The Vegas Blackout

"Dance with me."

A deep, gravelly voice purrs directly into my ear, sending a sudden shiver straight down my spine. The warm breath fans across my skin, cutting through the heavy, thumping bass of the club.

I turn around slowly, craning my neck, and find myself staring up into the face of the stranger from the VIP section. Up close, he is devastating. His eyes are a striking, piercing shade of green, clever and sharp, reflecting the strobe lights like cut emeralds. They hold a mesmerizing depth, reminding me of a dense summer forest. He towers over me, well past six feet of solid muscle packed into a tailored shirt. His light brown hair is cropped short on the sides, leaving the top perfectly styled and thick enough that my fingers twitch with the urge to reach up and ruin it. His jawline looks sharp enough to cut glass, framing features that are unapologetically masculine.

I tilt my chin up, refusing to let him see how much he affects my pulse. "Was that a demand or a request?" I ask, narrowing my eyes at him.

His soft, full lips curl into a slow, wicked smirk. He swipes his tongue across his bottom lip, his gaze dropping to my mouth for a fraction of a second. "Whichever one gets you to dance with me," he drawls.

A drunk patron stumbles past, shoving his shoulder, but instead of backing away, the stranger uses the momentum to step right into my space. His strong arms wrap around my waist, locking me in place before he pulls my body flush against his firm frame. A jolt of pure electricity shoots through my veins the moment our chests meet.

We sway to the heavy rhythm of the music. His movements are fluid, matching the roll of my hips effortlessly. He knows exactly how to move, guiding me with a confident, dominant grip. I like that. He bows his head, his lips brushing the delicate shell of my ear, and I visibly quiver when his roguish tone vibrates against my skin.

"What’s your name, sweetheart?"

"Maya," I breathe out, fighting the flutter in my stomach. "Yours?"

A flicker of genuine surprise crosses his handsome features, as if he expected me to already know. Then, his face breaks into a devastatingly sexy grin. Two deep, defined dimples carve into his cheeks.

He has dimples. Lord help me.

"Vance," he answers, his voice thick like warm honey.

I smile up at him. Vance drags his tongue along his bottom lip again, his green eyes narrowing slightly as he studies my face under the flashing neon lights. The dancing shifts. The polite swaying vanishes, replaced by raw, heated grinding. His hands wander lower, gripping my hips, pulling my center flush against his hard thighs. The physical heat radiating between us is immense. He squeezes, caresses, letting his palms brand my skin through the thin fabric of my dress. The rest of the crowded, sweaty club fizzles into background noise. It is just the two of us, locked in a magnetic pull, his emerald eyes burning into mine.

"Hungry?" he asks over the music, his chest rumbling against mine.

I let out a breathless laugh and nod. "Starving."

He smiles softly. Reaching up, he hooks a stray, sweat-dampened strand of hair from my cheek and tucks it behind my ear. "How about we go someplace and get something to eat?"

I nod without a second thought. Vance grins, wrapping his large, warm hand around mine and pulling me through the dense sea of bodies. I spot Tess near the bar and shoot her a quick gesture, signaling my exit. She raises her glass, offering a sloppy thumbs-up. She is far more smashed than I am.

The moment we step out of the club, the cool night air hits my face, making my head spin. The alcohol in my system roars to life. I stumble, my heels catching on the pavement, but Vance’s arm is instantly around my waist, steadying me against his side. I lean into his solid warmth as we walk toward the curb, where a massive silver Rolls Royce Phantom idles beneath a streetlamp.

An older gentleman in a crisp suit steps out and opens the heavy rear door. Vance places his palm flat against the small of my back, guiding me inside. I slide across the plush white leather seats, sinking into the absurd luxury of the car as Vance climbs in beside me.

"Wow. This car is bigger than my apartment," I state, letting out a bubbly, drunken giggle as Vance reaches into a chilled compartment and pours two crystal flutes of champagne.

"What’s your stance on sushi? I know a great place." Vance hands me a glass, flashing a charming, confident smile.

I stare at him, wrinkling my nose in pure distaste. "Sushi?" I groan. "Who in their right mind eats sushi when they’re drunk?"

Vance lets out a rich, hearty laugh, the sound filling the spacious cabin.

"Listen, I love sushi as much as the next person," I continue, waving my champagne glass around. "But I’m not one of those girls who eat pretentious crap like caviar and sips Cristal. I can’t think of anything worse, especially right now." I lean forward, tapping the glass partition to get the driver’s attention. The older man meets my gaze in the rearview mirror. "Take us to Old Street, please, good sir."

The driver chuckles softly and inclines his head. "Yes, ma'am."

I slump back into the leather, giggling. "Ma’am? What am I, fifty?"

Vance tugs my arm, shifting his body so he faces me, his knee brushing against mine. "What’s in Old Street?"

I grin impishly, knocking back the rest of my champagne in one gulp. "The best food ever! No offense, but you strike me as one of those stuffy rich kids that think a good night out is sipping on Dom Pérignon and chewing on fish babies. I’m going to show you a night you’ll remember when you’re sitting in your rocking chair at eighty years old, Mr. Vance."

Vance chuckles, his teeth grazing his bottom lip. The green in his eyes flares with an undeniable, gleeful challenge. "Oh? And will you be sitting beside me in that rocking chair?" he drawls, lifting his hand. His thumb brushes gently along my jawline, sending a fresh wave of heat straight down to my toes.

"That depends..." I whisper, my breath hitching as he weaves his long fingers into my hair, tilting my head back.

"On what?" he murmurs. His gaze drops from my eyes to my lips, lingering there, tracing the shape of my mouth with dark intent.

"You’ll have to marry me to find out," I tease, my voice barely a breath.

Vance lets out a low, raspy laugh. Before I can process the sound, his hand tightens in my hair, pulling my mouth to his. He kisses me. It isn’t tentative. His lips are hot, firm, and demanding. I let out an involuntary moan as his tongue traces my bottom lip, seeking entrance. I part my lips, granting him full access, and he sweeps inside, expertly deepening the kiss. He tastes like expensive champagne and dark desire. If my mind was a hazy, tequila-soaked mess before, it turns into absolute liquid mush under his touch. As far as first kisses go, this shatters the top of my list.

We spend the entire car ride tangled in the backseat, making out like teenagers until the driver clears his throat, announcing our arrival.

"What is this place?" Vance asks, stepping out onto the curb and looking up at the glowing neon sign as I drag him by the hand toward the entrance.

"Oh, you poor, poor child. You haven’t lived until you’ve had their pancakes," I announce, pulling him into 'The Morning Bar'.

We slide into a sticky booth. Vance picks up the laminated menu, scanning it with a bemused expression. I reach across the table and pluck it right out of his hands. He blinks at me, a lazy smile spreading across his face.

"You don’t need that," I tell him. The waitress approaches, and I don't miss a beat. "We’ll have the sharer's stack of pancakes, please, and two salted caramel lattes."

Twenty minutes later, the massive plate between us is practically licked clean. Vance sets his fork down and slumps back against the vinyl booth, letting out a long, dramatic groan. "My god, that was heaven on a plate."

I chew my last bite of syrup-soaked pancake, nodding triumphantly. "Mm, I know, right," I moan, licking a dollop of whipped cream off my thumb. "You can thank me later."

Vance grins. He leans across the table, wrapping his large hand around my right hand. His thumb strokes over my knuckles, his green eyes locking onto mine with an intensity that makes my breath catch. The playful banter fades, replaced by something grounded and sincere.

"You are the polar opposite to what I’m used to," Vance murmurs, his voice dropping an octave. "But I don’t remember having this much fun with someone I just met. Ever."

My cheeks burn under his fixed gaze. I drop my eyes to my half-empty coffee cup, suddenly overwhelmed by the raw honesty in his tone.

From that moment on, the night spirals into a wild, unstoppable blur.

We ditch the coffee for cocktails. Then come the tequila shots. Salt, lime, burn, repeat. The edges of my memory begin to fray. I remember the roar of engines. Laughing uncontrollably as we stumble up a metal staircase. The plush, ridiculous interior of a private jet. We play a reckless drinking game somewhere over the ocean, tossing back spirits until the world spins off its axis.

The next clear flash is the biting cold air hitting my face. We clamber out of the jet onto a dark tarmac, my legs feeling like actual jelly. I throw my hands into the air, nearly toppling over backward. "Vegas, baby!" I slur loudly to the empty runway. I spin around, squinting into the darkness, my brow furrowing into a deep pout. "Wait. There’s no chapel here?"

Vance’s deep laugh echoes behind me. He steps close, wrapping his heavy arm around my neck from behind, pulling my back against his chest. He presses a hot, wet kiss to my cheek. "We can’t land in the middle of the Vegas strip, sweetheart," he murmurs, his own voice slurring with alcohol. "We need to drive there."

I giggle, pointing a shaky finger at his chest. "Hokay! Driver! Take us to Elvis to be wed," I demand.

We stumble into the back of a stretched black limo. Flashing neon lights bleed through the tinted windows. The memories fracture into chaotic puzzle pieces. Rolling dice on a green felt table. Cheering crowds. Another round of sugary, lethal cocktails. The distinct chime of slot machines.

Then, a sudden, blinding flash of lust. Vance lifting me off the ground. The heavy wooden doors of a chapel swinging open. My legs wrapped around his waist. His hands gripping my thighs. The two of us devouring each other's mouths like rabid, lust-crazed adolescents as he carries me into the neon-lit night.

Then, darkness.

Many hours later, a brutal, piercing light drills through my eyelids.

I groan, rolling over and burying my face into the mattress. "Mm, so soft," I mumble into the fabric, snuggling deeper. But my brain stutters. I don't own plush pillows. My pillow back home is flat and lumpy.

I peel one eye open and instantly regret it. A spike of pure agony shoots through my skull. My mouth tastes like dead batteries and regret. Water. I need gallons of water and possibly a new brain.

Forcing both eyes open, I blink against the harsh daylight. I stare up at a massive, mirrored ceiling. My stomach drops into my toes. Reflected in the glass above is my own body. I am completely naked, tangled in unfamiliar, high-thread-count white sheets.

What on God’s green earth...

I shoot up into a sitting position, my heart hammering against my ribs. The movement sends a wave of nausea rolling through my stomach. I look around the massive, sun-drenched room. This is not my apartment. This is a penthouse. Panic claws at my throat. I lift the edge of the duvet and stare down at my bare skin. Yep. Naked.

"Oh, no, no, no," I groan, covering my face with both hands in sheer horror.

As I rub my throbbing temples, a heavy, hard object bumps directly against the bridge of my nose.

I freeze. The blood drains from my face.

Lowering my hand slowly, I spread my fingers in front of my eyes. Sitting heavy and glaringly bright on my left ring finger is an enormous, emerald-cut diamond ring. The massive stone catches the sunlight, practically blinding me.

What the fuck...

Sheer panicked horror overrides the hangover. I scramble backward, ripping the heavy sheet off the mattress and wrapping it tight around my chest. I stumble out of the bed, my bare feet hitting cold marble. I spin around, taking in the chaotic mess of the room. Our clothes are scattered everywhere. My dress is draped over a chair. A black button-down shirt lies discarded near the foot of the bed. I lunge for the shirt, picking it up, staring at the expensive fabric before dropping it back onto the floor like it burned me.

My head whirls as I back away, clutching the sheet like a shield. "Oh my god, where the hell am I?"

I retreat until my back hits the floor-to-ceiling window. I look over my shoulder, shielding my eyes from the glaring sun. Stretching out below me is a sprawling, endless desert landscape cutting through a massive city of bizarre, towering casinos.

"This isn’t London," I whisper, my voice trembling.

"Good morning."

I shriek, a high-pitched squeal tearing from my throat. I spin around, flattening my spine against the hot glass of the window.

Standing a few feet away, rubbing the back of his neck, is Vance. He is half-naked, wearing nothing but a pair of black Dior boxers that sit dangerously low on his hips. The sunlight highlights every cut of muscle on his chest and abdomen. My lungs seize. He looks just as rough as I feel, his hair sticking out in every direction, but he is still the most beautiful man I have ever seen.

I grip the sheet tighter, painfully aware of the disaster I must look like. My hair is a rat’s nest, last night's mascara is undoubtedly smeared down my cheeks, and my lips feel bruised.

"You’re finally up," he rasps, his voice rough with sleep.

"Oh, good God," I mutter, stunned and hyperventilating.

He winces at my volume, raising a hand to rub his forehead gingerly. "Actually, it’s just Vance."

I stare at the diamond ring digging into my hand holding the sheet, then back up to his emerald eyes. "Vance. Where the hell are we?"

He drops his hand, looking around the scattered clothes and the empty champagne bottles before his gaze locks onto mine.

"Vegas, I believe..."