Page 56 of A Vegas Crush Collection #3

who’s the guy?

Reagan

I blink awake, confused about waking up in an unfamiliar room. It’s dark and hard to see, but there’s definitely a warm, solid body draped over mine while other parts of me feel chilled.

I’m in a strange bed. Also, very naked.

And without even a sheet covering my very naked body, the early morning chill I’m feeling makes more sense.

I wriggle loose and turn to my other side to find Mikhail in the bed with me. But he’s still asleep. Also, incredibly beautiful and kissable.

Ohhh.

Yeah, that really happened. The realization warms my body instantly. Yep, last night was mind-blowing.

And not just the sex was mind-blowing.

Mikhail Zelenka blew my mind off the planet.

He was protective of me. Careful. He was powerful and commanding, but he asked and made sure I really wanted to go down this road with him. And I did. I very much wanted to be with him.

I am in no way disappointed.

He really is a specimen, totally fit—every muscle toned, not an ounce of body fat on his frame, combined with the good looks, he’s off-the-chain hot.

I’m still processing that he wanted me. Mikhail would probably have no problem getting any woman he wanted.

Somehow, though, I sense he doesn’t engage in random hookups.

He doesn’t strike me as the kind of man who takes sex for granted or uses women that way.

Even though he was a beast in bed, he always remained a gentleman.

Which was a whole turn-on, all on its own.

I’m kind of embarrassed I fell asleep like that, right after having the best sex I’ve had in my life (not that I’ve had a ton to compare it to). I guess if he was bothered by my sleeping over, he wouldn’t have been cuddled up to me fast asleep and looking so peaceful.

I slip out of the bed and tiptoe into the bathroom, taking a human moment and cleaning myself up before doing a tour of the apartment to find my clothing—what little there was of it.

I slip my dress over my head, not worrying about anything else since I’ll just be going up two floors to my own apartment.

I throw my shoes, bra, and underwear in my bag, and see my phone is lit up with text message notifications.

I sit on Mikhail’s couch, pulling a throw blanket over my shoulders while I check to make sure the messages aren’t important.

Only one is from my mother. The other three?

They’re from him.

Cold dread mixes with a stomach-flip of anxiety. It stops my breath for a moment, seeing “Peter Pellton” on my phone. Why? Why is he contacting me again?

I blow out a loud, long breath and walk back into Mikhail’s bedroom.

Still sleeping deeply, he’s now moved onto his back, his long, naked form sprawled out for my viewing enjoyment.

His body is truly a work of art, especially with the inked sleeves covering his arms and shoulders, there’s still real estate lower on his chest for future tats I’m guessing.

Ripped abs clearly visible even while at rest. His chest is smooth, but he does have a little happy trail that starts below his belly button.

Leading the way down to his magnificent cock.

Speaking of which, it’s long and thick while perched on those ripped abs of his as he sleeps.

Just the thought of what he did with it last night makes a deep ache zing between my legs.

I want him—badly.

I want to ignore the texts on my phone, crawl on top of him, and ride him until I come again. And I almost do, to be honest. But when it comes right down to it, I also need to be honest with myself about the situation with this beautiful man I admire so much.

I like him. He’s gorgeous and very generous in bed.

Kind of serious, kind of moody. But I like him.

And because I like him, I need to stay far away from him.

I need to go away and leave him to his professional hockey player life because he sure as hell does not need the mess that is my life mixed up into his.

So, I grab my things and slip out, leaving my hockey god superhero to his much-needed sleep as if I were never even here.

It’s six in the morning, but Peter’s text just came through an hour ago, so I’d bet he’s awake now. Calling him is something I’ve been avoiding like the plague for a while, but I know I can’t keep ignoring him. So, I hit the green button and hold my breath.

“Reggy,” he says, using the pet name I hate so much. “You’re up early.”

“So are you.”

“Oh, just the same-old insomnia as usual. What’s your excuse?”

“What do you want? You sent me three texts.”

He sighs. “Did you do what Sodorov suspects you of? Did you find a way to pull money from his house account, you naughty girl?”

“No.” I wish I could slap him across the face through the phone. “Absolutely not.” How the hell does he even know about this?

“Seems hard to believe this is all just a coincidence,” he says threateningly. “And hey, more power to you if you figured out how to pull it and squirrel it away. I didn’t think you were that smart, to be honest.”

“Wow. How nice of you, Peter.” I feel both sick to my stomach and the surge of rage boiling.

“I’m just saying. You owe them money, so it makes total sense that you’d try to get out from that debt faster than planned. But to attempt to do that with their own money? Kinda genius, also crazy risky.” He chuckles into the phone and the sound resonates like a rattlesnake at my ear.

I grit my teeth so hard I feel like I might crack one.

“I did not do it. I’m making my payments.

If I were some crime genius, I’d be long gone, not still here working at my crappy job—in the same building where this crime took place—getting roughed up every few days while still making my payments each and every month. Think about it, Pete.”

He makes a noise that tells me he is not convinced of my innocence. Then he asks, “Who’s the guy, Reggy? Is that where you were all night?”

The hairs on my arms stand on end. How does he know I wasn’t home all night?

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Peter.”

“Don’t lie.” He exhales from his cigarette. “Tall, tatted up, and handsome? Good head of hair? Who is he?”

“None of your business.”

“Aww, come on now, Reggy. Guy comes out of nowhere and beats the living shit out of one of Sodorov’s best guys? And now he’s hanging around, getting in the way of his business? Maybe they need to have a conversation with him? Maybe I’ll suggest it to them as a way to get you to come clean.”

“Fuck you, Peter.” I hate this. I hate him. How does he know what Mikhail did? How?

I know his reaction before it even happens. The stupid, grating laugh. I can imagine the smirk on his face. And the words. “Well, we did plenty of that, now, didn’t we? Wasn’t anything to write home about, from my perspective. Maybe things are better with this new guy. Who is he, Reagan?”

“None. Of. Your. Fucking. Business.”

Peter sighs dramatically. “Well, it probably doesn’t matter anyway. You’re a slut. I’m sure he’ll be replaced soon enough since you have a whole revolving door of men stupid enough to crawl into your bed.”

“I don’t sleep around. Since you seem to be stalking me, you must know that.”

“Come on,” he says, his tone getting nastier, more aggressive. “You whored your sweet, little body around and crawled for every dollar. This one will figure you out in no time and he’ll be gone. And you’ll be begging for my help. Again.”

“Your help?” I ask, half laughing, half crying. He’s a bastard. Such a bastard. I hate my history. Hate it. But I hate this excuse for a human more. “You think you helped me? Maybe you’re just jealous that I left you. That I realized what a loser you were, and I just walked away.”

“Careful what you say to me, Reggy.”

“Why? Are they listening, Peter? Did they make you call and check in on me? See if I’d tell you something different than what I’ve told them a thousand times? I did not take their money. I wouldn’t.”

“Ding, ding, ding, ding,” he singsongs. “Just give it all back, little one. Give it back, and all will be forgiven.”

I hang up on him.

A shiver rocks its way through my body as I sit on my couch and stare at the wall. The minutes tick by, but I can’t move from my spot. I just keep staring at the wall where a photo hangs of me and my mom together in happier times.

I curse the day I let Peter Pellton into my life.

The anxiety is so overwhelming that I end up in a ball on the couch. My ears ringing, my stomach hurting, my heart pounding. I’m going to die. These guys are going to kill me.

It’s all I can imagine happening.

The tragic ending to the story of the sad, short life of Reagan Marlowe.

Two hours later.

I come awake in a rush, realizing I’ve moved from the couch to the floor at some point in my misery. A truly miserable wretch of a human, with my arms locked around my knees, my head buried between them, doing nothing more than simply existing.

I try to focus on my breathing. Just breathing in and out, deeply and slowly. In and out. In and out. My head is a roar, my heart is a caged animal, and my stomach is a volcano ready to erupt. At moments like these, I question every life decision I’ve ever made. I question life in general.

And then, there’s a knock at my door.

Oh fuck.