Total pages in book: 48
Estimated words: 46695 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 233(@200wpm)___ 187(@250wpm)___ 156(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 46695 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 233(@200wpm)___ 187(@250wpm)___ 156(@300wpm)
If someone’s parting with that much money for fun, they wanna be surrounded by beautiful things.
Surrounded by everything I’m not.
Plus, I don’t think her long, manicured nails would even be able to fix a drink.
Focusing on the drink order, I turn my back and tell myself it’s only for a few hours. I’ve put up with way worse downstairs for ten times longer and lived to talk about it.
But the sudden, deep and smoky voice of a man makes me look up.
And in the wall of gleaming mirrors behind the bar, I catch sight of guest number three.
Not just a man.
But a real man. The kind of man that turns heads simply by existing.
“Everything alright, Mr. Silverthorne? Your drink’s on its way…,” the leggy blond hostess coos seductively.
Playing her part perfectly.
Keep ‘em at the tables and above all else, keep ‘em gambling.
Her own ‘uniform’ is a glittering sequined gown that looks like something they made to match the gambling chips.
And I hate to say it, but she looks incredible in it. But our guest doesn’t seem to even notice.
At the same moment, when my eyes meet Mr. Silverthorne’s, I feel my whole body freeze up.
The sound of breaking glass seems to come from far away. And I don’t even feel the tiny prick of its shards as my finger starts to bleed.
It doesn’t even register that I’ve broken the glass with his drink in it.
His dark, blazing eyes settle on mine, widening a little as the glass breaks before he scans me from head to toe.
There’s a slight curl at the edge of his strong mouth, and the chiseled line of his freshly shaven jaw flexes. He’s probably wondering how a girl like me even got up here, let alone behind the bar making his drinks.
I’ve seen all types of people while working in the casino, but this guy? He’s in a league all his own, and he knows it.
Ignoring Magenta, he makes his way over to and then behind the bar in three long strides.
Ignoring everything and everyone except me.
He must be six-seven, maybe taller, and he fills a tailored Italian suit as if the suit was invented just for him and his body type. The perfect type.
Broad shoulders and a muscular, perfectly tanned neck are holding up the face and head of a man who clearly knows what he wants and is used to getting it.
His thick dark hair is perfectly styled, with silver shimmers at his temples showing maturity.
The only lines on his face show once he creases his brow firmly, looking concerned.
Looming over me, I feel myself shrinking. I’m waiting for him to scold me for being so clumsy or get fired for being such a klutz.
But his huge hands take mine as he examines my cut. His touch sends a shockwave of something I’ve never known right through me from my head to my toenails and all the way to the space between my legs, which is suddenly drenched at the sight, sound, scent, and now touch of the man.
He casually reaches for a crisp cloth napkin and leans down to make sure there’s no glass in my wound, pressing the makeshift bandage around my finger.
“Nice cut,” he growls gently, making my breath shiver as he holds my hand so close to his lips.
Lowering my hand gently but keeping his eyes fixed on mine while he keeps a firm grip on it, I almost swoon from the heady muskiness of his cologne.
He smells as good as he looks, and if the rest of him feels as electric as his hands, I would gladly have my hand in his forever.
But Magenta, as hostess, is quick to try and get him away from behind the bar, back to his seat.
But this man isn’t having any of it and waves her off, asking for the supervisor.
“What’s your name?” he asks me in that low, deep voice once we’re alone. More of a command than a question, but I feel like I could tell him anything and everything right now, except for my name, which has magically disappeared from my memory banks.
“Uh, I’m…I mean…,” I stammer, making him chuckle to himself as his eyes settle on my chest.
My nipples are stiff with arousal now and only grow stiffer when he reads my name aloud from my casino employee badge.
“Krissy,” he rasps, then growls low with satisfaction as he squeezes my hand again.
“I’m Ethan. And I’m very pleased to meet you,” he says quietly, looking back into my eyes.
The sound that escapes me, a whimper really, is nothing but need—needing more of this.
Needing more of him and hearing him say my name feels like I’m hearing it for the first time.
“Krissy,” he says again, my supervisor appearing with Magenta as they both look mildly panicked by one of the VIP guests not just behind the bar but holding the hand of the fill-in girl who was supposed to stay out of sight.