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Authors: Lauren Jameson
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just the tiniest movement, before his face returns to normal, as if we just shared a joke that no one else can know.
“Do you know who that is?” I mumble this to the man who has leaned in closer than I’d like. I gesture with my head toward the balcony. I had hoped he would be subtle, but the man next to me turns and stares, unabashed.
I can feel myself blushing furiously.
The man beside me leans back in, far too close. I can smell scotch on his breath, as well as the stench of cigarette smoke and sweat.
“That’s Alex Fraser. Bloody Irishman. Owns the place.” My mouth falls open as the enormity of the statement hits me.
He owns the casino? Alex Fraser owns the whole entire casino?
The man chooses that moment to place his hand over my own. It’s clammy and tugs at my skin. I barely hide a shudder before pulling away.
“I can take care of you just as well as that fucker.” I am appalled at the man’s choice of language, and am reeling a bit at the knowledge that Alex owns the casino. No wonder he could afford to buy a seventy-year-old bottle of wine.
“I . . . I think I’m going to go freshen up.” I extract my hand from beneath the other man’s, and know that the first thing I’ll do in the ladies’ room is scour the flesh that he touched with soap and hot water. I gather my chips, the little stack a satisfying weight in my hand. As I step away from the table, I dare to take another look up at the balcony, to see if Alex is still there.
He’s there all right, and he is scowling at me. No, not scowling, glowering. After a shock runs through my body—what did I
do
?—I realize that he’s not glaring at me at all, but at the man whose sweat still stains my palm.
Surely . . . could he be . . . he’s not mad that the man touched me? I shake the thought out of my head.
I don’t really know Alex Fraser at all, nor does he know me. I still don’t know why he introduced himself to me in the casino bar, and I probably won’t ever know. But I do know that he can’t possibly care who touches me.
As I scurry across the casino floor to the door marked
Ladies
, I reflect that even if he did care, he really doesn’t have anything to worry about.
I haven’t been touched, not that in that way, for a very long time.
I think of the wink as I walk, and it hits me out of nowhere. He arranged for me to win. How dare he? He might have been thinking that he was doing me a favor, but he has just undermined my entire experience. I don’t feel as if I can cross this item off of my bucket list anymore—it wasn’t real.
I want to go up there and yell, which is strange, because I never yell. No, I swallow my feelings, bury them inside.
I look over my shoulder, one more glance at the balcony before I enter the ladies’ room. I wonder if I can signal somehow that I need to talk to him, convey to him that what he just did upset me. Not that he will care, but I feel driven to do so anyway.
Also, I want just one more look at the man, the beautiful creature who has perplexed me so.
I catch sight of the back of him, walking away from the balcony. I also see a wisp of golden hair, not so different in color from my own, vanishing from the balcony in front of him. Someone else was up in that balcony with him, someone whom I didn’t see. He has followed that person back inside.
He is gone, and I will never see him again.
***
Click here for more books by this author
Lauren Jameson is a writer, yoga newbie, knitting aficionado, and animal lover who lives in the shadows of the great Rocky Mountains of Alberta, Canada. She’s older than she looks—really—and younger than she feels—most of the time. She has published with Avon and Harlequin as Lauren Hawkeye and writes contemporary erotic romance for NAL. Visit her online at www.laurenjameson.com and www.laurenhawkeye.com.
Surrender to Temptation
Part I: Tempted to Submit
Part II: Tempted to Rebel
Part III: Tempted to Obey
Part IV: Tempted to
“Do you know who that is?” I mumble this to the man who has leaned in closer than I’d like. I gesture with my head toward the balcony. I had hoped he would be subtle, but the man next to me turns and stares, unabashed.
I can feel myself blushing furiously.
The man beside me leans back in, far too close. I can smell scotch on his breath, as well as the stench of cigarette smoke and sweat.
“That’s Alex Fraser. Bloody Irishman. Owns the place.” My mouth falls open as the enormity of the statement hits me.
He owns the casino? Alex Fraser owns the whole entire casino?
The man chooses that moment to place his hand over my own. It’s clammy and tugs at my skin. I barely hide a shudder before pulling away.
“I can take care of you just as well as that fucker.” I am appalled at the man’s choice of language, and am reeling a bit at the knowledge that Alex owns the casino. No wonder he could afford to buy a seventy-year-old bottle of wine.
“I . . . I think I’m going to go freshen up.” I extract my hand from beneath the other man’s, and know that the first thing I’ll do in the ladies’ room is scour the flesh that he touched with soap and hot water. I gather my chips, the little stack a satisfying weight in my hand. As I step away from the table, I dare to take another look up at the balcony, to see if Alex is still there.
He’s there all right, and he is scowling at me. No, not scowling, glowering. After a shock runs through my body—what did I
do
?—I realize that he’s not glaring at me at all, but at the man whose sweat still stains my palm.
Surely . . . could he be . . . he’s not mad that the man touched me? I shake the thought out of my head.
I don’t really know Alex Fraser at all, nor does he know me. I still don’t know why he introduced himself to me in the casino bar, and I probably won’t ever know. But I do know that he can’t possibly care who touches me.
As I scurry across the casino floor to the door marked
Ladies
, I reflect that even if he did care, he really doesn’t have anything to worry about.
I haven’t been touched, not that in that way, for a very long time.
I think of the wink as I walk, and it hits me out of nowhere. He arranged for me to win. How dare he? He might have been thinking that he was doing me a favor, but he has just undermined my entire experience. I don’t feel as if I can cross this item off of my bucket list anymore—it wasn’t real.
I want to go up there and yell, which is strange, because I never yell. No, I swallow my feelings, bury them inside.
I look over my shoulder, one more glance at the balcony before I enter the ladies’ room. I wonder if I can signal somehow that I need to talk to him, convey to him that what he just did upset me. Not that he will care, but I feel driven to do so anyway.
Also, I want just one more look at the man, the beautiful creature who has perplexed me so.
I catch sight of the back of him, walking away from the balcony. I also see a wisp of golden hair, not so different in color from my own, vanishing from the balcony in front of him. Someone else was up in that balcony with him, someone whom I didn’t see. He has followed that person back inside.
He is gone, and I will never see him again.
***
Click here for more books by this author
Lauren Jameson is a writer, yoga newbie, knitting aficionado, and animal lover who lives in the shadows of the great Rocky Mountains of Alberta, Canada. She’s older than she looks—really—and younger than she feels—most of the time. She has published with Avon and Harlequin as Lauren Hawkeye and writes contemporary erotic romance for NAL. Visit her online at www.laurenjameson.com and www.laurenhawkeye.com.
Surrender to Temptation
Part I: Tempted to Submit
Part II: Tempted to Rebel
Part III: Tempted to Obey
Part IV: Tempted to
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