Chapter 1
He was here again, I shouldn’t be surprised. He, being Marco Savoy, a wealthy playboy billionaire that spent many an evening gambling at The Platinum’s high roller tables.
Marco was dashing. Seriously, as in romance cover, bodice ripping dashing. He made me think of pirates and maidens in distress. Obviously this is my own fantasy come to life, since if I wasn’t working, I was reading.
My name is Carmen Alvarez. I’m a petite, curvy Latina woman with a rich heritage and an exciting fun filled Vegas lifestyle. Translate that to short and round stay at home hermit and you might get a better picture of the real me.
Ok, round might not be the nicest thing I could say about myself. I was, um, rubenesque? Or pleasantly plump?
Oh, who was I kidding. Too many years of my mama shoving plates of tamales at me or bowls of posole when I was blue has made me the woman I am. I’m not unfit mind you. I work out, but I can’t seem to push away from a chocolate fudge cake if my life depended on it.
I’ve found over the years, my considerable assets have been, well, an asset. I always seem to find guys who think I’m the cat’s meow. Whatever that means. I date. I’ve even had a few long term relationships. But I haven’t found ‘The One’. I know, corny and unrealistic but I have to believe he is out there.
Just waiting for me.
Until then, I spend my evenings working the tables at The Platinum. I’ve been here for five, going on six years and have seen it all. But the last year has been good, as in really good. At least for my spank bank fantasies.
Marco starting coming in just over a year ago. The hotel gossip was that he was some rich guy, just moved from Europe. Old money they say, but he still works. Which in my book puts him well above the rich brats that come in and trash the hotel on the weekends. Too much of mommy and daddy’s money and no sense of self respect.
They usually would whine their way into the high rollers lounge, drop huge wads of cash and more often than not, lose huge wads of cash. They were always too drunk to bet well or even follow the game. Wasn’t my job to keep their trust funds flush. And besides, they rarely tipped and never well. Ungrateful little curs.
But tonight was going to be a good night, at least after my shift when I was home alone.
I spotted him sauntering in, (yes he sauntered) and I struggled to keep my eyes on the players in front of me. I was at the blackjack table. Five hundred dollar minimum bet at this table. Marco was more of a poker or baccarat player. But if I was working, he was at my table. Didn’t matter what I was dealing.
Lucky for me, there were two open seats at my table. I tried not to hold my breath waiting for him to make his way over.
He was tall, well over six feet. He was muscled, but not crazy body builder built. He almost always wore a suit, no tie, open collar. All top of the line, expensive. You could just tell that suit would feel like butter if you ever had the chance to brush up against it.
I’d dreamed about brushing up against him. Hell I’ve dreamed about humping his leg like a stray dog.
His hair was messy tonight, like he’d run his fingers through his overgrown black hair a number of times. Sometimes he wore it slicked back and the effect was devastating. He had bright green eyes, like honest to goodness green. Not hazel, not muddied by other colors, but emerald green. Black sooty lashes framed his eyes and there were always little laugh lines framing the edges.
He had an aristocratic nose. I’m saying this because my romance books always seem to describe handsome men that way. I didn’t understand, until I met him, what that meant. It wasn’t too big, but was straight and prominent, balanced out by a firm jaw and a lusciously full mouth. He was olive skinned, not like a tan, but just his natural tone.
Again, he looked like a freaking pirate. And I sooo wanted to be his naughty wench.
Great, I’m spacing,
He was here again, I shouldn’t be surprised. He, being Marco Savoy, a wealthy playboy billionaire that spent many an evening gambling at The Platinum’s high roller tables.
Marco was dashing. Seriously, as in romance cover, bodice ripping dashing. He made me think of pirates and maidens in distress. Obviously this is my own fantasy come to life, since if I wasn’t working, I was reading.
My name is Carmen Alvarez. I’m a petite, curvy Latina woman with a rich heritage and an exciting fun filled Vegas lifestyle. Translate that to short and round stay at home hermit and you might get a better picture of the real me.
Ok, round might not be the nicest thing I could say about myself. I was, um, rubenesque? Or pleasantly plump?
Oh, who was I kidding. Too many years of my mama shoving plates of tamales at me or bowls of posole when I was blue has made me the woman I am. I’m not unfit mind you. I work out, but I can’t seem to push away from a chocolate fudge cake if my life depended on it.
I’ve found over the years, my considerable assets have been, well, an asset. I always seem to find guys who think I’m the cat’s meow. Whatever that means. I date. I’ve even had a few long term relationships. But I haven’t found ‘The One’. I know, corny and unrealistic but I have to believe he is out there.
Just waiting for me.
Until then, I spend my evenings working the tables at The Platinum. I’ve been here for five, going on six years and have seen it all. But the last year has been good, as in really good. At least for my spank bank fantasies.
Marco starting coming in just over a year ago. The hotel gossip was that he was some rich guy, just moved from Europe. Old money they say, but he still works. Which in my book puts him well above the rich brats that come in and trash the hotel on the weekends. Too much of mommy and daddy’s money and no sense of self respect.
They usually would whine their way into the high rollers lounge, drop huge wads of cash and more often than not, lose huge wads of cash. They were always too drunk to bet well or even follow the game. Wasn’t my job to keep their trust funds flush. And besides, they rarely tipped and never well. Ungrateful little curs.
But tonight was going to be a good night, at least after my shift when I was home alone.
I spotted him sauntering in, (yes he sauntered) and I struggled to keep my eyes on the players in front of me. I was at the blackjack table. Five hundred dollar minimum bet at this table. Marco was more of a poker or baccarat player. But if I was working, he was at my table. Didn’t matter what I was dealing.
Lucky for me, there were two open seats at my table. I tried not to hold my breath waiting for him to make his way over.
He was tall, well over six feet. He was muscled, but not crazy body builder built. He almost always wore a suit, no tie, open collar. All top of the line, expensive. You could just tell that suit would feel like butter if you ever had the chance to brush up against it.
I’d dreamed about brushing up against him. Hell I’ve dreamed about humping his leg like a stray dog.
His hair was messy tonight, like he’d run his fingers through his overgrown black hair a number of times. Sometimes he wore it slicked back and the effect was devastating. He had bright green eyes, like honest to goodness green. Not hazel, not muddied by other colors, but emerald green. Black sooty lashes framed his eyes and there were always little laugh lines framing the edges.
He had an aristocratic nose. I’m saying this because my romance books always seem to describe handsome men that way. I didn’t understand, until I met him, what that meant. It wasn’t too big, but was straight and prominent, balanced out by a firm jaw and a lusciously full mouth. He was olive skinned, not like a tan, but just his natural tone.
Again, he looked like a freaking pirate. And I sooo wanted to be his naughty wench.
Great, I’m spacing,
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