Sinking into the plush sofa, I open my laptop, ready to delve into my plans for the first wellness retreat under the Quinn & Wolfe brand.
There’s an email waiting for me from my lawyer marked “Urgent.” I let out an irritated sigh. I despise seeing that word in my inbox.
I scan the message. It’s an update on the video circulating of me that the tabloid rags are having a heyday with. “Cease and desist sent for invasion of privacy and defamation. They’re backing off,” it reads.
I exhale deeply, feeling the tension release from my shoulders. It’s not just about protecting my reputation with Lucy. I may live an indulgent lifestyle behind closed doors, but I don’t need my nephews knowing the sordid details. They see me as some sort of role model, and for their sake, I need to keep it that way.
I click open the file with the retreat plans.
Can I make this work? The Quinns are right, wellness retreats aren’t in my blood. Not like casinos. But it feels possible now my lawyers have squashed the incriminating footage against me.
If it’s Quinn & Wolfe on the billboard, it has to be top-notch, nothing less. I won’t have our name sullied.
Guests will be whisked in by helicopters, escorted to extravagant villas decked out with personal saunas, massage rooms, and health bars. We’ll have Michelin-star chefs dishing up organic glazed tofu sculptures and wheatgrass shots at our farm-to-table restaurant, grounds teeming with mineral pools, tennis courts, golf courses…
I’m even floating the idea of equine therapy. Apparently spending time with horses promotes emotional growth. If that’s the case, I need a whole stud farm.
My sights are set on a large plot of land beyond the borders of New York. If Lucy’s dreams and mine could weave into one, she’d be near her mom, close to her friends. A slice of city life, a dose of the countryside-the perfect cocktail. Sure, it’d take me further from Maggie and the kiddos in Arizona, but hey, I’ve got a private jet to make that journey. Besides, how many times did I brush her off in Vegas, too swamped to visit?
Maybe even one day, in the not-too-distant future, Lucy and I would have some babies of our own, cousins for Maggie’s kids.
Like a goddamn tsunami, the memory of her at the comic convention crashes over me. The visual of her body pressed against me in that tight costume floods my mind, staring up at me with those beautiful blue eyes. They’re not just eyes, they’re tranquilizers for my fucking soul, melting away the stress.
It’s the only image I could see through fifty heart-pounding laps of the pool. Her, in that skintight cosmic-blue leotard dotted with glittering stars, thigh-high solar flare boots, and those mesmerizing blue eyes. I might have beaten my own personal record in the pool tonight.
She looked sexy as hell. Even with her face smeared with blue lipstick like some deranged galactic warrior, she was far more alluring than Lisa in her thousand-dollar designer dress.
My cock is throbbing, thinking about the way she rubbed herself against me and kissed me like nothing else mattered in the world.
For five glorious minutes, I forget about our past. I forget about her lost memories. I forget about the chaos of my life, about the chaos of Vegas. For five minutes, she was my only drug.
I know it’s her biggest fantasy. The tall mysterious superhero who takes control of her. I know she’s masturbating thinking of it. Maybe even right now. God, I fucking hope so. Playing with her clit while imagining the big guy in armor dragging her somewhere to peel off that dress.
I want her naked with her little soft pussy wet and begging for me. I want to see her pleasuring herself while she dreams about my big throbbing cock and the way I can fuck her like no man has before.
I want to fuck her in that costume. Again and again. I want to fuck her in every single costume she has. I want to see her on all fours begging me to fuck her as I slap that sexy ass hard.
I pull down my shorts and release my aching cock. What I wouldn’t do to have her sitting on it right now. I can almost feel her tightness around my shaft as I imagine myself thrusting inside her with all my might.
I let out a groan as I fist my cock. I’m so fucking hard for this woman. My thick veins protrude from under the taut skin of my shaft where blood pumps with urgent need.
I want to feel her tight walls convulse around me as I ram my cock into her. I want to hear her throaty moans as I push her to the limits. I want to hear her scream my name over and over.
I want to fuck her hard and rough. I want to fuck her until she doesn’t remember who she is or where she is. I want to fuck her until she can only remember me.
Until I’m certain that no matter what, it’s a memory she can never forget, amnesia be damned.
I groan as a hot burst of cum shoots from my cock, hitting my bare stomach and leaving a trail of hot stickiness down the hairs of my abdomen.
I pull my shorts up, forcing myself to calm the hell down.
This morning I traveled back to Vegas. I’m back for the annual heavyweight championship fight weekend-the biggest event on the city’s calendar, and I find it prudent to be on site.
Case in point, last year, the ripples of testosterone-fueled chaos necessitated the intervention of a small army of law enforcement. Give guys an excuse to cut loose in Sin City for a few days and suddenly it’s the Wild West.
Leaving New York, where Lucy is, wasn’t easy. But I have to admit, it feels good to be back on my home turf, immersed in the electric energy that only Vegas has. As much as I tell myself I need to get away, some part of me will always love this place.
I walk into the heart of the casino, my casino, the neon lights glittering like the constellations themselves. The joint’s buzzing, heartbeat matching the city’s pulse, filled with laughter, clinking glasses, the sweet hum of excitement, and the roar of a hundred conversations jostling for airtime.
The casino floor greets me with its symphony of sounds-the constant chiming of slots paying out, cheers and groans from the roulette tables, the slap of cards at blackjack tables, and the clatter of chips being stacked and sorted.
This place is all about money and oxygen-the two things I and the Quinns believe will make people happy.
Literally, there are bills sitting around everywhere like napkins and there’s oxygen pumping from the vents, making everyone feel more alive than they should be.
My manager snakes his way through the throng toward me.
“Evening, JP,” he greets me, extending a sheaf of papers. “We’re sitting at $1. 5 million in gaming revenue already.”