Put that into the song, musical person.
“You look like you have a hernia,” he whispers back.
But for you, baby, it’ll be a sexy hernia.
“Look, we’re getting stares. Where do we go now?” I hiss. Nate keeps his hand on my back—and guides it a little lower to my ass. Instantly, heat floods my core, moving lower.
Fuck it. I’m into it. Let’s have sex on top of the parrot.
Fortunately, he’s a little more focused on business right now than I am.
“Follow me,” he says, and guides me past the front desk and the elevator bank, and out onto the casino floor. Even at whatever o’clock this is, there are still people on the slots and at the tables. Time works differently in a Vegas casino, same as in an Indian opium den, or watching that fourth Transformers movie. You’re never quite sure when you started, and you have a vague idea of when you’ll finish. For all you know, you’ve been here for years.
“Over here,” Nate says, hooking an arm around me and taking me through to a long, echoing corridor.
Ah, I know where we’re going. The hotel has a conservatory.
We emerge into a jungle-like glen, with palm trees and fake rock walls, and high above us, a domed glass ceiling to let in the sunlight. It’s Japanese cherry blossom season, and there’s a kind of teahouse overlooking a small, fake pond. Paper birds, made from bright pink and yellow paper, soar above us on strings. The air smells of magnolia and cherry blossom; bright bursts of hibiscus flare around us.
And boom: there are the birds.
There are cages of parrots, and some birds flying free around the room. I look up, agog. “I didn’t know this hotel had birds.”
That is my brilliant contribution to this conversation. Envy me, for I am a wordsmith.
“Maybe Peebles would like it here,” he says, as I unbutton my coat and pull out the squawking bird.
Damn. His wings are strong as shit. He flaps them, whacking me in the face a couple of times. Fuck you, bird.
“I hate the name Peebles. Maybe change it to Francois. Or Millicent. Whatever, here you go, birdy!” I whisper, and toss him up into the air.
The parrot flaps his wings and soars up to whistle and click with all the other birds. Well, if I was a parrot, I’d rather live in a dense indoor tropical jungleland than a cage in someone’s Vegas subdivision. Good luck, Peebles. You nasty little jerk.
“I think we should go back to my room,” Nate whispers in my ear.
My skin thrills a little at his touch, and he traces his hand down my arm. His breath is warm, the scent of alcohol and bad decisions potent like a delicious cologne. I can feel his muscled body pressed up against the line of my back, and it’s driving me wild. I have to see him naked.
“I think room we should back to, yes, go,” I respond, breathless. Hey, you try making sense while being incredibly horny at the same time.
We head back to the elevators and speed up to the top floor. With Nate’s arm in mine, holding me steady, I make it down the lushly carpeted hall and to his door. He fumbles with the key a minute, opens up, and flicks on the lights.
I enter the foyer and whistle, taking it all in. Damn.
“Who did you have to screw to get a penthouse?” I murmur, leaning against him as he kicks the door closed with his foot. Ahead of us, floor to ceiling windows offer a view of the Vegas Strip, lights shimmering, bursts of neon exploding in the distance.
“My client’s ex-wife,” he says. When my eyebrows shoot up, Nate chuckles. “My firm represents people with a lot to lose in divorce settlements. A particular owner of a huge amount of Vegas property was going through a rather messy divorce. Supermodel married him, cheated on him, and still thought she was entitled to half.” He shrugs. “He didn’t see it coming, poor idiot.”
“Well, I’m sure he married her for their compatibility and mutual love and respect,” I say, rolling my eyes. “I don’t get why some people think marriage is about collecting trophies.”
“I don’t disagree,” he says, while we walk into the living room. He kisses the back of my neck. “But he was pretty desperate. And I managed to buy her off with a fraction of what she was after.”
“No wonder you don’t think much of romance,” I sigh. He flips on a light in the living room. I do something of a double take. “Then again, with hotel rooms like these, I don’t think it bothers you much.”
The room is sunken, two carpeted steps down and you’re in a vast living area replete with soft white couches. The coffee table is polished black wood, the drapes by the windows deep violet silk.
“I get to stay for free,” Nate says, sliding an arm around my waist, cradling me against his body. He sounds a little proud. And hell, he probably should be. “The perks of being a corrupt, heartless lawyer.”