Read Hating Beauty (The Vegas Titans Series Book 6) Online
Authors: Celia Loren
Hating Beauty (The Vegas Titans Series Book 6)
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© 2015 Hearts Collective
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rights reserved. This document may not be reproduced in any way without the
expressed written consent of the author. The ideas, characters, and situations
presented in this story are strictly fictional, and any unintentional likeness
to real people or real situations is completely coincidental.
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HATING BEAUTY
By Celia
Loren
Knox Cole
New York City
The only thing in life better than
the soft, glowing oblivion of alcohol is the wet, violent oblivion of sex. I
love sex. I need sex. I use sex. And I don’t give a rat’s ass about
consequences.
You might say it’s my talent, sex; I’m
damn good at it, and damn good at finding partners—probably because I enjoy it,
or because that part of my brain is on overdrive, looking for it all the time.
Every room with a woman in it is a
potential scoring arena, a battlefield, a proving ground for glory. Every woman
is a potential fuck. Yes, every woman. I don’t care if they’re young or old. I
bang anyone that gives me a boner, because sex = glory.
Ladies, I like to think of myself as
a wolf: a lone wolf constantly on the prowl, willing to chew off my own leg to
get out of a trap. I’m every woman’s wet dream, and I know how to take
advantage of that: I’m the bad boy who literally doesn’t give a shit about
anything but one hot, wild night. I’ll sweep you off your feet and fuck you
sideways and then I’m moving on. You might say it’s what I live for.
You might say it’s the only time I
feel alive.
I love the rush when a woman’s legs
are spread for me and I can do whatever the fuck I want to her. Don’t get me
wrong, I always make sure she enjoys it too—but it’s not about pleasure. It’s
about taking my due from the world, having a laugh and an orgasm while I have
the chance.
Because why the hell not. Life is
short and fast and then you die.
It doesn’t matter where it happens:
bars, clubs, gyms, cars, alleys, or even trains. It doesn’t matter who the girl
is. Most the time I don’t bother with names, I wouldn’t remember anyway. Blondes,
brunettes, redheads; they’re not the point. The point is finding that sweet
spot when you lose any conscious awareness of your self, your history, your
name, finding something hot, wild, and animalistic. Something you can disappear
into. Explosion. Oblivion. Climax.
No rules. No strings. No regrets; just
the oblivion of ecstasy, bodies lost in each other.
Of course, that’s not what I was supposed to be thinking
about tonight. I was supposed to be on duty, providing security for my boss
Jasper Breslin’s schmancy to-do in his fancy Tribeca penthouse, some kind of celebration
for his “business partners.”
Who the hell knows what the
occasion is. Breslin is always looking for an excuse to bust out some heroin
and hire some whores. Honestly, when you’re as rich as Breslin you don’t need
an excuse. We’ll just call it Tuesday, just your typical Tuesday orgy.
Usually I can tune out the
jabbering of his friends and the expensive entertainment when I’m on the clock.
Breslin’s pretty good about letting us cut loose on his dime after-hours, so
there’s really no incentive to bother with the exorbitant call girls and dancers
he hires for these shindigs. Not until he gives me the clear.
Being a rich prick’s bodyguard has
it’s perks, I’m not gonna lie. The Christmas bonus alone makes the gig
worthwhile. But in addition, those call girls and dancers sometimes need a ride
home, or a shoulder to cry on. And there I am, Knox Cole, sympathetic bad-boy
extraordinaire. They melt like putty in my hands, and then it’s like Christmas
all over again.
Knowing a perk is right around the
bend, it’s usually pretty easy to keep a clear head and find a dark corner to
stand in, arms crossed, and bide my time while I make sure that no drunk, horny
billionaire guest breaks anything valuable. Honestly, it’s a job a lobotomized
guerilla could do.
But tonight just got interesting.
“Cole, I’m taking Miss Radisson to
the sky room,” Breslin whispers to me as he walks by my dark corner. His hand is
on the small of a scantily clad socialite’s back. She giggles and traipses ahead
of him as they step into his private elevator.
She looks vaguely familiar, like
I’ve probably seen her face splashed across gossip magazines in the stands on
the street. You know the type—“Heiress’ Nude Snapchats Leaked” and “Stars
Without Makeup” and “BiBo’s Meltdown in Court.” She’s probably named after a
breakfast cereal.
Breslin already looks bored with
her and she looks drunk out of her mind, but that won’t stop him from banging
her. Can’t blame the guy: the tits nearly hanging out of her dress look
brand-new and expensive.
“We’ll be upstairs the rest of the
evening,” Breslin confides, “And we’re not to be disturbed for any reason. I’m
leaving you in charge.”
Breslin presses his keys into my
palm, a sign that Elvis is leaving the building and the night is wrapping up. As
soon as I can get rid of everybody in a tactful manner, I can do my own thing.
Thank god. I’m getting pretty antsy.
“Yes sir,” I say.
Breslin steps into the elevator,
smiling wryly at me. “Maybe after my guests leave you might persuade one of
those delectable dancers to help you lock up.”
“Hey, perv, I’m right here!” the
woman with Breslin objects, slapping him playfully.
“Yes, I see most of you.” He goes
in for a sloppy motorboat in her giant tits as the elevator doors close on
them.
Well. I mean, I didn’t need to see
that, but if he’s getting some, I’m getting some. I glance reflexively at the
dancers undulating on his bar to mentally pick one out, and then feel my breath
catch.
Holy fuck, that one, the one
dancing in the middle, no question about it. How did I not notice her before?
Did she just appear out of the ether, an answer to my horny prayer?
My jaw actually drops a little. Her
body is simultaneously tight and voluptuous, her hair short and black, her face
young.
She’s the one I want to fuck
tonight.
Eagerly, I give the DJ our
end-of-night signal, cuing the last song. He nods, his dreadlocks bobbing, and
switches tracks. Now it’s slow and sensual, and the dancers move to it in a
sexy trance.
My eyes flicker back to the girl in
the middle, whose eyes somehow snap to meet mine across the room. They’re big,
brown, intelligent eyes. The way her hips rock to the beat makes it easy to
imagine the way she’d feel underneath me as I pounded her to the breaking point.
She’s got rhythm. She doesn’t break eye contact.
Wow. I might actually be drooling.
“Start moving people towards the
doors,” I say into my earpiece, kicking the end-of-night protocol into gear.
“Get Gretchen and the goody-bags.”
That’s a Jasper Breslin signature
move: party-favors to soften the blow of being kicked out. Tonight’s parting
gifts, I happen to know, each contain an ounce of cocaine.
I turn my full attention back to
the dancer I now think of as mine.
I can’t say exactly what it is
about her. She’s hot, obviously, but that’s not it. That’s not enough to
explain the odd clenching of my guts and the sudden awareness of the tightness
of my pants, as I watch her moving slowly to the house music. It’s lust at
first sight and it’s magical.
Shit. How am I possibly that hard
up? I calculate mentally, and realize that it’s only been two days since I had
sex. So it’s not that I’m hard up. I just actually can’t look away from her for
some reason. I mean, the other girls are hot too, but my eyes actually won’t
obey my brain’s command to look away from the hottie in the middle.
What is it about her? Her dance
moves aren’t bad, but I’ve seen better. Her outfit is fitted and sexy, but for
some reason covers more skin than the others. Her face and body could be right
at home in a beauty pageant, but the magnetic pull I feel toward her seems more
than physical.
Whatever. Let’s just say it’s
physical.
I’m going to make it physical.
Wading through the room, I make
sure I am standing between her and the exit when the song ends. The dancers
step carefully off the bar and start to split their tip money, chatting and
laughing together and saying their goodbyes to the DJ.
“Night, Tricia,” my girl calls to
someone.
“Night, Katja.”
Katja. Mmm. I like it: it suits
her. There’s definitely something cat-like about her movements, something
slinky and elusive.
One hot pussy—for sure.
When she turns around from her
friends, I am waiting for her. She walks right into my waiting body, spilling
the bills she’s just meticulously counted. Just like I planned.
“Oh I’m sorry, excuse me,” she
says, dropping down to the floor after her cash. Is it just my imagination, or
do I catch a faint, round accent? If I do, I can’t seem to place it.
“No no,” I murmur, “My fault
entirely. Here, let me.”
I sweep in to the rescue and kneel
beside her on the ground, scooping up her money. Catching her eye, I give her the
side-grin that never fails to get me laid.
“This is why no one would ever pay
me to dance,” I quip, winking. “Two left feet.”
She laughs. It’s a low, husky sound
that sends a tingle of heat between my legs as her eyes give me a shrewd
once-over.
“I don’t know, with that body of
yours, you’d probably do alright. It’s not just about dancing, you know. It’s
about using what you’ve got.”
Heck yes, that’s what I like to
hear: she’s halfway mine already.
“Really?” I grin, rising with her
to stand.
“Sure, all you’d have to do is
wiggle your hips a little. Like this.”
She doesn’t just show me. She
reaches out and grabs me, one hand on each hip, and presses herself against me.
The touch of her fingers sends a scalding chill through my bones.
I like feeling her control my
movements like this. It’s like the sexiest possible version of dancing on
someone’s toes—her motion moves us both, guides me through a slow, sensual
circle. I swallow to keep myself from groaning and force myself to look into
her
eyes
, not her breasts. Definitely not her breasts.
Look into her
eyes, dumbass—this is the tricky part. First you have to seal the deal,
convince her to want you, then you can look at her breasts.
“Do you give lessons?” My voice
sounds a little strained. “Because I’m eager to learn. And willing to pay.”
“Hmmm. But how much are you willing
to pay? I’m very hard to get.”
There’s definitely a whisper of an
accent, but I have no idea which kind of accent it is beyond that it’s the sexy
kind.
I hold up the cash that I’ve just
gathered off the floor - her cash—and I smile.
“Will this do it?”
Katja laughs again, playfully
swiping her money back from me and making a show of counting it. When she comes
to the fifty-dollar bill I’ve just slipped in, she regards me with a raised
eyebrow.
“What is this?”
“Oh. Well. See, you were the only
one I watched, the entire night,” I explain hastily. “So I didn’t want you to
have to share my tip with the others. It’s all for you.”
When her frown doesn’t clear, I
laugh awkwardly.
“Or, I mean, you could think if it
as a down-payment. For dance lessons. You know.”
Yeah, lessons in how not to be a
dumbass, dumbass.
This is weird. With all the girls
I’ve picked up, I can’t remember the last time one’s made me nervous. Am I actually
nervous? Is she actually fucking making me nervous, somehow?
Wow. Clearly I am hard up.
Welp, better do something funny and
make her laugh again. I swivel my hips suggestively, a goofily serious
expression on my face, and shrug apologetically. Sheesh.
Somehow my self-deprecation and momentary
lapse in smoothness seems to put her at ease. Katja’s eyes soften and an amused
smile quirking her lips up at the corners. It’s charming. It makes her look
devious, and somehow even younger. She folds the fifty in with the rest of her
loot from the night.
The crisis is past, and I’m still
in the running.
“Wow, not a bad starting rate for
that little dance lesson,” she says. “Maybe I should stop performing and start
teaching full time.”
“No no no, you can’t do that!”
“Oh? Why not?”
She bends over to tuck her money
into her shoe, giving me a prime view of her shapely ass. Sweet mother of god
it’s almost too much for my now-too-tight pants to take; any minute now I’m
just going to burst through my fly and embarrass myself. I’ve got to get her
alone, and naked, and fast. The situation is growing urgent.
When was the last time I got a
hard-on just by looking at a woman? What is going on with me?
Surely I just need to bang her and
get her out of my system, that’s all.
My mind clears, focusing on the
hunt. Now it’s kill time, I turn on my most sincere-sounding charm and my most
earnest-farm-boy dimpled grin. Women love it.
“You’re what made this party
bearable for me.” It’s actually true. “You can’t lock yourself away in a
classroom. The world would be a sad, sad place without your talents. I can’t
imagine how we’d all get through the day otherwise.”
Katja rises to stand slowly, her
shoulder lightly grazing my thigh as she rises. Where she brushed against me,
heat blooms through my jeans. When she’s back on her feet she faces me squarely
and tilts her head playfully to the side, biting her lip.
“You mean you don’t know how you’d get
through the day without me—or the night?”
I feel a genuine shit-eating grin
split my face.
Oh yeah. She wants it too.
Knox Cole for the win.
Five—no, ten—minutes later, I’ve
convinced her to slip away with me into Breslin’s back office. The keys he gave
me jingle like Christmas bells as I unlock the door, thinking that what I’m
about to get is better than anything that’s ever been wrapped in a shiny bow
under any dead tree, better than money in the bank, maybe even better than
bacon
.
Well, maybe.
I’m already picturing her naked,
already imagining the thrill of touching her bare skin with my hands,
unbuckling my jeans, opening her legs…
