Seven Nights of Sin - Lacey Alexander [84]
Brenna could barely breathe around the lump in her throat. It had gotten pretty easy to forget about the terrible truth she was keeping from Damon when they were flirting or kissing, eating dinner or listening to music, hitting clubs or having sex. But now, in this moment, she couldn’t forget. In fact, it was all she could think about.
She’d never been so stunned or touched—or so horribly guilt ridden—in her life.
“So that’s the way it is. We sign him, he’s yours. Okay?”
She still couldn’t answer. So instead she threw her arms around his neck and kissed him—with all the love in her heart and all the admiration in her soul. She kissed him until he pulled her over onto his lap, his hands on her ass as she straddled him in the wide chair.
Finally the kisses ended, and they simply sat there, silent, Damon leaning his forehead against hers in that sweet way she loved. And a slow, proprietary grin unfurled across his face as he said, “Now that’s the kind of answer I like.”
Three
There was little Brenna could do to fix this. She couldn’t refuse to take Austin, and she couldn’t tell Damon the truth without losing her own job. And not just the A&R dream job—she’d surely lose even her administrative job, too, if she came clean. Hell, Jenkins might even have hired someone to take her place already. And as a recently divorced woman, she needed her job. To live. To pay rent. To eat. It was non-negotiable.
So she had no choice but to keep going with this insane charade for the next couple of days. And in the meantime, she could at least give Damon the things he wanted from her—heat, passion, sex. She could be his dirty girl.
And since Damon seemed so full of sexual surprises for her, she decided to give him a surprise, too. One he would never expect.
So as she stood naked before the wide vanity mirror in her room, ready to shower and change for another night of scouting—and fucking—she bit her lip and reached for her shaving cream.
But instead of smoothing the fluffy white foam over her legs, she instead spread it over the flesh between her thighs and reached for a pink disposable razor.
She’d never even thought about shaving away her pubic hair until last night, after seeing Jenelle’s denuded pussy. She’d thought she’d immersed herself in bold, unabashed sexuality this week—but seeing Jenelle’s cunt, so smooth and ready, had inspired her to be bolder still. Revealing her own to him, like this, seemed like the last little vestige of old Brenna that she could let go of—or shave off, as it were.
Four
That evening, they took a cab to Fremont Street, the “old Las Vegas,” home to the few remaining casinos that had started the town. In recent years, the city had revived the area, turning the old new again by erecting an enormous arched ceiling over several city blocks, which also served as a screen. The street was cordoned off, allowing patrons to roam without traffic worries, and every night after dark, a light show seemed to flash across the night sky.
Fremont Street had also become the perfect venue for street performers—attracting mimes and artists and magicians, as well as musicians. Damon explained on the ride over that he always checked out Fremont Street when he came to Vegas. “Usually nothing noteworthy,” he concluded, “but I found Graham Maxwell here, so I don’t want to risk missing somebody great.” Graham Maxwell was a jazz pianist whose CDs had been respectable earners for Blue Night for the last ten years.
Brenna had dressed down compared to last night, wearing white capri pants with a fuchsia halter top. Normally, she would have finagled a strapless bra under this particular piece of apparel, but the week’s experiences had truly altered her way of looking at things—at least for as long as she was in Vegas—so she hadn’t bothered and didn’t mind if her