Get Lucky by Lila Monroe
1
Julia
Waking up in Vegas was always a treat. But for Lola Sinclair, industrial saboteur and sexual adventurer, waking up with a rock-hard arm around her stomach and a rising erection against her back was the only way to start the day in Sin City. She was still lingering in the delicious aftereffects of a dream as his fingers trailed down her stomach to flit gently across her pussy.
Hmm. Flit gently. Not sure it’s the best word choice, but whatever. I can always edit later.
Lola smiled, her lips parting as Archer rolled his thumb around her clit. His finger pushed inside of her, and she was instantly wet. Hopefully, his rock-hard cock would soon follow.
Yeah. That’s good. Maybe we could have something more descriptive, like a simile? “She was instantly wet, like a St. Tropez beach at high tide.”
Eh, maybe not.
Lola groaned deep in her throat as he fingered her, his other hand tracing delicate patterns across her naked back. “Damn,” she thought, “I am going to hate to wake up from this dream. I—”
Wait a minute.
My eyes snap open. Lola Sinclair’s not the one in Vegas; I am. She’s not the one with someone waking her by saying good morning to her clit; I am. Lola Sinclair, BDSM sexpert and awesome international spy, doesn’t even exist; I just write books about her. And it’s not Archer Valmont, sadistic billionaire and champion badminton player, with his rock-hard arm around my stomach and his rising erection flush against my . . . .
What the flying fuck? Who the hell am I in bed with?
I turn to find a stubbled, ruggedly handsome face on the other pillow. The man wakes up slowly, bedroom eyes dreamy. His dark hair is tousled from what must have been an athletic night. The smile stretched across his face slowly collapses as he takes me in, and his eyes widen with shock.
Oh God. Where the fuck am I, and who the fuck is this?
“What the hell?” the mystery man grunts.
I try to roll away from him, but I’m too tangled in the sheets.
So, tangled and rolling, I fall out of bed and hit the floor.
2
Nate
Logic is my friend.
Whenever I’m on the phone with a client, guiding him or her through the trauma of a contentious divorce, I remember I’m supposed to be the one with the level head and the ironclad plan. Whenever people sit across from me, blubbing into a packet of Kleenex while going on about how it’s over, how can it be over, I’m the man with a pitcher of ice cold drinking water and a detailed list of why they should be fucking glad it’s over. He cheated on you. She’s looking to take full custody and half your annual salary. Why would you want to put yourself through this hell one more day? Calm, orderly thoughts lead to calm, orderly lives. No surprises means no surprising fuck-ups.
So when I wake up slowly from a dream about having a round, sexy ass pressed up against my morning wood, I’m happy to languish. What man wouldn’t? It’d felt so real.
Turns out it felt real because it was real. And when I snap back to consciousness and find myself face to face with a pair of enormous blue eyes and a tangled mane of strawberry blonde hair, I realize I don’t know where the hell I am or who the hell I’m with.
Focus, Nate. And do it fast, because she looks like she’s about to start screaming.
First part comes back easy. I’m in the Bellagio hotel, Las Vegas, in a damn sweet, well, suite. Top floor, corner penthouse, killer view of the Strip at night. No, I’m not rolling in money, though I’m certainly not hurting for cash. I’ve guided enough high profile billionaires through painless divorce settlements that it gets me a few perks. Like free Vegas hotels whenever I feel like it.
Okay. We’re in the hotel. That’s clear to me.
But the strawberry blonde with the increasingly terrified blue eyes? That one’s not so clear. And I don’t like it when I don’t know the answer to a very important question.
So take it easy, Nate. Proceed with caution. Maybe start with—
“What the hell?”
Okay, not the most eloquent, but can you fucking blame me?
The woman twists around and falls off the bed. Shit. I sit up at once and discover that I’m completely naked. Great. So is she.
“Are you okay?” I ask, leaning over the bed. She looks up at me, blinking herself awake, and pushes her curls out of her face.
“What am I doing here?” she snaps, clutching the sheets to cover her (ample) breasts as she gets up off the floor. Which leads to question three.
“Why are you naked?” I say.
“Why are you naked?”
“It’s my bed.” Yes! Pwned by logic. I’m doing pretty good so far, considering my erection is still at half mast.