hard, she thumbed open the box.

  “Oh, Paul,” she breathed, her fingers shaking.

  “Do you like it?” His rich, deep voice was laced with a rare note of anxiety. “We can exchange it if you don’t. You can pick out whatever you want. Something more traditional maybe—”

  “Shut up.” The ring was perfect. It was unusual, almost quirky, with

  a massive diamond—around four carats was her educated guess—

  surrounded by irregular swirls of multisized rubies.

  “When I look at it,” he said quietly, “it reminds me of how I feel about you.”

  She saw that in the ring, too. The unusual design conveyed

  passionate chaos, and the fact that he registered that quality in the setting cemented her belief that he was the perfect man for her.

  Climbing over him, Robin straddled his hips and extended her hand.

  “Put it on me.”

  The feel of the cool band sliding over her knuckle was so sublime it caused goose bumps to sweep across her skin. She wanted this so badly, wanted him. Her rough-edged brewmaster with his gentle hands and insatiable hunger for her body. The man who listened to her talk about gem clarity and design theory and who patiently explained the difference between lager and ale.

  “Yes,” she answered him, placing her hand on his chest next to her name over his heart.

  Paul framed her ribcage with his hands, his thumbs stroking the lower curve of her breasts. “And what do you need from me?”

  “I needed this.” She gestured between them. “A commitment from you. I’ll also need a room that’s mine alone, a workshop with lots of light and space.”


  “And I need you to promise not to change your style for me.”

  His brows rose. “I have a style?”
br />   “I love you just the way you are. Don’t cut your hair or—”

  He rolled abruptly, taking the top. “Say that again.”

  Laughing, Robin looked up into his impossibly handsome face.

  “Don’t cut your hair?”

  He snorted. “The part before that.”

  “Don’t change your style?”

  Bending his head, Paul caught her nipple between his teeth. She made a soft noise at the unexpected bite, then arched her back when his tongue soothed the slight sting. When his cheeks hollowed on a drawing pull, she moaned his name and gave him what he wanted.

  “I love you, Paul. You’re everything to me.”

  When he lifted his head, the fiercely tender look on his face was one she’d remember for the rest of her life.

  Or she could just make him show it to her again. She had a lifetime to work on it.

  # # #


  Sylvia Day is the national bestselling, award-winning author of over a dozen novels written across multiple sub-genres. A wife and mother of two, she is a former Russian linguist for the U.S. Army Military Intelligence. Sylvia’s work has been called an “exhilarating adventure” by Publishers Weekly and “wickedly entertaining” by Booklist. Her stories have been translated into Russian, Japanese, Portuguese, German, Czech, Italian, and Thai. She’s been honored with the Romantic Times Reviewers'

  Choice Award, the EPPIE award, the National Readers’ Choice Award, the Readers’ Crown, and multiple finalist nominations for Romance Writers of America’s prestigious RITA Award of Excellence.

  Sylvia also writes under the pseudonyms S. J. Day and Livia Dare.

  Connect with Sylvia Day online:


  Twitter: http://www.twitter.com/SylDay

  Facebook: http://www.facebook.com/AuthorSylviaDay

  * * * * *



  “Hello, Mrs. Robinson.”

  I can’t stop the thrill that courses through me at the sound of the familiar deep voice. But then, I don’t want to. I’m horny, and he knows.

  “Hi, Jason.” I turn away from my husband’s tool bench in the garage.

  The weather is hot; summer in our town always is. Today it’s at least one hundred degrees. Suddenly, it feels hotter than that.

  My neighbor’s son stands shirtless in the driveway; his baggy shorts hang low around trim hips. He’s not wearing boxers, and a shiver races through me despite the heat. His cock, which I know to be long and thick, hangs heavily, tenting the cotton khaki of his shorts. I lick my lips.

  “How are you today?” he asks, stepping into my personal space.

  I look past him. His truck is the only car in the driveway next door.

  “Fine. My kids are napping. I just put them down.”

  His full mouth curves seductively at the words he’d wanted to hear.

  He comes closer, his powerful athlete’s body rippling with muscle. I love to watch him move, watch him play. His mother is my friend. I’ve sat next to her at his college football games. I’ve sat next to his girlfriend, too.

  Jason brushes past me, his shoulder deliberately skimming across my nipples, making me ache for him. He hits the remote on the wall and the door begins to lower, blocking out our neighbors. Before it’s halfway down, his shorts are on the floor. By the time the door is closed, he’s not the only one naked.

  My blood races in my veins. I love the cock he’s fisting, I love it fucking me.

  His smile is smug. My desperate desire is why he comes to me. He knows how bad I want it, how deprived I am. My need strokes his ego as surely as his cock strokes my cunt.

  I jump up onto the edge of the pool table and spread my legs. I’m dripping for him, and when he gets to me, he slides right in. My eyes close, relishing the feel of the hot, hard, huge cock inside me. I lift my heels to the table, opening myself completely. Leaning back on my arms, I slit my eyes to watch him. That’s all the stimulation I need, the sight of his youthful body, full of grace and strength, glistening with sweat and lust as he pumps deep into me.

  As he holds the edge of the table and thrusts hard and fast, his six-pack abdomen ripples with his exertions. There’s no time for foreplay or finesse. There never is, but I don’t want either one. I want to be fucked.

  I moan; I can’t help it. He feels so good. The thick head of his dick stretches, massages, and rubs the inside of me.

  “Like that?” he grunts, driving deeper.

  “God, yes.”

  I gasp, arching my hips to take more. The friction is amazing.

  There’s nothing like the feel of being fucked by a big cock. I tell him so and he growls. He loves it when I talk dirty; his girlfriend won’t. She’s too young, too inhibited. I have no shame.

  Sweat dampens his hair and drips down his chest. The delicious scent of hardworking male fills my nostrils. It’s so unbelievably hot in my garage with the door closed. Like a sauna. He’s breathing heavy, his body working hard. Jason never has any control when he takes me and I make it worse by moaning, by loving his cock as much as I do.

  “I’m going to come,” he warns. He fucks like a stallion and climaxes like one too—hard, deep, and copiously.

  I whimper, wanting it, my nipples so hard they ache, my breasts heavy and shaking with the impact of his hips slapping against mine. His dick swells in anticipation, filling me so full he really has to work to get inside me. The pleasure is incredible.

  He floods me, still fucking madly, and I orgasm.

  “Yes, yes, yes,” I chant. The release of the sexual tension that knots my shoulders and back is so good, I shake. A moment later he stills; his head dropping forward as he catches his breath.

  Five minutes later the garage door is opening and a dry, hot breeze blows in, evaporating the perspiration from our skin. The sound of an automobile door shutting nearby alerts us to arrivals.

  Jason’s father is home and stepping out of his car. I wave. He waves back.

  “Thank you for your help, Jason,” I call out as he saunters away, his back glistening in the summer sun.

  He doesn’t glance back. “Anytime, Mrs. Robinson.”


  Discover more of Sylvia Day’s contemporary erotic stories at


  Document Outline






  Sylvia Day, What Happened in Vegas

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