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King: Las Vegas Bad Boys

By:Frankie Love

to ease myself into her as gently as possible.

“Are all guys like this?” she asks. “So ... big?”

I smile. “No one else is like this.”

She laughs, and that helps distract her as I make my way inside her.

“Ohhhh,” she moans. “It’s better when you’re all the way in.”

“Girl, I’m not all the way in.”

“Really?”

“Really. But it’s enough for now.” I rock against her, wanting to watch her every expression as my cock penetrates her deeply, in a different way than when she rode me in the locker room today. I can tell she likes it, me on top of her, my cock filling her to her core.

Her tits move up and down as I thrust tenderly. Her red locks fall over them and I brush her hair aside, wanting to see her tight little nipples.

“Oh, girl, I’m gonna come in you.” I plunge deeper and she moans in pleasure, so I move again, and again, that way, with a hard ending, until she can’t say a word, until all that is left is her heavy pants as she comes again.

And I do, too. I swear I come so good and long it’s like I haven’t fucked in a week, but it is just the build-up of one afternoon. This girl has worked me over, head to toe.

“When you say no strings … does that mean tomorrow is off limits?” I ask. “Because damn it, JoJo, I need to teach you to suck my cock. I’ve never come like that in my life.”

She blushes, her fair skin filled with color, and she covers her face with her hands.

“McQueen, you’re too much.”

“That’s where you’re wrong, baby. There’s never too much when it comes to me.”

JoJo

We’re lying side by side, and my eyes look up to the clock overhead.

“Crap, it’s already eleven?

“Yeah, you got a curfew or something?” he asks.

“I do, actually. Midnight.”

“No wonder you’re a twenty-three-year-old virgin. You still live at home? You said your family was involved in your life, but maybe you should get a place of your own?”

I don’t want to talk to McQueen about where I live and why, because it would kill the mood.

And the mood is still hot. When he said he wanted me to suck his cock ... it’s all I can imagine. Getting on my knees, tasting him the way he tasted me.

Okay. Get a grip.

I take a deep breath.

“I don’t mind the curfew. It’s for my own good, anyway. There’s some shady stuff in Vegas.”

“Shit, I know.” McQueen shakes his head. “There’s some seriously fucked-up gangsters in this town. I had no idea when I moved here. I was so naive. Then everything that went down with Emmy’s sister a few months back, it really opened my eyes.”

“Emmy is Ace Royalle’s wife, right?”

“Yeah. Her sister got all caught up in this drug cartel; there was a car crash and she ended up dead. I had no clue that shit was happening. I was just dancing for ladies at the bachelorette parties, totally clueless.”

I sit up, knowing I need to dress and get home, not at all interested in the direction of this conversation. I know plenty about that accident, and don’t want to go there with McQueen. What he doesn’t know will only protect him.

I pull on my shorts and tank top. He dresses, too, and soon enough we’re assembled. Though I need a shower desperately.

“Well, thanks,” I say, offering him a fist bump.

He shakes his head, grinning, running his hand over his jaw. “Girl, you are seriously fucking with my head.”

“Why?”

He shrugs. “I’ve never been fist-bumped post-coitus before is all. Most girls want my digits. Or social security number.”

“I’m not most girls.”

“I know,” he says quickly. “You’re different.”

He raises an eyebrow, and I can’t help but smile at his lines. They’re damn good.

“Well, you can walk me to my car, if you want?” I grab my gym bag and sling it over my shoulder.

“Let me carry that, then,” he says, taking it from me.

We leave the gym, making sure the lights are off and the door is locked behind us, and I pull my keys from my purse. Clicking the key fob toward my Mercedes, I turn to him. “Well, here we are.” I open the passenger door and he sets the bag on the seat.

“Nice ride.” His eyebrows raise, impressed. I know he can’t figure me out, and that’s perfectly all right.

I’m suddenly nervous, feeling like this is a date or something, unsure how the night will end.

“So,” he starts. “I’ll see you around.”

“Sounds good.” I tell him, knowing I can’t give in to a kiss with him out here, in public.

“Hey, what’s that,” he asks, reaching to the windshield wiper where an envelope is tucked safely under it.

“No idea.” I take it from him. My name is on the front: Josephine O’Malley.

“O’Malley?” he asks, as if trying to remember something.

I don’t answer; I just tear open the seal.

Inside is a single photograph.

My stomach drops. My heart falls.

I let out a gasp, and the photograph falls from my trembling fingers.

“What is it?” McQueen picks it up from the sidewalk. “Holy shit, who took this?” He looks around the empty street, the dark night.

“I don’t know.” My eyes fill with tears born from terror.

The photograph is of me this afternoon.

Naked.

In the locker room.

On top of McQueen.

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