Owned by the Bad Boy(3)

By: Vanessa Waltz


He slides his fingers out of my cleavage, barely touching me, and then dimples curve into the sides of his mouth. My stomach does back flips. He has my full attention, and he’s practically begging for mine, but something at the back of my head tells me to be careful.

Pretty—he thinks I’m pretty. Fuck me, please.

His voice is like water rolling over rocks, smooth and gentle. “I go over the new hires assigned to my VIP games. I don’t remember you.”

For the first time I wonder who the hell this guy thinks he is. He can’t detain me here just because he doesn’t recognize me.

Just let me go already.

I tug at his grasp, but he holds me steady, his grin widening. There’s something about his slick smile that crawls under my skin. Lying to him is like reaching into a wolf’s open jaw.

“I’m supposed to be on the floor, but Emily asked me for a favor.”

He cocks his head. “Where exactly? Who’s your hiring manager?”

Damn it. This guy is too sharp.

Make a joke.

“You want my phone number, too?”

His lets out a chuckle that sends a flight of butterflies up my stomach.

“Why don’t you step into my office and we can finish this conversation privately?” He strokes my inner wrist again and a flame burns right beneath my skin.

“I’m not sure that’s a good idea,” I say, precisely at the same time my mind screams, DO IT!

He leans, his eyes flashing. “Maybe if we have time, I’ll get your phone number.”

Holy shit. Did he just—proposition me for sex in his office?

Maybe if we have time, I’ll get your phone number.

Flames heat up my face as he takes the tray of drinks from me and sets it down. His thick arm curls around my waist, and then he spreads his fingers on my back and I feel each individual one as though they were tiny irons searing into my dress. He finds the slits between the fabric where my skin peeks through and strokes me. Oh fuck. Imagine that, all over my body, his rough hands grabbing my tits.

He’d rather fuck me than interrogate me on my unexplained presence in his poker room. Out of the corner of my eye, I watch the players continue to play, blissfully ignoring us.

A finger runs along my jaw, moving my head so that I’m melting in his gaze again. My back hits the wall as he leans in, his arm still snug on my waist. An intoxicating scent wraps around me as my body crushes against his. I don’t know what the hell to do with my hands. I’m eyeing his lean waist, the light-blue shirt tucked into his slacks, that mouthwatering bump between his legs. I want to grab him—feel him grow hard. I just want some piece of him in my hands, to feel the thick abdominal muscles, or his flat, broad chest.

You can’t do this. You’ve got to get out.

“What do you want?”

“I’d like to get you out of that tight little dress and fuck your brains out.”

Did he really just say that?

Steam radiates from his body as he dips his hand, stroking my neck and playing with my shoulder strap. I’m temporarily robbed of breath. How the hell do you respond to that?

“I—I have to—”

He cuts me off, his smooth voice infecting my body. “I’d like to give you a nice fat hickey right here.”

He brushes his thumb right over the swell of my breast. I imagine his tongue stroking me, his lips puckering as I dig my fingers into his hair. My mouth parts and I’m seconds away from saying, “Fuck it.”

His thumb caresses the circular hidden camera, and suddenly his expression turns stony.

Oh shit. Fear eats away at desire, leaving me cold.

“What is this?” His nails dig into my wrist, eyes flashing. “You a cop?”

“Hell no.”

“That’s a fucking camera. Who are you?”


I twist in his grip and launch myself toward the door, but he grabs my other hand and forces it behind my back. The sharp pain makes me cry out as he gathers both wrists in one hand and fists my hair with the other. Rage hits me square in the chest as I try to wrestle out of his grip, but then he twists my hands and I’m struck with another slice of agony.

A brief image of six poker players standing in front of me flashes in front of my vision before he marches me toward them and forces me over the table. The coarse felt rubs against my cheek, burning my skin.

“Let me go!”

His hand wrenches yet again, and electricity shoots up my arm.

The seductive tone in his voice turns black, and I wince as if every syllable is a blow. He’s no longer pretending to be a smooth player. He’s a brute, intent on wrestling the truth out of me.

“Who sent you? Let me guess—Detective Ross?”

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