Chapter 1
Declan
Morning blow jobs are the best. Settling back into the plush pillows of my bed and closing my eyes, I take what she’s offering. I don’t need the visual of her blonde head bobbing up and down on me to make it feel better. Her mouth is like a fucking Hoover, and it’s doing an excellent job on its own.
This is a bit of an anomaly. I don’t usually have overnight guests at my place, preferring to wake up alone and at my own speed. But last night, I hosted a huge charity gala for homelessness or something like that, and well… I got a little drunk.
Which is also an anomaly, since I’m not big into how an overindulgence of alcohol makes me feel. I hate losing control, so drugs are out of the question. But my fucking college roommates were in town, and I invited them to the gala. Big mistake. They’re both big drinkers. By midnight, I was sloshed from trying to keep up with them while we reminisced about the good old days.
I’m still not sure how the blonde ended up in my penthouse suite at the Blackwood Vegas, but as her mouth currently has me on the edge of orgasm, I’m not going to lament on it. I’ll just chalk it up to drunken misfortune, something that rarely happens in a way that works out so well.
I don’t lack in my choice of blondes—or brunettes, redheads, or raven-haired beauties—who will get down on their knees for me. As a member of The Wicked Horse Vegas—a premiere, hedonistic sex club—I get my rocks off quite frequently in a variety of ways.
But again, morning blow jobs are definitely underrated, although this one is well deserved. While I might not remember exactly how she got up here with me last night, I do remember fucking her on three separate occasions throughout the night and fuck if I can remember how many orgasms she had, but it was a lot.
I’m good at what I do, just as she is at what she’s doing right now.
The blonde hums in the back of her throat. Perhaps it’s a sign she’s enjoying what she’s doing, or she just wants me to feel the vibration down to my balls.
I most certainly do. After only a few more moments of vigorous sucking, my hips shoot off the bed. With a relieved growl, I come down her throat.
I don’t even have time to enjoy the waning rumbles of pleasure rocketing through me before the woman crawls up my body, cuddling into me. It pisses me off.
Nuzzling her face into my neck, she coos, “Hope you enjoyed it, baby. There’s more where that came from. Maybe we can eat some breakfast in bed first, though.”
And… I’m out of here.
I’m not a cuddler.
I don’t do post-coital murmuring, and I definitely don’t share my thoughts with strangers.
I managed to bring a woman to my home who has me set firmly in her sights. By that, I mean she’s envisioning a future with the infamous Declan Blackwood.
I’m renowned for my skill at fucking. Women often get downright stupid after a night with me because I’m good at getting them off, but this blonde is cuddled up to me because of my last name.
Blackwood is about as close to American royalty as you can get. Blackwood Hotels and Resorts are the world’s leading luxury hotels, frequented by queens, presidents, and sheiks, as well as by the world’s elite one-percenters. My name is worth billions. No doubt, this stranger has fantasies about being a part of that dynasty.
Gently, but with due haste, I put my hands on her shoulders, press a quick kiss to her cheek, and untangle myself. “That was great, but I have to get to work.”
It’s the truth.
I may be a rich playboy who makes more per hour from the interest on my investments than most people do in ten lifetimes, but I work hard for my living. As one of two heirs to the Blackwood fortune—and the only one destined to continue our legacy after our father dies—I take my duties seriously.
The blonde stares at me incredulously as I roll out of bed. I should feel a pang of guilt if this is coming across as insensitive, but I don’t. I’m not being intentionally harsh or dismissive of her feelings, but I realize why she’s still in my bed, her expression one of keen disappointment. It’s for my money and nothing else.
It’s easier if I promptly disabuse them of any notion of a happily ever after. “Look… um…”
I falter, struggling to recall her name. Her eyes widen in disbelief, and her jaw sags open. “Sonya.”
“Sonya,” I repeat, an apologetic tilt to my head. “I don’t date. I don’t do relationships. Long ago, I learned my money is too big of an attraction for too many people. Since then… I don’t get seriously involved with women.”
“I am not after your money,” she snaps, but there’s a high pitch to her voice. Yep, she’s a gold digger.
“Perfect,” I say with a genuine smile. I nab my robe from the end of my bed where housekeeping put it when they completed the turndown service in my suite, long before I returned with Sonya in tow. “There won’t be any misunderstanding or hurt feelings when I don’t ask for your number then.”
“You’re an asshole,” she exclaims, rolling out of bed in the opposite direction. She stomps around, snatching up her clothing. I pull my robe on, then cinch it at the waist.
I don’t bother refuting her claim. I can definitely be an asshole when it’s warranted. In this case, I don’t feel like I’ve reached that level of atrocity, but I’ve definitely killed her snuggly mood with my blunt honesty.
Sonya storms into my bathroom, then slams the door. Shrugging, I exit the master suite through a small foyer that connects with the main living area. I moved into the penthouse suite of the main building a little over a year ago after we cut the ribbon on the newest Blackwood property, the elite five-diamond Blackwood Vegas. It’s a sprawling resort set on sixty acres of lushly pristine grounds well off the Strip. While we have our own casino—hello, it’s Vegas—it’s more of a desert oasis getaway for the wealthy. In addition to the expansive hotel with luxurious rooms and suites, we have private villas and cottages. Because I directly oversee the construction and opening of our five-diamond resorts—the most expensive and exclusive, but also the rarest—I live on-site to ensure everything is run to my family’s exacting standards. Vegas is only the fourth five-diamond resort we’ve opened. The other three are in Paris, Abu Dhabi, and New York City.
Vegas seemed like a bit of an underdog when we were considering our next five-diamond location. But the amount of money that filters through this little desert town is on par with some of the world’s most expensive cities. It’s an investment that has already more than paid itself off.
Moving into the kitchen, I note the sun is hanging low in the sky. I lean against the counter as my first cup of espresso brews in the fancy machine. When the doorbell rings, I figure it’s housekeeping. They know I like to have my suite cleaned early. I’m always up with the sunrise, and I prefer to have my privacy back as quickly as I can. I don’t always spend my days in the executive offices located on the third floor. Sometimes, I prefer to work from my private office.
Padding through the living room, I reach the penthouse door just as Sonya stomps out of my bedroom. I open the door, vaguely pleased to see the new maid we’d hired last week. While I rarely pay attention to the staff milling about on any given day, this one is hard not to notice.
Couldn’t help but do a double-take the first time she arrived at my suite to clean. While she wears the Blackwood housekeeping uniform—traditional knee-length dress in black with a white Peter Pan collar for a classic look—there’s no denying her natural beauty. Dark brown hair, golden skin, and amber-colored eyes that slant slightly enough to make her features exotic.
Sexy as hell, too. She fills her uniform out a little too well. Petite but curvy, she has an ass that was made to be gripped hard.
“Good morning, Mr. Blackwood,” she says demurely. Head bowed, she doesn’t meet my eyes.
I don’t reply, making a sweeping motion for her to enter. At the same time, Sonya reaches the door. The two women eyeball each other for a nanosecond. The maid pauses, shifting sideways to give Sonya room to exit.
She glides past me, nose in the air, and mutters, “Asshole.”
I don’t reply. I’m simply happy she’s gone without a big confrontation. I’ve been on the end of a few ugly, screaming tirades when women refuse to understand I don’t want anything but a fuck. Honestly, it’s the reason I spend so much time at The Wicked Horse. The members of the club are there for the same reason I am.
Sex and nothing else.
My gaze returns to the housekeeper, her gaze still averted in a subservient manner. Somehow, I sense she doesn’t have a demure bone in her body. Her straight posture screams she’s not the type to bend to people.
But I am her employer, so I’m not surprised she’s putting on a servant-like manner.
Once again, I sweep my arm, indicating she should come in. She enters, pulling behind her a cart laden with clean sheets, towels, and other cleaning essentials. We are The Blackwood, though, so this cleaning cart isn’t the norm you’d see in other hotels. This one is carved from cherry wood with gold detailing. It’s thin and portable, filled with only enough supplies to clean one suite at a time. The sheets are expensive—a thousand dollars a pop—and the towels equally as luxurious. The cleaning supplies are natural and non-animal tested, something they’d polled and realized was important to the rich for some reason, and the toilet paper costs thirteen dollars a roll. It’s some Japanese brand made with high-quality wood fiber, treated with purified water, and then dried slowly to ensure the most supreme softness of anything to ever touch an ass.
It’s ridiculous what people will pay for luxury items. Yet, I don’t bat an eye over it. It’s how I was raised—on thirteen-dollar-a-roll toilet paper—so it seems normal.
After I close the suite door, I head into the kitchen for my coffee. The maid goes into my bedroom, where the smell of sex is probably strong.
Am I embarrassed?
Fuck no.
Besides, my cock is happy right now. Fuck what the maid thinks.
Grabbing my espresso, I sip it while I use my phone to check my email, responding to a few items that only require short replies. When I finish my drink, I brew another cup, then pull a bowl of fruit from the fridge. I don’t bother with a plate, merely grabbing a fork from the drawer and eating straight from it as I watch the news on the small TV set into a cabinet beside the stove.
When the maid finally finishes with my room, I head that way, leaving my cup and breakfast dishes on the counter. The maid will clean it up. She patently ignores me as I walk by, but I don’t return the courtesy. I peruse her body as she bends to polish the coffee table. Briefly, I wonder what her name is.
But it’s a fleeting thought at best. I didn’t even bother to glance at her name tag—not this morning or any of the other occasions she’s been here—so why wonder now?
Shrugging, I go take a quick shower before I get dressed for the day.
