Play Me (5 page)

And I…I do the only thing I can do considering the current situation. The only thing I can think to do with my cock throbbing in my pants and my brain wrapped up in what I need to do to make Aria mine.

I walk straight across my office and through the door that leads to my personal restroom.

I close the door, shrug out of my suit jacket and unzip my pants.

And then I wrap my hand around my rock-hard dick.

Relief floods me at the first touch, the first stroke. At the knowledge that relief is imminent. And still it isn't enough, isn't close to being enough.

Leaning back against the sink, I close my eyes. Keep my strokes long and languid. And think of Aria.

Aria, with her short skirt and fishnet stockings and mile long legs, carrying a tray as she cuts through the high rollers' area like a general dividing his troops.

Aria, with her lush lips and dark, gypsy eyes laying into that Russian bastard.

Aria, with her tight jeans and lacy blouse sitting in my chair, in my office.

Aria brushing her sweet body against mine.

Aria challenging me.

Aria saying fuck.

Aria.

Aria.

Aria.

It doesn't take long before I'm coming like a teenager, with a muffled groan and an orgasm so powerful it takes every ounce of control I have to stay upright. And still I'm not satisfied. Still it's not enough.

Not when I can still smell her, cherries and vanilla and sweet, sweet sex.

Not when I can still feel her lush ass pressed against my cock.

Not when I still want her.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. I turn my head, sink my teeth into my bicep and wait for the pain to help bring my body under control. But this time it doesn't work. This time the sharp press of my teeth only turns me on more because I imagine it's her biting me, her on the brink of losing control.

I'm hard again, or hard still, and right now denial isn't even in my vocabulary. So I fist my cock again, jerk off a second time. And pray, as I finally clean up the mess and tuck myself back into my suit, that twice is enough to keep me focused. Keep me sane. And keep me from jumping her like a crazed animal the next time I see her. It's not much, but at the moment it's all the control I can muster. At least when it comes to Aria.

I can feel him watching me. Can feel his eyes raking over my hair, my breasts, my legs. It's a near tangible feeling, like his hands are just brushing against me, his rough palms skating softly, sweetly, over my shoulders and down my bare arms to my hands and the sensitive skin between each of my fingers. He's everywhere​—above me, beside me, in front of me, behind me, and I can't catch a break. Can't catch my breath.

Talk about jumping from the frying pan straight into the fire. Oh, the way he's looking at me isn't disrespect​ful—it's not the way Mr. Cervantes looks at me when I deliver his shots of Patron and it's not the way I feel Mr. Benson undressing me with his eyes every time I come anywhere near him.

But that doesn't mean it's a comfortable stare, either. Because it's not. It's hard to be comfortable when your boss's boss's boss's boss is watching your every move.

I try to tell myself that that's all it is. That the reason I'm so nervous as I slip an Absolut and grapefruit next to Mr. Torres's elbow and a Glenfiddich on the rocks onto the table beside Mrs. Brandt is because I'm afraid of screwing up again in front of my boss. That I'm afraid of doing something that will get me fired.

But I've never been one to lie to myself often or well—what's the point of it when deep down inside I know the truth. In this case, the truth is that it's been twenty-eight hours since I walked out of Sebastian Caine's office and still I can barely breathe without wanting. Without needing.

It's stupid, so stupid, to be this tied in knots just from one meeting with him. Of course, it's even more stupid to actually think about sleeping with him. I know it is. With my family and his business, my past and his present, any move to get together, no matter how temporary, is a disaster waiting to happen.

Intellectually I know all that. Just like I know sleeping with a rich man—any rich man let alone one who owns a Vegas casino—is absolute folly. And yet I can't help thinking about the way he looked at me as I walked away from him in his office yesterday, his eyes a seething forest green and his face a mask of the same want that is sweeping through me even now.

“Hey, Aria.” Mr. Sheenan catches my attention, waves me over. Though I'm already trying to figure out how to avoid the groping I know is coming, I stop beside him anyway. And smile even as I angle my ass away from him and the craps table he's standing at.

“What can I get for you, sir?”

“Another Maker's Mark would be great, thanks.” He holds up his empty glass, rattles the ice around in the bottom of it.

“Coming right up.” I take the glass, set it in the middle of my empty tray.

“And do you have anything to eat around here? Anything you can grab me so I don't have to leave the table?” He holds the dice up for me to blow on and I do, because it's not worth offending him. Besides, I've always had good luck with dice. “The dice are hot tonight.”

As if to echo his point, he throws the dice and we both watch as they turn up ten. The dealer pays out to him and everyone else on the Pass line, and then he goes to roll again. “See?” he tells me as he picks them up again. “It's a lucky night. I can't leave.”

“I'll bring you a menu from our sandwich shop,” I tell him, “if that sounds okay?”

“It sounds great, gorgeous.” He flips a fifty dollar chip onto my tray and then holds up his dice for me to blow on again. I do, and this time when he rolls a twelve, the whole table cheers.

I take the distraction as an opportunity to slip away, but Mr. Sheenan must see me go because I get a slap to the ass hard enough that it makes me jump—and almost makes me dump his glass of ice onto the head of another patron.

I catch myself in time and then head to the bar where Michael is working again. I give Mr. Sheenan's order along with three others I took along the way, but as I start stacking my tray with my latest round of drink orders, Michael all but freezes in front of me.

And that's when I know for sure that the feeling I had of being watched wasn't just my imagination. It was real. So real that the hot prickle I feel at the base of my neck can only be because Sebastian is standing there, behind me.

Bracing myself for the impact of seeing him again, I turn with a smile. Sure enough, he's standing there, face grim and green eyes even more grim still.

“Good evening, Mr. Caine,” I say to him as I lift the now heavy tray up and maneuver carefully around him.

My formal use of his name doesn't sit well with him—he doesn't do anything overt, but the definite clenching of his jaw tips me off. Still, I don't know what I'm supposed to do down here in the middle of the casino floor, where it feels like everyone is staring at us. Call him Sebastian? Let him get as close to me as I did upstairs yesterday?

Like that's going to happen. The only thing worse than sleeping with the top boss is having your co-workers think you're sleeping with him. Uh-uh. No way.

Except Sebastian doesn't seem to get the hint. Instead of melting into the crowd to do whatever guys like him do to keep the casino running smoothly on busy Saturday nights, he turns to follow me. Even goes so far as to dog my steps as I drop off the drinks to two tables at the far end of the high roller section.

This time as I weave my way through the patrons, I don't have to dodge so much as a pair of wandering eyes. Everyone's too busy staring at Sebastian—the news that he's Caine's heir moving through the area at an amazing pace. I'd be grateful for his presence, and protection, if I wasn't so annoyed about the whole damn thing.

Still, things go relatively smoothly until I stop at the craps table to hand Mr. Sheenan a menu from the sandwich shop on the other side of the casino floor. He thanks me for it with a wink, and then—either not noticing Sebastian or not caring about his presence one way or the other—brings one of his huge paws straight down on my ass hard enough to make me jump. More than hard enough to have me spilling liquid out of the two drinks left on my tray.

“Hey!” Sebastian's hand comes out of nowhere, wraps itself around Mr. Sheenan's wrist and squeezes until he drops the dice. “He'll be cashing out for now, Justice,” Sebastian tells the dealer who is watching the proceedings with gleeful interest. I can almost see her trying to make sure she has every detail for the story she's going to tell at the first opportunity.

“The hell I will be, buddy,” Mr. Sheenan blusters. “I'm on a roll.”

“Are you? Really?” Sebastian asks, squeezing the guy's wrist even harder. “Because it seems to me that you're about to be in for a round of very bad luck. After all, you won't be able to roll the dice if you're missing your hand, which might be a problem for your continued participation in the game.”

I watch, mouth open, as he threatens one of the casino's most frequent whales, one who routinely drops a few million dollars every time that he plays.

“What is your problem?” Mr. Sheenan demands, sounding belligerent as well as angry as he attempts to shake off Sebastian's iron grip.

I place a hand on Sebastian's arm, start to intervene, and get nothing for my trouble but a furious look that tells me to butt out.

“My problem,” Sebastian tells him, “is that this is my casino. And I don't appreciate watching some asshole with delusions of grandeur slap and grope at my employees. That's not the kind of place I run.”

He lets go of Mr. Sheenan's wrist then, but the eye contact between them doesn't waver. It doesn't take a genius to realize I'm in the middle of a gigantic pissing contest, one that Sebastian has absolutely no intention of losing.

No intention of losing? I nearly laugh at the thought. It's not like he's got a chance in hell of losing. Not because of who he is, but because of the look on his face, in his eyes. He's got total control of this situation and he isn't giving up. Not to me, who spent the first couple minutes of his being here trying to hurry him along. Not to the security that is circling like wolves, just waiting for the boss's orders. And definitely not to Mr. Sheenan, who's gone from looking jovial and powerful to small and weak in the space of a few seconds.

In the end, Mr. Sheenan is the one to look away first—surp​rising exactly no one, except maybe himself.

I wait for Sebastian to say something else, to humiliate Mr. Sheenan with the fact that he blinked first. But I underestimate Sebastian Caine. All he does is say a very civilized “Thank you,” before placing his hand on my lower back and guiding me back toward the bar.

“What the hell was that about?” I hiss as soon as we're out of earshot.

He eyes me coolly. “That was about making sure he doesn't touch you—or any other waitress who works here—again. I've been watching him for the last three hours and if you don't have at least one bruise on your ass because of him, I'll be shocked.”

He's right—already I can feel the soreness on my left ass cheek from where it's been smacked repeatedly. I don't tell Sebastian this, don't want to give him the satisfaction of winning this round, too. But a glance at his face tells me he already knows he's right and he's not happy about it.

“Come to my office,” he tells me, taking the drinks tray from my hands and placing it on the bar next to Michael, who is trying to look like he's not listening.

“I can't,” I tell him, reaching over to pocket the tips that are still on the tray. I'm sure I look mercenary, but I still have rent that needs to be paid and a car that needs new tires desperately. “In case you haven't noticed, I'm working.”

“You're due for your dinner break,” he tells me with the confidence of a man who isn't used to being thwarted. “Take it now.”

“I don't want to take it now.” My stomach chooses that moment to rumble, calling me a liar more effectively than Sebastian ever could. The truth is, I'd planned on making one more round of the floor before clocking out—my break actually started five minutes ago. But doing it because Sebastian orders me to isn't the same as doing it because I want to, or because my manager tells me it's time.

“Tough luck,” he tells me, and the hand on my back suddenly feels a lot more threatening. “You're obviously hungry, you've had a rough night dealing with that bastard and you look like you're about to drop if you don't get some food in you. Take your damn dinner break.”

“Now is probably the perfect time to tell you that I don't respond well to orders,” I snarl at him. The truth is, I have an anti-authority streak a mile wide, and it's getting bigger every day. My therapist says it comes from spending so much of my early life toeing the line, doing exactly what was expected of me all the time, right up until—

I stop before I can go there, refusing to let myself get bogged down in a past I can't change and never could control. Besides, I have enough trouble dealing with Sebastian when I'm on my game. Dealing with him when I'm lost in what happened fourteen months ago would be downright impossible.

I'm just about to launch another offensive—one that gets Sebastian's hand off my back and tells him where he can put his orders—when David comes up. “Everything okay?” my direct boss asks quickly, his eyes darting between Sebastian and myself.

I'm not stupid. I know he's asking for Sebastian's benefit and not for mine, but I'm still glad to see him. Especially since it gives me an excuse to get back to work.

“Everything's great,” I tell him with a smile so fake I'm surprised my face doesn't crack right down the middle. “I'm about to do another round of the floor.”

“Actually, I came over here to tell you to take your break,” David says to me. “You're already ten minutes late clocking out.”

Fuck. Really? Since when does David keep track of employee break times? Usually we're the ones who have to seek him out to remind him we need to go off the clock. The bastard. It isn't bad enough that he fired me two nights ago, now he needs to undermine what little control of my life I do have.

“She was just about to do that,” Sebastian says, using his hand on my back to guide me away from the bar and toward the private executive elevator situated behind the cashier cages.

“Where are we going?” I demand, torn between digging in my heels and following Sebastian just to see what he's up to. Curiosity always has been one of my greatest flaws.

“To my office.”

I do stop then, right in the middle of the ebb and flow of casino traffic. “I need to eat,” I tell him, using it as an excuse to avoid his inner sanctum. I don't want to be alone with him,
can't
be alone with him. Not after yesterday. And definitely not with all the weird feelings he's evoking in me.

“It's taken care of,” he assures me. He inserts his key into the lock above the elevator call button and the doors open instantly. Then he's shepherding me inside and pushing the button for the top floor. Seconds later, the doors whoosh silently shut.

I don't know whether to be furious or amused by his high-handedness. The truth is, I'm a little bit of both and I don't try to hide either reaction as the elevator opens into the reception area at the front of his office. Must be nice.

He leads the way to his office, then steps back and holds the door open for me so that I can enter first. It only takes a minute for me to realize what he meant about dinner being taken care of. There's a small table set up in the center of the room, with chairs on either side of it. It's covered in a fancy tablecloth, and there's a small bouquet of roses in the center of it, along with two silver-dome covered plates.

I glance at Sebastian as my mind races with apprehension. I've barely gotten my head around the fact that I still have a job. This fancy dinner is waaaaay out of my comfort zone.

He must sense my unease because he smiles at me even as he gestures toward the table. “It's not what you think,” he assures me. “They just like to make a big production out of everything I order. Comes with being the boss.”