Hustler
Published by Meghan Quinn and Jessica Prince
Copyright 2016
Cover design by Meghan Quinn
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All characters in this book are fiction and figments of the authors’ imagination.
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Formatting CP Smith Affordable Formatting
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opyright © 2016 Meghan Quinn and Jessica Prince
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**GAVIN**
“Pinch my nipple, again.”
Seriously, if I squeeze this chick’s nipple one more time, I’m afraid it will pop off the fake titty it’s attached to. I’ve spent the last five minutes up in Areola City, playing with her unappealing, and rather rubbery tits. I’m about two more tweaks away from being bored.
“Oh, oh, oh,” she screams obnoxiously, making her “O” face way too early.
I’m fucking good at sex, an experienced motherfucker in the bedroom, but there is no way in hell this girl is about to tap out just from a little nip action. Not when I can tell her breasts have been desensitized from the bubbling saline sacs ready to burst at any given time.
This is what I get for day drinking.
“Oh Grant, just like that. Squeeze them harder.”
As if she just pinched my cock with her lady claws, I pull away quickly. “My name is Gavin.”
“That’s what I said. Come here, big daddy.” Her arms reach out in a “gimme gimme” kind of gesture.
“Uh no,” I correct her, insulted as fuck. “You called me, Grant.”
“They’re practically the same name.” She bats her eyelashes at me, giving me an innocent look that I see right through.
Call me a drama queen, but I’m not about to fuck a woman who called me someone else’s name. Peeling my body off of hers, I roll to the side of my bed, and head toward the shower. Time to wash away my poor decisions.
“Where are you going?”
I don’t answer her, instead I turn the handle of my fifty-thousand-dollar shower, stacked with ten showerheads, a waterfall head in the ceiling, and neon lights. I’m rich, and a man’s got to spend his money on
something
, right?
Heating up quickly, I step into the onslaught of water, letting the warm liquid hit my body in all the right ways. Resting my head against the tile, I think back, trying to remember when sex became so monotonous for me, when it became so routine that I didn’t care if I turned a girl down or not.
Back in the day, when I was just starting to hit the tables hard, perfecting my trade, and mastering the art of calling people on their tells, I would have easily fucked the girl in my bed, not giving two shits if she called me Grant or Neil Diamond. Any pussy was good pussy to me.
But my mindset has changed since then. I’m Gavin Saint. Women don’t mistake me for someone else… ever.
Maybe that’s my problem. I’m holding myself to a higher standard. I’m not living in the moment. I process that thought and then shake my head. Nope, I’m Mr. Live-in-the-Fucking-Moment. I have zero regard for a future, I live in the here and now. Relationships don’t exist in my world. Families are made for men wanting and willing to put on a set of New Balance 409’s and a pair of khaki cargo pants, because they have to stuff their balls somewhere. They’re sure as hell not attached to the log sitting between their legs.
A cold breeze hits my back, letting me know my shower time has been ambushed.
Her claws run up my shoulder blades, and around to the front of my pecs. Her plump breasts push against my back, and I can’t help but like the feeling. I’m a man, not a saint – despite my last name.
“Don’t be mad at me. I just want to please you.” She moves her hands down the front of my chest, past my defined, toned stomach, to my dick, which has reawakened.
My head falls back the minute her hand wraps itself around my cock. Starting at the root, she pumps up, gripping just tight enough that I have to spread my legs further apart to steady myself. Who knew this chick was going to be amazingly good at hand jobs?
Maybe she wasn’t such a poor decision after all.
Her hand pumps three, four, five times, and then stops. I’m about to protest when she slips in front of me and drops to her knees, licking her lips, ready to devour me. So she doesn’t drown, I tilt the showerhead above us to the side and brace myself against the wall, allowing the cold tile to penetrate the heated skin of my back.
Slowly, like a fucking sloth, she runs her hands up my thighs until she connects with the juncture between my legs. Her right hand wraps around my cock and her left hand grips my balls, rolling them tenderly with her fingers.
Fuck me, that feels good.
I glance down at her, her breasts swaying with her movements, her hair wet and pushed to the side, and her lips moist and wide open, ready for me. With a little thrust forward, I make my way to her mouth where she sucks me in, all the way, so the tip of my dick touches the back of her throat.
With zero gag reflex, she sucks me, hard, her teeth barely grazing my sensitive skin. Normally, the touch of teeth on my dick has me sweating, not in a good way, but I’m not worried at this point, I’m just enjoying the feel of her mouth around my cock.
My head rests against the tile of my shower, my hands fall into her hair, encouraging her to move faster, and I let myself relax into one hell of a blow job. Not the best I’ve ever had, but fuck, getting your dick sucked is never a bad thing.
With every pull of my cock and fondle of my balls, I’m pushed further and further to the precipice of my orgasm. My toes start to tingle, my junk tightens up, and my stomach rolls with pleasure as white, hot euphoria engulfs me, screaming through my body, hell bent on making me fall to my damn knees.
She swallows everything I give her, never letting up, taking it all down until I’m completely sated.
Breathless and pleased, I watch her wipe her mouth and stand up. Her nipples are hard, and she has a fuck-me-now look on her face. She pats my cheek and says, “I will be waiting for you in the bed. Bring your A-game sailor.”
Just like that, I want nothing to do with her again. Exiting the shower, she wraps a towel around her body and heads back out to my California king-sized bed. Fingers crossed she’s passes out before I get back to my room.
I take my time cleaning myself, letting every jet hit me in the right spot, allowing my shampoo and soap to soak in before I wash it out, and frankly, reciting the presidents by term just to avoid any responsibility of fingering/tonguing her pussy.
There is no way my dick is going inside of her.
Reluctantly, I turn off the shower and listen carefully as I step onto my plush bathmat. From the wall, I grab my towel off the rack and dry off, listening for any kind of stirring coming from the bedroom.
Nothing.
Drying off quickly, I tip toe across the white marble floor and peek my head out the door. Laying in the middle of the bed, legs spread, head hanging off one of my pillows, and drool pooling out of her mouth is my ridiculous poor decision – minus the blow job.
Thank you tequila shots!
Day drinking actually has come in handy.
Being as quiet as possible, I sift through my closet, choosing a deep blue Armani suit and white button up shirt. I pair my outfit with a brown Dolce and Gabbana belt and matching Barker Black Cap Toe shoes. I’m a man of style, expensive and refined style. I pride myself on what’s in my closet and the fabric I put on my body. Only the finest of attire for me. As a high roller at the poker tables in Vegas, I have an image to maintain.
Styling my hair to the side, giving it just enough ruffle to make it look messy but kept together, I cement it with some pliable hair wax, playing with a few strands in the front until I’m happy. Once satisfied, I put on a spray of cologne and check myself out in the mirror one last time.
Call me a cocky bastard, but I’m a sexy motherfucker.
Quietly, I write the girl a note, asking for a rain check but not meaning it, and leave my villa. It’s full of security cameras, so I’m not worried about her stealing anything. In an hour, I will have Gertrude, my favorite maid, shoo the girl out of my place. There’s no way in hell I want her there when I return.
The elevator doors close behind me and take me to the control room floor of Hotel Paragon, my buddy’s hotel that lies directly on the Las Vegas Strip, where all major champion fights take place, where the high rollers come to test their luck, and where I reside.
There is really only one true part of Vegas, and that’s the Strip, anything outside of the stretch is a foreign country I don’t care to get to know. Who needs to travel outside of the Strip when you could visit New York City, Italy, and Paris all within a mile block radius? Shops, restaurants, gambling, and girls is all a man needs, and I don’t have to travel far for any of those things.
Stopping on the tenth floor, a loving couple steps onto the elevator, joining me in my descent. Immediately, I can tell it’s their first time in Las Vegas. They’re wearing sneakers – mind you, it’s reaching dinner time – they have on graphic tees depicting what city they are currently visiting, and the guy is wearing a backpack most likely full of extra water bottles for when they get thirsty, and a GoPro to record the Bellagio Fountains. They scream tourist.
Standing with my hands in my pockets, my shirt undone at the top, exposing some of my tanned chest, I nod at the woman and smile. “First time visiting?”
“Yes,” she coos, wrapping her arm around her husband. “It’s our tenth anniversary.”
“Congratulations.” I smile at the both of them, taking a quick glance at the man’s feet.
Yup, New Balance 409’s. Poor fuck.
I exit the elevator before them, parting ways on the fifth floor. “Enjoy the city.” I salute them and take off to the locked door reading “Personnel Only”. With a swipe of my keycard, I’m in.
Down a short hallway and to the left, I enter the control room, the nerve center of the hotel, where highly trained specialists scout the floor of the casino for trouble.