I stared out the plane window, watching the familiar Chicago winter landscape shrink beneath the clouds. Next to me, Mali, my girlfriend, had her raven-black hair tied in a ponytail that only accentuated the exotic beauty. "You're thinking too loud," she said, her voice husky, that always made my thighs clench. Then, turning to me, "You're thinking about him…"
I didn't deny it. "I'm thinking about the mess Liam made. And how three days in Sin City can't possibly fix it." At six-foot-one, Mali was a commanding presence even sitting down. Her eyes met mine. "It's not about fixing it, darling. It's about distracting ourselves until we can decide if we're brave enough to start over. This is a reset button, Ana. Push it."
The descent into Las Vegas was breathtaking. As the plane banked, the entire city materialized below us: a chaotic, dazzling jewel box set against the sandy velvet of the desert nightscape. It was an audacious, unreal sight designed solely for excess and escape. "Look at that, amor," I breathed, throwing my hands up in surrender to the city's pulsating lights.
"It looks like a promise," I'd declared. Mali's hand found mine, "Vegas always promises something. Whether it delivers is up to the gamblers." We took a taxi straight to the Bellagio. I exhaled, watching my breath fog the glass. "And if it's not enough?" I looked at her. She smirked, leaning in until her lips grazed my ear. "Then we'll find something that is."
The Bellagio's fountains erupted in a spectacular performance of water, music, and light as we stepped out of the taxi, our heels clicking against the pavement. Vegas smelled like chlorine and sin, a heady mix that had already turned me on. The lobby, a sumptuous opulence, swallowed us whole. We checked into our room: a deluxe one, luxurious, but without excess.
Mali tossed her bag onto the king-sized bed and stretched, her toned arms arching over her head, the hem of her dress riding up just enough to tease her sculpted ass. "First rule," she said, grabbing two mini bottles from the minibar. "No regrets before noon." I laughed, taking a bottle. "What's the second rule?" She winked, toasting. "No names after midnight."
We showered, dressed: Mali slick in a fitted, sophisticated midnight-blue dress that showcased her athletic body; I in a chic, deep red silk dress, clinging to my Latina curves and emphasizing my tango-dancer waist. We hit the casino floor: the air thick with smoke, expensive cologne, and the incessant rhythm of chips clicking and slot machines dispensing coins.
We started at roulette. "Black or red?" Mali asked. "Always red passion," I decided, placing a five-hundred-dollar chip, feeling a strange lightness I hadn't known in months. We lost that one. And the next ones, too. So we drifted to craps, still without luck, but we were doing exactly what we needed to do: being us again, two adventuresses in uncharted waters.
Mali's fingers twitched at her side, her eyes glittering. "Blackjack, baby!" she announced, pulling me toward a high-stakes table in a quieter corner. It was at the seven-seat table that fate, with its sense of timing, decided to intervene. Two men in Stetson hats larger than life caught our attention: they dominated the felt with huge, impressive piles of chips.
They were clearly a pair, but wildly different. One was younger, tall, with broad shoulders, a chiseled jaw, his features softened by a shy look and a boyish smile: the kind of awkward handsomeness that made you want to corrupt him. The older one, a giant with granite forearms, a charmingly rough face, and a hearty laugh, seemed to size us up with practiced ease.
As we watched, they placed a series of large bets, their winnings piling up before them like a treasure trove. The older, whom the dealer called "Bull," caught my eye with his piercing gaze and gestured for us to join them, his invitation clear and tempting. Mali raised an eyebrow at me, a hint of skepticism in her gaze, but I knew she was as intrigued as I was.
"Look what the cat dragged in," he drawled, his Texas accent thick as molasses, "ain't this a pleasant surprise?" He introduced himself as James and his ***, the shy one, as Colt. He watched us sit down, his eyes twinkling with mischief. "Ma'ams, this table just got a sight more interesting." Mali, gave him a cool smile. "We hope to make it more profitable, sir."
Bull laughed, with a rich, booming sound. "I like her, Colt. Got fire in the belly…" The air was electric with a palpable energy, a sense of possibility and excitement that hung heavy in the air. He looked me over slowly, lingering on the sweep of my blond curls and the curve of my hips. "And you, my darlin'… You look like trouble that's worth every damn penny."
We began to play. Bull was a dazzlingly aggressive player, Colt much more cautious. The conversation flowed easily: Texas ranches, Chicago cold, and the simple truth that all four of us were here for the same reason: distraction, adventure, and a heavy dose of excess. The time descended into a blur of laughter, shared toasts, and a growing sense of exhilaration.
Bull didn't mince words, after I won a sizable hand, he pushed all his purple chips toward me. "Take that, sweetheart," he said. "Call it an investment. Because you and your beautiful friend are too fine to be losing money tonight. We're buying your company." Mali's hand took mine, her eyes shining with her fearless spirit. "We are very expensive company, Bull…"
The change in the air was palpable as if a switch had been flipped. "I burn money for warmth," he replied smiling. "We have a suite upstairs. The kind of suite where you can forget your name, let alone your troubles." The decision was swift, mutual: a turning point. We looked at each other, the unspoken chaos of Liam fading into the background. This was the reset.
I didn't deny it. "I'm thinking about the mess Liam made. And how three days in Sin City can't possibly fix it." At six-foot-one, Mali was a commanding presence even sitting down. Her eyes met mine. "It's not about fixing it, darling. It's about distracting ourselves until we can decide if we're brave enough to start over. This is a reset button, Ana. Push it."
The descent into Las Vegas was breathtaking. As the plane banked, the entire city materialized below us: a chaotic, dazzling jewel box set against the sandy velvet of the desert nightscape. It was an audacious, unreal sight designed solely for excess and escape. "Look at that, amor," I breathed, throwing my hands up in surrender to the city's pulsating lights.
"It looks like a promise," I'd declared. Mali's hand found mine, "Vegas always promises something. Whether it delivers is up to the gamblers." We took a taxi straight to the Bellagio. I exhaled, watching my breath fog the glass. "And if it's not enough?" I looked at her. She smirked, leaning in until her lips grazed my ear. "Then we'll find something that is."
The Bellagio's fountains erupted in a spectacular performance of water, music, and light as we stepped out of the taxi, our heels clicking against the pavement. Vegas smelled like chlorine and sin, a heady mix that had already turned me on. The lobby, a sumptuous opulence, swallowed us whole. We checked into our room: a deluxe one, luxurious, but without excess.
Mali tossed her bag onto the king-sized bed and stretched, her toned arms arching over her head, the hem of her dress riding up just enough to tease her sculpted ass. "First rule," she said, grabbing two mini bottles from the minibar. "No regrets before noon." I laughed, taking a bottle. "What's the second rule?" She winked, toasting. "No names after midnight."
We showered, dressed: Mali slick in a fitted, sophisticated midnight-blue dress that showcased her athletic body; I in a chic, deep red silk dress, clinging to my Latina curves and emphasizing my tango-dancer waist. We hit the casino floor: the air thick with smoke, expensive cologne, and the incessant rhythm of chips clicking and slot machines dispensing coins.
We started at roulette. "Black or red?" Mali asked. "Always red passion," I decided, placing a five-hundred-dollar chip, feeling a strange lightness I hadn't known in months. We lost that one. And the next ones, too. So we drifted to craps, still without luck, but we were doing exactly what we needed to do: being us again, two adventuresses in uncharted waters.
Mali's fingers twitched at her side, her eyes glittering. "Blackjack, baby!" she announced, pulling me toward a high-stakes table in a quieter corner. It was at the seven-seat table that fate, with its sense of timing, decided to intervene. Two men in Stetson hats larger than life caught our attention: they dominated the felt with huge, impressive piles of chips.
They were clearly a pair, but wildly different. One was younger, tall, with broad shoulders, a chiseled jaw, his features softened by a shy look and a boyish smile: the kind of awkward handsomeness that made you want to corrupt him. The older one, a giant with granite forearms, a charmingly rough face, and a hearty laugh, seemed to size us up with practiced ease.
As we watched, they placed a series of large bets, their winnings piling up before them like a treasure trove. The older, whom the dealer called "Bull," caught my eye with his piercing gaze and gestured for us to join them, his invitation clear and tempting. Mali raised an eyebrow at me, a hint of skepticism in her gaze, but I knew she was as intrigued as I was.
"Look what the cat dragged in," he drawled, his Texas accent thick as molasses, "ain't this a pleasant surprise?" He introduced himself as James and his ***, the shy one, as Colt. He watched us sit down, his eyes twinkling with mischief. "Ma'ams, this table just got a sight more interesting." Mali, gave him a cool smile. "We hope to make it more profitable, sir."
Bull laughed, with a rich, booming sound. "I like her, Colt. Got fire in the belly…" The air was electric with a palpable energy, a sense of possibility and excitement that hung heavy in the air. He looked me over slowly, lingering on the sweep of my blond curls and the curve of my hips. "And you, my darlin'… You look like trouble that's worth every damn penny."
We began to play. Bull was a dazzlingly aggressive player, Colt much more cautious. The conversation flowed easily: Texas ranches, Chicago cold, and the simple truth that all four of us were here for the same reason: distraction, adventure, and a heavy dose of excess. The time descended into a blur of laughter, shared toasts, and a growing sense of exhilaration.
Bull didn't mince words, after I won a sizable hand, he pushed all his purple chips toward me. "Take that, sweetheart," he said. "Call it an investment. Because you and your beautiful friend are too fine to be losing money tonight. We're buying your company." Mali's hand took mine, her eyes shining with her fearless spirit. "We are very expensive company, Bull…"
The change in the air was palpable as if a switch had been flipped. "I burn money for warmth," he replied smiling. "We have a suite upstairs. The kind of suite where you can forget your name, let alone your troubles." The decision was swift, mutual: a turning point. We looked at each other, the unspoken chaos of Liam fading into the background. This was the reset.
