Breaking Beauty (Devils Aces MC): Vegas Titans Series (7 page)

Everything happened quickly after that. Zaida, the grin
still strung across her lips, took Romy's sweaty hand and joined it with
Bryson's. His hand was also moist, but his grip was surprisingly strong. She
allowed herself to relax into this.

Her last vision of The Dap was of him scooping chips into a
leather purse, like someone robbing a bank might. Security still flanking him
on his way out.

Men high-fived Bryson on his way out, just as they had when
the other winners went off with their prizes. Zaida bade them farewell at the
elevator. She leaned in to Romy, and breathed into her ear—“Is easy tonight. He
handsome, this one.” With one hand, she extracted Romy's watch from her clutch
and slid it back onto her wrist. “Next Saturday. You do well, tonight, we
watch. We know.” With a lingering cackle, the doors slid shut in front of her
face. Romy hadn't even had a chance to pan the room for Lefty. She wondered if
he'd snuck his way back downstairs, to his lair.

Once they were alone, Romy collapsed against the elevator
walls, suddenly exhausted. Her body ached with the strain of prolonged tension.
She could feel tears coming on; she didn't have the strength to keep them at
bay.

“I'm so stupid,” she murmured, letting her body slide down
the elevator wall. They were shooting down rapidly, bound for room 607 again.
It would be like The Needle had never happened. Perhaps she could dream this
nightmare back into fiction.

“Hey. Hey, girlie, get up,” Bryson knelt before her. He
gripped her fingers tight in his. She took him in again from this angle: the
juts of his knobby knees opening, muscular thighs trailing to a central place.
His nails were cropped short, and clean. Up close, the pools of his eyes were
no longer frightening, but connoted his strength. She thought of waking up to
this face.

Close quarters with Bryson Vaughn would have been romantic
in any other situation, but presently Romy only felt shame. She wanted to get
as far away from this man as possible. He'd saved her, yes. She felt deep
things, things it hadn't occurred to her to believe in, while held in his
sight. But all too soon in their “courtship,” he was seeing her at her worst.
She shuddered against him. Began to full-on weep.

“Romy,” Bryson spoke firmly to her now. “You're not stupid.
Anyone might have been fooled by that proposal. You're a special, intelligent
woman, and your only crime is trusting the wrong people. They took advantage of
you.”

“I just can't believe I—”

He put a steady finger to her lips. “You're being watched,
remember.” He pulled Romy slowly to her feet. With a roll of his eyes, he
indicated a spot on the elevator's ceiling somehow eerily similar to that hunk
of wall on the casino's main floor. Without knowing quite why or how, Romy felt
sure this patch of sky reported directly to a security camera. That security
camera, she knew, was probably fluttering its feed high in Lefty DiMartino's
secret lodge.

The elevator landed, finally, at its destination: the silent
abyss that was room 607, now dark and shadowy in the moonlight. Vegas still
glittered below, but closer to the ground Romy felt safer. More at home. After
all, Paulette and the others were presumably puttering just a few floors below
their feet.

“Why do you think we're 'being watched?'” Romy whispered.
But Bryson was already pulling her along the sixth floor corridor. He moved
fast, making it difficult for Romy to follow in her teetering leather boots.
She was too drained by this point to protest. They stopped after a short trot
in front of the largest suite on the sixth floor—room 668.

“This is my room,” Bryson said. He sounded confident. For a
moment, Romy might have laughed—in any other situation, this would be the
romantic before-the-door-shuts-goodnight-kiss moment. Would she ever have the
chance to
date
her hero? He was surely all business, playing his
blackjack cards in The Needle. Beautiful women had tottered all around him up
there, shoving breasts and ass and leg in his face—he'd taken no notice of any
of them. She felt foolish again. Like a girl on prom night. It was still too
much to stomach—how she, a smart girl with
going on two advanced degrees—
had
been bamboozled by human-trafficking gangsters.

Suddenly, Bryson kissed her. He lurched forward like an
exhausted man, letting his lips press fast and hard against her own open mouth.
Romy nearly protested, but the words wouldn't quite form. She was dazed.

And for a second, there came the smell of him—thick and
musky, like how she imagined the scent of great warriors of an ancient
world...a medieval knight or a conquering Roman Praetorian Guard returning from
battle. His stubble tickled but his kiss felt amazing...with all the passion
and urgency of a young man, but the care and attention of someone with
practice. He reached up to hold the back of her head, tilting her blonde
ponytail playfully to the side. Romy sank into his arms, giving in.

But as soon as it had begun, the kiss was over. Bryson was
glancing furtively up and down the hallway, little shreds of panic moving in
his eyes. Romy heard footsteps. Quickly, her hero removed a key card from a
pocket below his lapel. He pushed her first into the dark suite, then followed
fast behind. The door clanged shut behind them.

“I need you to walk around while you talk to me,” Bryson was
saying as he paced the room. “They could be watching us from anywhere.” With
his fingers, he probed along the walls. His eyes moved fast across every cranny
in the room.

“Why? What are you looking for?”

“Romy,
please
.”

And so she paced.

“Try to look...sexy. Look like you're seducing me.”

“Flattery will get you nowhere, Bryson.”

“JUST DO IT.” The edge in his voice was menacing. He paused
for a beat and stared point-blank at a spot over the door, as if propelled by
animal instinct.

“What are you so afraid of now? You have me. You
won
,
right?”

Bryson wheeled about, inches from her face. His own body was
shiny with the effort of his hunt, the speed of their walk. She'd never seen
him so serious. “Let's get one thing straight: I'm not afraid of anything. But
nobody's won yet. Listen to me. You're in a great deal of danger. Sit down on
the bed.”

Still dazed, Romy did. He kept murmuring.

“They know you're smart. Lefty DiMartino knows he took a
chance, hiring a statistics major to be his prostitute du jour. Now spread your
legs.”

“How did you—?
Bryson
!”

“Look at me,” he said, holding her gaze once more in that
safe, consoling way he had. His voice was plaintive now. “I wouldn't do this to
you. Please know that I wouldn't do this to you, ever. I wouldn't do this to
any woman who didn't want it.”

Yet he moved closer. The pads of his feet on the carpet were
silent. Romy felt a new fear now, one similar to the repulsion she'd known when
she imagined making love to The Dap. But if Bryson was going to force her into
anything...which he couldn't
possibly
be about to do...well, that
changed everything again, didn't it? Who exactly was she supposed to trust?

Now, he was kneeling before her, speaking straight into the
open expanse between her legs. She trembled. The leotard was especially snug
about her nether regions, and sheer—with moisture, more so.

“Romy, what I'm trying to tell you is: there's a security
camera in this room. There are systems in place to make sure that the high-rollers
get their
prize
. And if the women don't please their customers, Lefty
will
have them...disposed of
. I've seen it before. Now, please don't
cry. And whatever you do: don't look up.”

She didn't have to. She knew just where she'd find that
incriminating, invisible patch of ceiling—she was good at sensing their
whereabouts, by now. The camera was likely resting in the near corner, just
above the door. Where Bryson had been staring a moment before. Romy imagined a
careful Lefty, watching her every move from his lodge below as Zaida fixed him
another gin and tonic...

“I'm going to get you out of this, Romy. I swear to God. And
I—all the Devils Aces—we're going to make sure DiMartino and the rest of his
pathetic slice of the Mob pay dearly for what they've been doing. This is a
sick, sick prostitution ring, it's illegal gambling, its...well, enough to put
him away for a long time. But from here on out, what I need most is for you to
play your cards right babe.”

She couldn't withhold a snort. For the first time that
evening, Bryson smiled his melting smile up at her. His familiar smirk put her
at instant ease. Of course, she'd connected the dots hours before, she knew
that she'd been sold into something as soon as she realized what the stakes
were for the blackjack tournament. Somehow Romy had held her composure during
the game, she dug deep and it wasn't easy to hold back the tears, but she knew
her situation would become much worse if she didn't keep it together now.

“So what are my cards, Bryson?”

“Well—,” he began. And for a moment, he looked flustered.
I have flustered Bryson Vaughn,
Romy thought to herself. Her inner
abandoned-in-the-library tenth grader did a little victory dance, in her head.
But before she could fully rejoice in the moment, a new thought occurred.

“So you'll need to fuck me,” she said.

Bryson was silent. He continued to stare straight into her
barely-sheathed crotch, as if hypnotized.

“I'm not going to fuck you,” he said at last. “Not like
this. But Lefty will be expecting something. Do you understand what that
means?”

She nodded dully, though the power of comprehension might as
well have flown the coop. In only the past hour, Romy had been tossed along a
whole gamut of emotions—terror, disgust, self-loathing, shame, and
now—impossibly—a steady, burning hunger for the man before her. But desire
couldn't win out. It was all simply too much. She didn't want to fuck him
either...
not like this.

“I'm just so tired,” Romy said, collapsing back against the
sheets. His eyes were still hunting towards her center. She felt them break
contact, at last.

Bryson stood up slowly. He put a finger to his lips, in echo
of his earlier gesture, and retreated to the bathroom. Romy listened for a
moment while the water ran. She grew accustomed to its thrum before allowing
herself to give in to the soft, several-hundred-count thread sheets. Her eyes
slid closed.

She didn't know how long she'd been asleep before she woke
with a jolt, to a hand on her face. The hand was Bryson's. In a moment of
surveillance, Romy determined that they were still in the hotel room, it was
still night, and no—her disastrous first shift at the Needle had not been a
dream.

Bryson didn't speak; he merely held out his other hand for
her to grasp. Still in a waking state, she took it, and allowed herself to be
led. He was picking their way towards the bathroom.

All “Basic Luxury Package” suites at The Windsor were
equipped with state-of-the-art Jacuzzis and marbled countertops; the management
presumed that most couples on Vegas vacations would be looking to have
elaborate sex in glamorous locations and furnished rooms accordingly. So the bathrooms
were romantic. The tubs were large and the towels were especially fluffy, and
most suites supplied between four and twelve fat votives. Stepping into
Bryson's bathroom, she saw that the only lights available were these.

Indeed, more than twelve fluttering candles gathered in a
circle around the bath-tub, which was filled to the brim with aromatic bubbles.
A glaze of rose petals presided over the water, like a sheet. Two matching sets
of terry cloth slippers were waiting at the foot of the short staircase
required to enter the Jacuzzi. A fresh towel hung on the towel rack.

Still soundless, Bryson made a big show of covering his eyes
with his hands. With a nod of his head, he motioned Romy towards the tub.

No man had ever made such a display for her—no silver foxes,
no ex-boyfriends, no one. At first, Romy was so overwhelmed she felt the urge
to giggle. But then she decided to admit to the pleasure in a fantasy—there
were cameras watching, after all.

She slowly pulled down the straps of her constricting
leotard, feeling the places along the elastic where the clothes had left
imprints in her skin. She stepped out of the garment at her feet, entirely
nude, and walked towards the tub. She took a quick glance back over her
shoulder to confirm Bryson's covered-eyes—and could've sworn she caught him
peeking through his left fingers.

“
Ahhhhhh
,” Romy said, descending into the tub—because
she likewise couldn't remember the last time she'd felt this good. The water
was a perfect temperature—hot, but not too hot. The bubbles were sweet, but not
overpowering. The rose petals lingered like lily pads, and graciously covered
her sex, her bobbling breasts, her nipples. “Come here,” she coaxed softly, in
the voice of (she figured) a different woman—a confident woman, a sexy woman, a
woman who had not just been through hell. Bryson opened his eyes. He looked at
her for a long time, floating there in the water. He seemed to concentrate on
her exposed flesh the way he concentrated on a deck of cards.

“Thank you,” Romy mouthed. In response, her hero approached
the basin, slowly unbuttoning his shirt as he moved. The swatch of chest hair
she'd noticed before was damp with his sweat; likewise, his sculpted pectorals.
She followed his fingers down on their journey, until they rested at the top of
his trousers. A small trail of curls led down, further down, further down...

Now Bryson indicated that Romy should turn around, with a
swirl of his index finger and a wry smile.

She did. But she peeked—and got a glimpse of how enormous
his manhood was, even in its partially-aroused state.

Bryson lowered himself slowly into the tub, his descent
creating slight ripples in the water. These crested across Romy's skin, pushing
bubbles over her body. Once he'd come to a resting place, he tilted his head
back into the water with a deep sigh. His long black hair grew slick.

They sat like that for a few moments. Romy eventually leaned
back also, letting the water weigh on her blonde ponytail. She closed her eyes.
Daydreams slid by, but none were better than this. She could nearly forget the
day.
Nearly.

When she opened her eyes again, Bryson was gone.
That man
has an amazing ability to disappear on me,
she thought. His vanishing act
threw her; if they were to ever really date, they'd need to have a long,
serious talk about surprises...

Just as she began to fume, a towel-clad and sweet-smelling
Bryson emerged from the hotel room bearing a tray, like a waiter. On this
rested a steaming bottle of Dom Perignon and two frosted champagne flutes.

“Drink?” he asked, his voice low.

“When did you get this?”

“When I knew I was going to win tonight.” Then came that
melting grin.

And again, Bryson turned around as she rose from the tub,
playing some kind of gentleman. In spite of herself, Romy felt antsy. If this
was his plan to satiate the creepy onlookers, they might still be in trouble.
Plus—going by her glimpse in the bathtub—making love to Bryson Vaughn would not
be the worst way to lose her last shred of dignity. Her thinking glazed over
again—it was so difficult to remember the reasons for her being in this room,
alongside her overpowering lust for this man.

But Romy thought of Paulette, fretting down in the lobby
below. She was likely wondering where her friend was. Throughout their tenure together,
Paulette had dreamed a dream for Romy that included a handsome hot-rod who
would care for her, believe in her, support her, hold her up—in a way that the
elusive Mr. Brownstein never had. In the way that Romy's own father (Christian,
she knew) had never been strong enough to carry her mother.

Despite seeing some of the worst things in the world,
despite working along one of the more sinful American avenues, people like
Paulette managed to sustain a belief in love, redemption, happily ever after. And
Romy was shocked to learn—here in the hotel room, now—that some of that
optimism had worked its way into her own philosophy. Then and there she knew in
her heart that she wanted Bryson, but for longer than a single night; and to
take him now, this way...it would represent a final besmirching of everything
she'd attempted to believe in. If she fucked him here—no matter the
attraction—she might really be Lefty's whore.

“I know what you're thinking,” Bryson said, pouring out a
tall glass of bubbly.

“How could you possibly?”

“Let me take a crack at it, at least.” In answer, Romy took
a pensive sip of her drink. She looked up at Bryson's intelligent face—but he
didn't seem about to speak.

In lieu of saying anything, Bryson set his glass down on the
rim of the tub, and with two strong hands lifted her out of the diminishing
foam. Then, he picked up Romy's naked body—cradling her tight between his taut
chest and the underside of his arms. His towel barely mussed, he carried her
across the bathroom and back towards the bed. She let her head loll in the
crevice his neck and shoulders made.

At the bedside, Bryson laid her gently down across the
pillows. When she shivered in the cold, he lifted two corners of the comforter
and tented them about her body, wrapping her form tight. Then he knelt on the
floor, as before, in a position just before the parting of her legs. A tuft of
his hair rose up from the parting in the sheets; Romy placed a hand in his
hair.

Below the sheet, she felt him moving. She felt the firm grip
of his ten fingers as they massaged first her outer thighs, then moved across
her hips. His hands finally rested as cups, on the twin swells of her slick
breasts. She cooed softly at his dry, warm touch.

As his hands landed, Bryson nudged his face deep between the
folds of her knees. She felt his breath first, recalling its taste of whiskey
and smoke from their brief kiss in the hall. She jolted when his mouth pressed
first against the inside of her left knee, but breathed deep: she resolved to be
still. She resolved to feel every inch of Bryson Vaughn's touch, so long as he
was touching her so tenderly, like this. She wouldn't think about it today. She
would think about it tomorrow.

His mouth moved upward, with intention. He sucked long and
slow, making trails along her thighs, perhaps sweet bruises. She moaned deeper,
beginning to buck in his hands. He squeezed her breasts hard in response.

When his mouth reached the outside of her center, Bryson
exhaled for a moment, letting a cool trickle of air dance across her aching
clit. Then—quite suddenly—his tongue reached out. He licked the span of her wet
heat in a long, sensitive lap. Romy cried out, and he squeezed the soft flesh
of her tits harder.

His strokes came faster and harder against her throbbing mound;
his tongue was hungry and confident. Romy felt herself begin to drip against
the linen. At this, Bryson only burrowed further into her. He pushed his tongue
deep between her lips and began to thrust up, against her walls.

Growing hot, Romy tore the sheet aside—though her body was
still damp from the bath. She pressed both hands over Bryson's moving head,
allowing her fingers to trace along his neck tattoos.

She couldn't form words. The pleasure was so intense, her
body would only move with instinct. She gripped him, she pressed him—he sucked
at her the more.

Moments before she climaxed, Bryson pulled his mouth away
from her with visible effort. “You've got me so fucking hard, Romy Adelaide,”
he said. He placed a rough finger against her soaking flesh and began to rub.
It didn't take long. He looked straight into her eyes as she seized against
him, coming for a long, long minute.

Afterwards, she couldn't be touched. She rolled away from
Bryson, onto the cool part of the bed untouched by her sweat, her moisture. She
lay flat and heaving, and stared up at the ceiling—even letting her eyes rest
on that horrible patch above the door where she imagined the security camera to
be.

Bryson crawled up onto the bed, coming to rest in the pools
of Romy's ecstasy. He reached over and slowly stroked her hair, moving a rugged
hand across her scalp. “You're okay, baby,” he whispered, over and over. When
she'd cooled, Bryson moved the comforter back across her body, tucking her
snug. He rose and turned off the lights, though Vegas still glittered through
the windows behind them. He settled into bed finally, gathering her as a little
spoon. He spoke into her hair.

“Hey Romy. You awake?”

“Hey Bryson,” she managed, faintly. “Yes.”

“So I have an important question. It's a matter of life and
death.”

Romy turned towards her lover, suddenly startled. “What? The
camera? What is it?”

“Shhh, no. Don't think of the cameras. It's this: will you
get a drink with me sometime?”

Romy smiled into the darkness.

“Bryson Vaughn, I'd like nothing more.”
“You've made me very happy, Miss Adelaide.”

Though she should have been afraid, or worried, or angry, or
confused, or sad... Romy could think of nothing but the sound of Bryson Vaughn
breathing. The smell of Bryson Vaughn's skin, the warm comfort of his touch.
The way he'd spoken her name, as if it was the most beautiful thing in the
world. The world might have been dark and dangerous, but here was a man who
might save her. Here—she dared to hope—was her knight rider, come to rescue her
on his revving motorcycle.