The Bellagio’s bathroom has more mirrors than a voyeur’s bedroom, so it’s impossible to turn around without catching a glimpse of myself. The funny thing is I look the same, except with bonus red eyes and blotchy cheeks. Sucks to feel different on the inside where no one can see.
The only thing different on the outside is my new ink. I scootch up to the mirror, hike my shirt up under my armpits in the least sexy move ever and ease my panties halfway down my butt. And then I’m staring at my lower back and ass. You know, just checking shit out.
Even with the tattoo only half-healed, it’s clear that Vik is insanely talented with his hands. My firebird explodes up from the base of my spine, wings expanding from my panties and wrapping themselves around my spine. The feathers are this gorgeous red and black, long, sweeping lines of color that soar upward. For all his teasing, Vik didn’t ink his number on my butt.
Okay. So he didn’t give me his number in permanent color but he’s still beneath my skin. There’s all that bare skin around the lines he laid down, just begging to be filled. I want more, want that darkness, that sweet pain and the release that comes afterward. The buzz of his needle let me forget so much and then took me to a different place.
I pick up my abandoned clothes. Fold them neatly and stack them on the opulent little vanity bench. The Bellagio has its King Louis the Something-Something going on because my bathroom is practically raining gilt. My black work skirt and Kate Spade blouse look downright sedate, and my beige bra is the cherry on the boring sundae. To be fair, it’s not like I can rock red lace underneath a white work blouse, nor do I want to, but still...my underwear covers more than most bikinis. If I got hit by a bus and EMTs stripped me down to check for injuries, my modesty would be safe.
Mark’s hussy wore red satin.
I promptly Google selfie tips.
I must be crazy because I’m actually thinking about taking a picture. Of my panties. I recheck the all-knowing Internet, and three minutes later I’m armed, dangerous and pointing my phone at my crotch. Snap, snap, tap. It’s not even hard. Sure, I hesitate, my finger hovering over Vik’s contact info. For like a nanosecond.
I hit Send. Are these panties boring?
Is sharing mostly naked selfies with an almost total stranger stupid?
Yes.
Yes, it is.
And then, still feeling reckless, I march out and raid the minibar. Never mind that the smallest package of M&M’s costs a ridiculous eight dollars or that the price tag on the mini champagne exceeds my last cell phone bill. I’m totally worth it, and today has sucked.
My phone dings with an incoming message.
VIK: You do have my number. Thought you’d never use it.
ME: Answer the question.
VIK: Would look better on the floor. Or wrapped around my dick. Hint hint.
It’s silly to be happy because Vik likes my panties. His opinion is hardly statistically significant—I’d have to march my butt out onto the Strip and poll at least ninety-nine other random guys if I wanted meaningful results. But still. He likes beige just fine. Of course, that’s because he wants to get in them but I totally count it as a win for me.
ME: Tried to pick up my cat from my ex. Epic fail.
VIK: Tell me what you need. I’m on it.
ME: Brain bleach.
He’s a biker who goes to biker parties, so a random couple 69-ing won’t shock him. I text him my new glamor shot of Mark and his colleague. Frankly, the only reason I’m not blasting it to everyone we know is that then I’d have to explain what I was doing in his house after he gave me the boot.
VIK: I’d say fuck him but looks like he’s already got that covered. You can do better than him. I can be there in thirty minutes if you decide to upgrade.
See? I’m sexy.
ME: Flying solo tonight but thanks.
VIK: You sure about that?
ME: Not in the mood for company. Swearing off sex forever.
VIK: Give me a shot.
ME: At?
VIK: Changing your mind. You’ve had the worst. No point in taking a vow of celibacy until you’ve tried the best.
ME: So you’re the best?
Vik texts me back a row of smiley-face emoticons.
I have no idea what that means.
Absolutely none.
Is he in a good mood? Laughing at me? Tapped the wrong picture when he meant to send a chorus line of dancing eggplant emojis?
I consider what I know. Item one? I definitely like his body. New Me has fantasized a lot about stripping him down and licking various parts of his anatomy. But those are just fantasies—and Real Me lives firmly in reality. He’s hot, and I’m me. Most days, I’m happy to be me. But I’m a conservative investment banker. I wear panty hose. I plan for the long game. No matter how pretty Vik is, he’s not my type.
The line of dancing dots appears on my phone.
VIK: Assuming you’re not at work?
ME: Nope. Back at the Bellagio.
Ten long heartbeats later, my phone buzzes.
He’s sent me a picture.
If I had to pick a word to describe what I’m looking at, I’d be hard-pressed to choose, but dirty vies for top position on my list. The shot closes in on his abs and then goes...lower. Much, much, deliciously lower. He’s unbuttoned the top buttons of his jeans and he’s fisting his dick. The view is both hot as fuck and supremely frustrating because while I know where his hand is (squeezing what appears to be a magnificently large penis), I can’t see much of anything. Video would be so much better.
VIK: Sweet dreams.
It’s definitely time to sign off. Otherwise,
