Excerpt for Want Candy: Want Candy Book 1 by , available in its entirety at Smashwords

Want Candy

Want Candy #1

by

Deanna Dane

♥♥♥

"My usual girls are strawberry sprinkles, but she's the whole cupcake. Now I've got to coax her into letting me lick up all that melted frosting."

Brecka's the new girl in Vegas. She's just trying to fit in when she finds herself backed into starting a club for eighteen-year-olds in search of billionaires.

Lane's got a casino, a private club, a castle outside Vegas, and a whole lot of enemies. But he won't stop until he also has Brecka.

♥♥♥

©2018 by Deanna Dane

all rights reserved

♥♥♥

Note: This book was originally published as Club Sugar Daddy by Teddi Tee.

Prologue

Lane

“What about her?” I ask.

“Julie Barnes, age...”

Dickens, my personal assistant du jour, is showing every sign of needing to be replaced. “We've already discussed the anorexic. Next.”

“The brunette.”

“Yes. The brunette.”

“Skinny photographs better than curvy,” he says, a last-ditch attempt to justify himself. He probably suspects how close he's getting to having his happy ass fired with extreme prejudice.

My steel-blue eyes haven't been compared to Arctic ice for nothing. “Why would that interest me?” Dickens shivers as I stare him down. “I don't intend to be photographed with or without any girl. Do you intend to allow me to be photographed?”

“Of course not, sir. I made a misstatement, sir. I...”

“So. About the brunette.” I tire of listening to people waffle. Tell me something new, or shut the fuck up.

The brunette was something new. Curvy. Little bitty wasp-waist designed by Mother Nature to exaggerate the delightful fullness of a heart-shaped ass. Endless bare legs on endless display. How did her father let her out of the house looking like that? Her pullover mini dress barely concealed the undercurve of those juicy ass cheeks. If she was mine, she'd be over my knee for a good spanking.

“Brecka Cunningham. Age eighteen,” Dickens says. “Bra size thirty-eight D. Not that she's wearing a brassiere at the moment. Sir.”

I lift the tip of my smallest finger. It's all I need to lift. Three servers fall on our table from three different directions. The one with the most aggressive elbows gets her fist wrapped around the neck of the freshly opened bottle of Krug. She tops off my flute while bending low to show off cleavage that came from a surgeon. The size of grapefruits but as hard as little green apples. A look bought and paid for in order to thrill me or perhaps to thrill any rich man within range.

This... what's her name? Brecka. Yes, Brecka. This Brecka looks soft. Lickable. Natural.

These days in Vegas, natural's a rare fucking thing to find.

Still bent low, the girl with the green apple tits hovers. She's really shoving it in my face. It gets old, all these people endlessly hovering, but it's part of the package when you have two point six billion dollars.

So I sip. Frown. Shrug. The champagne represents an excellent vintage, but this glass doesn't taste any different from the glass I drank twenty minutes ago.

The server keeps on with the hovering, and I need her to go. She's blocking my view.

So I flip a black chip directly into her deep-dish artificial cleavage. Rude, deliberately so, but I like hearing it drop into the slot like a coin tumbling into an old-fashioned slot machine. The kind they used to have before Vegas ran on paper. It shows my age, remembering coins.

Fuck it. I'm forty-one. I'm allowed to remember coins.

Miss Green Apple Tits isn't crying about the disrespect. She's delighted‒ but not so delighted she forgets to runs away before I change my mind and say it's all a huge mistake.

Yah. Seriously. That's a thing these days. There are literally guys in Vegas known to do that, tip a black chip to make a splash, then say it's a mistake and take it all back. Ticky tacky, but there's a lot of ticky tacky fake billionaires in Nevada.

Dickens, waiting, twirls his own flute of champagne in his fingers but doesn't actually imbibe. He wants to stay sharp. The night isn't so young anymore. I've pondered the infinity of choices spread out in front of me like a buffet long enough. Time to announce the decision I've already made.

“Brecka Cunningham,” I say, tasting the syllables on my lips. “Eighteen years old.” That wouldn't be the name on the fake ID that got the curvy cutie into this club. The drinking age in Nevada is twenty-one, and it's enforced.

“Bree Candy.” Dickens can read my mind when he wants to. “Age twenty-one.”

Bree Candy? Somebody was having fun the day Miss Brecka showed up to buy her fake ID. That was a porn star name if ever I heard one.

“I suggest you invite Miss Candy to our table to help us taste-test this fine champagne.”

“Of course, sir.” But now he's the one hovering. He doesn't go. He waits. He looks. He puts down his champagne flute and picks it up again. Why is he dithering so much today?

“Is there something else, Dickens?”

“She's the ringleader of a certain club, sir. You might want to be aware of what you're dealing with.” One of his duties is to do a full background investigation on my... shall we say... potential contacts. He takes the job seriously.

Perhaps, at times, too seriously.

“A club.” I enunciate each word clearly and carefully. Am I supposed to be afraid of some little eighteen-year-old girl's so-called club?

“It's called the Sugar Daddy Club.” He pronounces each syllable with as much care as I did, all the better to be sure I'm actually hearing him.

Well, maybe I'm not hearing him, because I'm not getting his point. “It sounds all very... official.” Then again, maybe not.

Dickens flushes. “Sir, it's a group of social-climbing girls fresh out of high school who have banded together to target wealthy men for marriage. I strongly advise you to steer well clear of this... female person and all of her known associates.”

I have to laugh. “Dickens, your concern is touching, but I'm confident I've got what it takes to handle this schoolgirl Machiavelli. I'm not going to be roped into becoming her starter husband. I'd just like to buy her a drink.”

“Of course, sir. Of course, you know what you're doing. I just thought you'd want to know the facts.”

“You may consider me fully informed.”

“Yes, sir.”

Dickens drifts off, not walking directly toward the girl but instead making a wide circuit so he can come at her sideways. He's a hunting wolf unleashed, the kind who doesn't let his prey see him coming.

I smile. Husband-hunting girls can be a lot of fun, at least until they figure out they're not going to actually get the lasso around you.

Bring it, Miss Candy. If you want to run with the big dogs, you'd better pack your lunch.

Chapter One

Brecka

This time it's going to be different. Every time, every town, I say it's going to be different, but this time something's really got to give. I've let things go way too fucking far. How did I get to be eighteen and still have my V-card? It's ridiculous. The minute I think I'm about to get close to somebody, my mom picks up and hauls ass to another town.

That's my mother for you. She's always got another town, another man, another plan. When you have to earn your living for yourself and your daughter without a man or a job, you've got to be light on your feet.

“You have to listen to your intuition,” she says. “Pay attention to the little clues. Know when to fold them, and know when to rocket.”

It's especially important to know when to rocket if you have a gift for borrowing money you don't intend to pay back. God love her, and I do love her, but sometimes I wish she'd find a better career than social engineering her way into the bank accounts of older guys with more money than brain cells. As for my dad, he's been missing in action since roughly ten minutes after my mom let him know they had a little bundle of joy on the way.

I'm not saying she's bitter, but when it comes to men, she's a firm believer in “use 'em and lose 'em.”

Mom and I definitely covered some distance in this last move. Biloxi to Vegas. She must have borrowed a lot of that sweet, sweet cash from the last old fool, because she's determined to keep a lot of miles between us and him. And that's before you toss in the purple Porsche Carrera he bought for what he thought was her thirty-ninth birthday.

“I'm a senior,” I say. “I can't change schools when I'm a senior. Come on, Mom. This can't wait three weeks?”

“Honey, this can't wait three fucking minutes. The car's already loaded up.”

“World's suckiest timing.”

“Oh, hell, baby, one day you'll look back on this and you'll be telling all your friends about the time you moved across country in a turbo-charged midnight purple Porsche.”

Maybe, but “one day” isn't this day. I can't believe we're moving on right before the three last weeks when there's no more studying left, just partying. In fact, I'm not sure why I bother to show up for my new high school at all. Some grim-looking middle-aged ladies give me some tests and put their heads together, then sit me in a room with the rest of the misfits and losers.

I know from all my previous moves what they're going to do before they do it. Doesn't matter how I perform on the tests. I'm always going to end up in the misfit room. By definition, the new kid is always a misfit, and there's nobody newer than me, because nobody else has a mom crazy enough to transfer a kid three weeks before graduation.

So there's me thrust in a room full of these random weirdos and dweebs. You know the type. Like that one guy who was homeschooled for eleven years and then somehow his family thought he could get socialized all in one year as a senior in high school. Those kind of guys. Some of them wearing old-fashioned nerd glasses. Some of them with major tats. It's pretty much a mishmash of every kind of person the popular girls don't want to associate with.

Pretty easy to see who doesn't belong in this picture. I stand in the doorway, thinking I should just turn around and head on home. What does it mean anyway, to get your high school diploma from a school you only attended for three frippin' weeks?

Someone knocks me on the arm, shoving me to one side, and these four pretty girls push through. I don't know what they're doing here in loser town, but I follow them to the heavy wooden table in back where they all sit down together.

Emily, Ashlee, Callista, Madison. Of course I didn't know their names then.

“Where did you come from?” Long straight legs, long straight black hair. Ashlee.

“Doesn't matter where I came from,” I say. “Doesn't matter where any of us came from. Only matters where we're going.”

A general eye roll. It sounded good in my head but, spoken aloud, maybe not so much.

“Were you a cheerleader down south, honey?” Blonde and tan, the kind of girl who spends a lot of time laying out by the pool. Callista. “Why the fuck would you move out here at the very end of the school year?”

I feel a need to make this story good, so I channel my inner sociopath. That is, I take a leaf from my mom's playbook. Whatever.

“I was indeed a cheerleader, and I was the homecoming queen too. But the quarterback I dated was a college guy. You've probably heard of him.” I dropped my voice, forcing the four heads to bend in close before I whispered a name they'd recognize instantly. He was getting a lot of buzz as a possible Heisman Trophy winner, and Vegas is a town jampacked with sports books.

Everybody's eyes got wide, although I didn't sense complete and total acceptance of my claim. You know, I'm not a pathological liar. I'm a creative. A storyteller. There's a difference. I can stop telling stories anytime I want to.

Not that I want to anytime soon. The truth is a little too sad. I'm a virgin with a mother more popular than I am.

Who wants to listen to that?

“The fuck you dated him.” Emily's hair is done all over in teeny, tiny braids tipped in silver. The obvious circle contacts in her eyes flash a shade of violet never found in nature. Can she feel those contacts floating on her eyeball? I always wonder about contacts, but especially about circle contacts, with all those out-there crazy colors that make a girl look like she waltzed in from the future.

“It's the truth,” I insist. “Nobody's supposed to know, and his coach is all like I'm distracting from the game, and I'm too young, and there was going to be a scandal because I was only sixteen when we started going out and...”

“Come on. Nobody believes that.” Madison has a single streak of baby blue in her asymmetrical bob. I'm not sure if it's meant to be stylish or the opposite of stylish. A hipster thing, maybe. Can hair color be ironic?

Four pairs of eyes all blink at me. Skepticism in every face.

Fuck their skepticism. I can stare it down every day of the week and twice on Sundays.

I remind myself that everybody's a bluffer here. Nobody who's anybody is in the misfit class. They're not going to shake me off my game.

One glance tells me these girls are the closest thing to the cool kids I'm going to get in this class, so it's fit in with them or die. And die is not an option.

“Then don't believe it, but it's still true,” I say. “How the hell else do you think I get transferred when there's only three weeks of school left? They were desperate to get rid of me, dude. We were going to run away and get married in a Vegas wedding, and then the coach is all, well, maybe that's a good idea because if we're married, he can't get in any kind of legal shit for messing with me, and the coach talks my mom into going ahead to send me out here and, you know, pick out the wedding dress and all that happy crappy, and...”

Madison probably doesn't know she's shaking her head so much. “Wait. Wait. Your mom is in on this?”

If it's bullshit, my mom is probably in on it, I think. And wait until you see the Porsche.

I smile a wide smile. “Yeah, like the coach talked to my mom a lot about it, and I warned her I didn't trust him, but adults always believe other adults and so you can figure out the rest.”

Ashlee's eyes narrowed with suspicion. “So you're saying you guys came out here, but the groom never showed.”

“It broke my heart, dude. He talked me up so much about this wedding. All this crap about how much he loved me and how he was getting me a canary diamond. How I'd be his in three days. But they got to him somehow. Sending me and my mom to Vegas, it was all a trick to get me out of his life.”

“You could just go back.” This from the girl with the silver-tipped braids. Emily, I think. Yeah, that's her name. Emily.

“How could we just go back? If a guy makes up a crappy excuse to get you out of town, he isn't going to marry you, dude. Our beautiful thing is over.”

“Why do you keep calling us ‘dude?’” asks Callista, the California beach bunny type.

Why not? I'm thinking it was a nice flourish to what I'm saying, especially since I don't have the names matched to the faces yet. But maybe it is a little over-the-top.

Deep breaths. Impossible to abandon the story now, so all I can do is bull it through.

“So, well, anyhoo, I wouldn't have him back if he begged me. A football player might make millions or he might blow out his knee and make fuck-all and end up selling insurance. I'm going to get a real man. With a real wallet. Who's with me?”

I'm spitballing by this time because I'm damn sick and tired of playing the part of the happy-go-lucky curvy girl who has to smile and smile while everybody else has fun. In other words, I'm saying shit just to say shit. The more ridiculous, the better. The only way out of an over-the-top lie to is to tell an even more outrageous over-the-top lie.

“Back home, we had this club. We called it Club Sugar Daddy. How about the five of us form a Vegas edition?”

“Club Sugar Daddy?”

“Yeah. It was a group of us. The goal is we work together to target and trap rich men. I got the Heisman trophy. Another girl in the group got a neurosurgeon. Another girl got the county president. It's fun. It was working pretty well until I got caught and they chased me out of town. Vegas isn't so ignorant and country. Nobody's going to chase us off, and we all work together to help each other catch somebody. By the end of this year, all five of us could be dating a multi-millionaire. Maybe even be married to a millionaire.”

“I don't know. I think maybe I'm too young to be married.” The girl with the long, straight hair shakes it out even longer and straighter, and it releases a faint scent of rose into the air. Some expensive hair product.

Distracting but I refuse to be distracted.

“I'm not talking about married married. I'm talking about the starter marriage. Just enough to pick up five or ten million dollars...”

They all look at each other, speaking with lifted eyebrows and little motions of the chin, talking without talking.

“Come on,” I say. “Don't be wussy. Who's with me?”

More eyebrows. More chin. Somebody nods, and then the other three nod too.

Somehow, I've become a leader. Just that fast.

Forget all those other towns where I was a nobody who did nothing. This time I'm going to rule.

Chapter Two

Brecka

Nothing's easier than getting a fake ID in Vegas. Leggy, straight-haired Ashlee takes me out to the high school's vendor of choice. “Leon's one of these guys who never asks any questions, as long as you've got the cash,” she says. I figure we're going to some dude's apartment‒ that's the way it would happen in Mississippi‒ but Leon turns out to have a small storefront in a rundown mini-mall.

Bright if somewhat scratched red plastic letters are pasted to the glass door: Quality Documents. I don't know if it's a boast or the name of the business.

I pose and a camera flashes, and five minutes later I've got a fake driver's license in my wallet that looks better than my real one.

“There,” Ashlee says. “Now we're free to go anywhere in this town.”

Outside, I turn the license in the blaring desert sunlight to watch the holograms flash. “How does he get away with it?”

She shrugs. “Payoffs, maybe?”

That night Madison picks the club, based strictly on the fact she's dating one of the bouncers. Dating might be too strong of a word, since I'm getting a heavy gay vibe from the guy, but she's got some kind of in with him. Johnson's his name. Sounds like a last name, but it's his first name.

Big, built, but kinda young-looking. Our age. Eighteen or nineteen. Anyway, this Johnson says something to the other meathead working the door, and then the two of them disappear inside a minute with Madison. Secretly I'm a little concerned, but she pops out again like three minutes later so it wasn't like there was time for anything to happen.

Anyway, she's smiling from ear to ear so hard I expect her to start bouncing up and down like a little kid. I tap the corner of my own mouth, and she gets it right away. Swallowing the smile, she forces herself to look all serious. Not always easy with that blue stripe in her hair.

“Come on, let's get this party started,” she says.

“This is gonna be so much fun,” Emily says.

In Biloxi a lot of the club action centers on the casinos, and it's hard to get inside if you're under twenty-one. Supposed to be the same here but I see pretty quick it isn't. At least not at this club. The guys are all twenty-five and up, but the girls are strictly in the eighteen to twenty-one age bracket. Tight butts. Fake tits. Tans and teeth.

Mom always says size eight is the fat size, but I always figure that's Mom being Mom. A nice woman, a smart woman, but still a woman from a previous generation. These days, it's pretty well established that everybody can't be a skinny-ass stick figure. Still, when I look around the room, I start to feel a little more aware of my curves than I usually do. I'm wondering if I really fit in with this scene. The one problem with dating old rich guys is they might have old rich guy attitudes. Maybe they actually like those skinny chicken legs from back in the day.

Some guys try to hit on us and buy us drinks but I can tell from their shoes they're not all that. “We're waiting for somebody,” I say.

“Fuck off.” Ashlee doesn't have time to be polite to no-hopers.

There's this slender guy who keeps circling around, which seems kinda funny to me since he definitely pings my gaydar. What does he want with a gaggle of five girls? Even though he's taking the indirect route to our table, the prickles on the back of my neck tell me he's checking us out. In fact, it seems like he's eying me up in particular.

Nice jeans tailored to fit his rear but they aren't cut like straight-boy jeans. Nope, I definitely don't get what he's looking for.

He sees me seeing him, and I look away. Then I sneak a second glance, and he's staring more boldly, and I give him the eye to let him know I see him staring, and then it's his turn to look away. After some back and forth that would be flirtation if he was straight, he closes in with a chocolate martini in both fists. One for him, one for me.

I don't normally take drinks from strangers but I can tell from the swirl of whipped cream and the sprinkle of chocolate curls on top that nobody's fucked with it. Anyway, like I said, the closer this dude gets, the less straight he looks. He has zero reason to roofie my martini.

“I have tickets for the VIP room,” he says. “It'll be fun.”

“You got the wrong girl.”

“Bree Candy? No, honey, don't bother to lie, I already know you're Bree Candy. I don't make mistakes, and I don't have the wrong girl.”

The hell is this? How does he know my name? My fake name anyway. Fucking Madison and those two bouncers. Did they say something to somebody?

“Come on,” he says. “I have someone who wants to meet you.”

I realize the jeans are Balmain. Fuck. If “someone” can afford to have this guy working for him, I guess I want to meet him too. It's a sacrifice I'm prepared to make as the duly elected president of Club Sugar Daddy.

Callista lifts her phone, not high but high enough. A reminder. I'll text her from time to time, let her know I'm OK. She's the designated sober girl tonight. Club Sugar Daddy isn't about getting stupid. We're the players, not the played.

I make a little nod with my chin to let her know I won't forget, and then I let Skinny Ass lead me through a maze to a private elevator with an armed guard standing in front of it. Skinny nods, and Guard nods, and then the door comes open. Inside the elevator is a silver box with flickering blue stars inside. The walls and ceiling are silver mirrors, but even the floor is a mirror. I can see blue stars flickering across our reflections everywhere I look.

Easy but not too easy, I tell myself. Dude's going to be money, but you can't drape yourself all over him too fast.

I've seen enough of how my mom operates to know how it goes. Push, pull. Give them a tease and a taste, then leave them hanging. Nobody likes what comes too easy.

The mirror doors ping open, and we're in a bigger box with black velvet walls. A rotating lampshade spins around throwing little sparkles of light in the shape of stars all over the walls and ceiling. There's old-time music, no good for dancing, just a penguin playing piano so softly it almost seems like it's meant to be subliminal.

Skinny Ass has his hand on my arm to guide me over to a booth, but I don't need a guide. There's only three tables, and two of them are empty. An older man stands up, closer to my mom's age than to my age. Say thirty-eight or forty. But it looks good on him. Sexy. Sandy hair but up close you can see a single silver streak near the temples on the left side. Eyes the color of an ice cube. The DMV would call them blue, but they're closer to transparent than true blue.

He turns those eyes on me, and it's like he sees right through me. For a minute, I'm morally convinced he's reading me like an open book and he knows all about everything I'm planning. My knees wobble, and I clutch onto that chocolate martini glass with both hands.

Now is not the time to spill chocolate and vanilla infused vodka all over the carpet.

Oh, yeah, you can be my sugar daddy any day of the week.

I can feel the pull between us. Skinny Ass fades away to give us some privacy, and I don't even see when he goes.

Oh, yeah, you.

There's nobody in the world except me and the target. Even the piano stops playing, or maybe I just stop noticing. The spinning lamp winds down, and the stars made of light stop flicking over the ceiling. For a minute, it's like we're frozen in time, looking into each other's eyes, reading something there.

The future.

Our future.



Chapter Three

Lane

“I've got nothing more to say. This is not the time or place.” I signal with a single raised eyebrow, and two of my men materialize to take hold of Denbert's elbows. He's being walked away before he knows what hit him.

Six foot three, a lot of muscle and tats, Denbert started out as an enforcer for the Vegas edition of the Serbian mob, but I don't care how big and bad you are when you're up against my men. And if he doesn't watch his step, he's going to have bigger issues on his plate than getting tossed out on his ass through the back door of my club.

He isn't even Serbian. How the hell did he end up working for the Serbian mob?

And now Denbert's a federal informant, and I'm not talking about the federal government of Serbia, assuming they even have one. He thinks I don't know the feebs are trying to get me on money laundering charges. He thinks I don't know they're acting on information he cooked up in his beady little brain in order to extort me for big money. Yeah, he thinks all kinds of things.

It was a mistake to ever have any business relations with this guy, even if it was just my Macau division. At the time, it probably seemed like what happens in Macau would stay in Macau but, well, that works about as well as it does for Vegas. The Chinese held one of their irregularly scheduled crackdowns, and a lot of us got run out of town. Some of us had the brains to get our cash out in time. Not my problem that Denbert and most of his bosses didn't.

He keeps asking me to give him a job, and I keep telling him I'm over-staffed.

Fuck him.

For now, it's Friday night in May, and the clubs are filled with freshly minted high school graduates ready to test themselves on an adult playing field. Legs everywhere. Legs and boobs. Handkerchief halters. Crotch-high mini skirts. Spike heels.

Everybody's dressed the same to show off acres and acres of skin. And yet, somehow, everybody isn't the same.

There's always that one girl who stands out as something special.

Tonight, that one girl is Bree Candy. Speaking of which... Dickens guides her out of the elevator, a long hand on her bare arm. Even knowing he's gay and settled down with a steady boyfriend, I feel a stab of something like jealousy to see him touching her like that. The strength of the emotion startles me, because I know it's entirely irrational.

Her own hands clutch her chocolate martini like she's afraid somebody's gonna yank it away from her. A defensive posture. She isn't used to the club environment, and she looks like she expects someone to call her out on it at any moment.

“Sit down,” I say, and Dickens waves at the wide space on the booth seat next to me.

She wiggles her butt‒ does she know she's doing it?‒ and then slides in. The martini sloshes as she sets the glass on the table. She's been sipping slowly. Trying to keep her wits about her.

Fine. Wits are better than witless, as far as I'm concerned. I've never understood what's attractive about a blonde playing dumb. This one is playing, oh, make no fucking mistake, she's playing... but dumb isn't the game she's playing.

“I'm Lane.” I don't give her a last name. Either she knows who I am or she doesn't.

“Nice to meet you, Lane.” There's no flutter of recognition in her eyes as she offers her hand. A southern accent. I suppose she expects me to shake the hand.

Instead, I pull it to my lips and give it a butterfly kiss. A tease. More like I'm breathing on it than actually touching it.

She inhales, a sharp breath we can all hear. She didn't expect that.

A lot of girls come out to Vegas from Los Angeles but she isn't one of them. She thinks she's hard, but she's sweet. A candy with syrup in the center.

“A Southern girl,” I say.

She hesitates, as if she's trying to remember where she came from. The hesitation of the inexperienced liar or maybe just somebody who's lived in too many towns. “Biloxi.”

Probably not a lie, considering her ease with the club scene and the greedy way she clutches a fancy drink. Biloxi's a tough town on both sides of the tracks, but maybe that's true of every town in the south. Or maybe it's true of every town everywhere that has casinos.

“I'm Bree.” Another hesitation, as she wonders whether she should add a last name and decides not to. She fills the moment by crossing her legs, which makes her skirt ride up higher on her curvaceous thighs.

As a result, her naked leg can't help brushing against my trousered leg. I'm acutely conscious of what she's doing, but I don't look down.

It's mission critical to hold her eyes right now. To let her know I see her, not just a pair of shapely thighs.

“I know who you are, Bree. You wouldn't be here if I didn't already know who you were.”

She smiles, then swallows the smile. She thinks she's put one over on me. Thinks I don't know her real name or her real game.

Club Sugar Daddy. Yeah, good luck with that.

I'm drinking a seventeen-year-old bourbon with a splash of spring water. She was one year old when it went into the cask, and now it's going down all smooth and dangerous. Almost as smooth and dangerous as a chocolate martini. Almost as smooth and dangerous as her.

We're talking about nothing, and I kind of hold myself apart a little, and then all of a sudden I put my empty glass down on the table with a bang.

“Come to Daddy,” I say.

“Oh, I don't know about all that, Daddy.” She puts a little spin on the word that makes it sound like a mortal sin. “Aren't you moving kind of fast? I'm just a country girl from Biloxi.”

“You must think I've never been to Biloxi.” It's the kind of place where casinos are perched one right after another in a string along the beach. Not the kind of beach where you go swimming either. If you're looking for blue water, head on east to Panama City.

Biloxi is a night town, and human sharks swim indoors.

“How old were you when you started sneaking into the casinos?” I ask.

“Daddy, I would never, ever sneak into a casino.” She bats her eyes. She plays the game. And she's scooting closer to me, which is the main thing. Her long bare leg presses harder against my leg, and I can feel the heat through that tailored fabric.

“I spank little girls who lie,” I say.

“Ooh, I'm so scared.”

We're alone. My people know when to materialize to provide a service and when to fade away, and right now it's fade-away time. Nobody behind the bar, nobody at the piano. Dickens will have posted a guard so nobody comes up on the elevator.

It's me and her, and I'm tired of sitting on my hands and waiting for her to come to me, so I reach over and grab each of her wrists with my big hands and pull her right into my lap. Her skirt wiggles up a little too high, and the firm curves of her generous ass began to wiggle against my bulge.

“Don't you have a kiss for your Daddy?”

She drapes her arms around my neck and wiggles some more. “You're not my Daddy. You have to earn the right to be my Daddy.”

“Oh, yeah? You think you can test me, little girl?”

“I know I can test you.” The way her ass humps into my package is saying something different from her mouth. She wants what I've got to give her, but she doesn't want to admit it too soon. She's trying to play hard to get.

Good luck with that, honey.

She tilts her head back enough to keep gazing into my eyes. The arctic blue tends to fascinate people. Are they real, or are they contacts? That's an actual question I've gotten. But this one knows they're real. She just likes looking at them.

We sit there close like that for a minute, and then her mouth moves a skinch closer but not quite close enough to touch, and it's up to me to seal the deal. I plant my mouth hard on her mouth, taking the kiss from her, taking the breath from her. The hands draped loosely around my neck suddenly clutch on tight, and her fingers dig into my back, and there's a lot of tongue that keeps going deeper. Her breath is sweet from the chocolate martini, a lot sweeter than even the rarest of rare bourbons.

A lot more intoxicating too.

Those curvy boobies are pressing hard against my chest. My shirt is tailored from expensive fabric with some heft to it, but her cheap dress is flimsy, and I can't help feeling the spike of her diamond-tipped nipples through our clothes. She's excited. Breathless.

It's one of those kisses that go on and on until you forget how to breathe. Until you assume you don't even need to breathe. It isn't like I'm kissing her or she's kissing me. It's like we're both caught up in this kiss that's bigger than our own day-to-day reality.

Then she's wiggling out of my lap again and somehow she's jumping out of the booth and heading for the elevator. She's walking very, very slowly, which means she either isn't used to strutting her stuff in those high heels or she's deliberately making her ass sway from side to side like that. Probably a little of both.

“Don't touch that button,” I say. The last thing we want is for that damn elevator to come back up with Dickens on it.

She turns. The doors are some kind of silvery metal with a mirror polish. I can see her backside reflected in that mirror. But I need to get my attention back to her front side. Those wide, innocent eyes are far too young to go with a name like Bree Candy.

I walk right up to her and plant a hand on either side of her body, so I can feel the coolness of that shiny surface. “What's your real name?” I already know, but I want to find out if she's ready to tell me.

She laughs, but she stays.

I've got her in my arms again, and now I'm sliding down, down, down to the carpet in front of her. “Brace yourself on that door, but don't touch that button.”

She folds her arms beneath her curvy boobs, which lifts them up and up. After a moment, she backs up an inch or two to prop her round butt against the door. “What the fuck you doing down there?”

“You want to test me, then test me. First test is to prove I know what to do with my tongue.”

“Is that the first test?”

Those high heels have got to go. I lift one foot and pull off a shoe and lick with the tip of my tongue between her toes. It tickles, and she lets out a little gasp of shock. I move to the other foot and do it all over again.

“You're, um, sucking my toes. Is that a thing?” She has no fucking clue how young she sounds when she says that.

A virgin, I'm thinking. An eighteen-year-old virgin. Probably the only one in Vegas.

There's a nerve that runs from the big toe straight up to a woman's clit. Don't take my word for it. Ask your doctor. The more I suck on that pampered foot, the more she has to brace herself against the elevator door. The cold metal must be getting all hot and sweaty from the way she's waggling her ass against the silvered surface.

Pink polish on the toes. A hint of candy flavor. I didn't know they made polish in flavors. Girls, even virgin girls, know all kinds of crazy things.

I'm too far away down here. I need to start slipsliding the tongue action up and up and up. Silky smooth legs, well-shaped calves. The backs of her knees are as ticklish as her toes, and she's gasping a little louder as I flick my tongue in the direction of her generous thighs. So easy to imagine those thighs wrapped around a man's body...

My body.

Not “a” man's body. My body. Mine. Only mine. The thought of those thighs in contact with anybody else... no. Impossible. Something that just can't happen. A fire goes through me. The lust to claim and to possess.

“You're mine,” I say. “All fucking mine, and nobody else's.”

“Mmmm.” Is she purring? Fuck me, she's purring. Her pelvis tilts, and the hem of the skirt drifts even higher, leaving the undercurve of her ass exposed.

Thong panties. A triangle of candy-pink over a waxed mound. A string no wider than a strand of pink embroidery thread running between her delectable cheeks. I reach and grab and squeeze. “Leaving your ass hanging out like that is crying out for a spanking.”

She dances her bottom against the palm of my hands. My face is all up in her pussy now, the better to use my teeth to grasp that triangle of flimsy fabric and yank it halfway to her knees.

There. That's the way I need her. I roll my whole head against the satiny-smooth delta, all the better to let her feel my scruff against her tender places.

“Do it, Daddy.” Her voice so tiny.

I put out my tongue again and begin to swirl it around like she's a melting ice cream cone. The silky folds invite me deeper, but I focus on using just tippy-tip of my tongue.

“Hurry. What if somebody comes?”

“Nobody would dare.” I breathe the words into her tender flesh.

“This door could open at any minute.”

“Nobody would dare.” I don't often repeat myself, but I'll make an exception for her. My mouth seals itself around her folds, and my tongue spears in more deeply. My upper lip presses hard on the tiny button, and it pulsates back at me. Damn, she's responsive. I begin to tongue-fuck in and out, slowly but surely.

It would be fun to leap all over her. Use my knee to spread her knees. Thrust and take. The heat in my blood is telling me to do just that.

Shitfire, that would be hot, that would be fun. But it wouldn't be nearly as much fun as stringing things out. The longer you ache, the hotter you burn, and, the hotter you burn, the better it is in the end.

“Don't rush me,” I tell her. “Don't think you can hurry me. I'm going to make every minute last a thousand years.”

Her ass rotates so hard against the door that it's crushing my hand into the metal. I love the warmth of it. The firmness. Her eyes roll back, seeing nothing. All the focus is on the feeling.

For me too. Fuck, yes. I make my tongue all pointy, the way I do when I'm trying to pick out specific nerve endings. She jerks, squeals, jerks again.

This is so much like being in a dirty movie, and yet it's all so fucking real. How can something so flavorful be so real? Her very skin salts seem to melt into my taste buds.

“Ohhhhhh.”

Is she the one moaning, or is it me? My nose buries itself in her slit, the better to memorize her intoxicating scent. My tongue stretches and thrusts and lunges, and her hips dance from side to side. Her pelvis tilts and twists. I'm stretching my tongue out long with every thrust, then pulling it out slowly to focus on the taste of the juices flowing over my taste buds.

This is too much too soon, and yet it's everything.

“I'm going to...” She's afraid to say what she's going to do, but I know.

I can taste it.

So close. And then closer yet.

I'm nose-deep in her again, my tongue probing all the hidden places, my upper lip pressing her clitty button over and over and over.

She's wet and wide and open, and I could take her now standing against this door, but somehow I find the self-control to keep the focus where it belongs. On her. It's all for her.

“Ohhhh. Oh!” She sounds surprised, as if she hadn't known how good it could feel.

Definitely a virgin, I think. Diddling yourself in the dark doesn't prepare you for an experienced tongue like mine.

I feel the contractions around my tongue, and I hold myself there, my face wedged between her thighs, my mouth sucking the luscious juices from the core of her.

Ping.

The fucking elevator. Fucking hell. Everybody's getting their happy ass fired tonight. Dickens, the guard, the club manager, every-fucking-body.

Somehow, I'm on my feet, and she's got her skirt smoothed down over her ass. A little hop and a twist, and she's got the spike heels on too.

Ping. The door comes open, and there's Dickens and a couple of other guys I recognize.

Dickens doesn't have to say he's sorry or that it's urgent or anything at all. The fact that Nick Fucking Mitrovich is there in my club says everything.

Ping.

The fuck. Bree Candy is on her way down.

The only evidence she was ever there is the crumpled candy-pink thong left behind on the floor. That, and the taste of her juices on my tongue.

Chapter Four

Brecka

I run like a scared little girl. I know it even when I'm doing it, but I don't know how I can sit in Lane's lap in a booth while he does business with the kind of guys who look like they carry guns. The gay assistant is checking me out in a way that lets me know he can smell it on me what we've been doing. It isn't like he gives a fuck. He thinks of me as just an another service to provide for his boss.

Being evaluated like that gives me a funny feeling.

Nobody can know I'm a virgin. Nobody. Eighteen is too fucking old for that. Lane thinks I'm a party girl, and that's what I want him to think. He's not going to start something up with a girl fresh out of high school.

This club is farther from the strip than it looked when I went in. Vegas is a night town, and there's a lot of cars going up and down. A lot of lights. It's a warm night, but not as miserably hot as it was in the daytime.

My thighs flex as I walk, and I feel the wetness there. Lane's tongue. My own juices. He licked a lot of it away, but I'm still damp. It's a tingly feeling. My panties... fuck. I left my fucking panties.

I could pick up one of the cabs in a string. I could call for a driver. But suddenly I don't feel right about getting in some stranger's dirty car without my panties. It's only a couple of blocks to one of the big resorts.

There's a big group coming from the other direction, couples carrying drinks and making noise. A wedding party, I assume, since one of the girls is wearing an ankle-length white dress.

Yeah, it would be OK to walk that way. Give my pussy a chance to air out. Then, when I'm all springtime fresh, I can grab one of the cabs in the line at the casino.

Walking and texting is a thing in Vegas, and I realize I might have left the members of Club Sugar Daddy hanging, so I take out my phone to see a string of texts.

>Brecka, you want to check in?

Madison doesn't know how to turn off auto-correct, which gives her text an oddly stiff feel.

>I'm OK.

>Where are you?

>Outside. Need air.

>What happened with the chocolate martini?

>He introduced me to someone.

>We're going to need to talk about this some more.

I put my phone away as I realize I've somehow strolled into a pool of darkness too close to a shuttered building. I scurry back toward the road or, at least, I try to scurry, but a big hand comes out of the darkness somehow to yank me back.

The spike heels were not a good idea. When he lifts me up, I kick high, and both of them fly off, one of them close enough to catch in my right hand.

Little girl.” A low voice growly from decades of dedicated drinking. Foul breath. I twist and try to kick out of his grasp, but he's still stronger than I am. Up close, I see dark eyes glazed over with impulsive lust. “What choo doin out so late, little girl?”

None of your fucking business. Let me go.” They say you should aim for the eyes or the balls, but it's easier said than done when he's got me grabbed so tight like this. I have to settle for jabbing him in the ribs.

Little girl thinks she can fight me. Awww. That's cute.”

I jab harder, using the stiletto heel like an actual stiletto. Except the cheap-ass fucker snaps right off in my hand and goes flying. That's why I need a sugar daddy. Baby girl needs new shoes. I drop the useless piece of shit.

He keeps pulling me deeper into the darkness between the buildings. How did I find the one place in Vegas that's absolutely devoid of light? I pound him with my hands and feet, but his grip never softens. There's something besides alcohol. Something that makes him impervious to pain.

Fuck. I'm in real danger here. I can't expect the girls to come find me anytime soon, especially since I just checked in and said I was OK. They have no reason to worry.

Mom thinks I'm spending the night at Madison's.

Lane...

But Lane doesn't know me. He's just a rich guy in a club who put his tongue where he wanted to and then went back to doing his rich guy business with gangsters who are better dressed but probably just as criminal as this one.

The pervert's grabbing at my bare ass under the skirt. I don't want those filthy hands leaving bruises. Not there, not anywhere.

Don't even try it, I'll bite it right off,” I say.

He laughs. His stinky breath is too close to my nose. I can't see, I can't breathe. The only good thing about the way he's pushing my back against the wall is that he needs both hands to fight me into position, so he's no longer doing the octopus all over my ass.

I try to get a hand free. Try to push him away, but he doesn't push.

I'm rubbing my ass against brick to try to drag my skirt down. Why did I wear such a short fucking hem?

So dark. That foul face shoved into mine. I push harder, but it's like trying to push over a wall.

A pop, and a spray of tiny pieces of brick.

The fuck. Somebody was shooting at us.

Somebody with a silencer.


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