Page 28 of Gamble (Black Light #38)
ELIJAH
“She’s gorgeous,” Reagan said, genuine admiration lighting up her voice. “I can’t believe you just bought her before this trip.”
“Yeah, what can I say? I’m a walking, talking, midlife crisis cliché,” Elijah joked, unable to resist the grin that tugged at his lips. “But I’ll admit, having a beautiful woman appreciate my taste in classic muscle cars is an unexpected bonus.”
Reagan laughed, that melodic sound that had been driving him crazy all weekend. “Muscle cars, huh? Should I be worried about becoming the other woman in this relationship?” Her eyes crinkled at the corners as her face broke into a grin of sheer joy he was quickly becoming addicted to.
The word ‘relationship’ hung in the desert air between them, and Elijah felt his chest tighten as a wave of unexpected longing swept through his gut. Acting nonchalant, he flipped the valet a generous tip before holding open the passenger door for Reagan.
As he walked to the driver’s side, his mind latched on to the word ‘relationship.’ Was that what this was?
The rational part of his brain—the part that remembered his aching joints and his kinky lifestyle and the twenty-year age gap—screamed that this had just been a Vegas weekend of debauchery. Another cliche. Nothing more.
But watching Reagan slide across the white leather bench seat, choosing to sit close enough to him that her bare knee brushed against his denim-covered thigh, made every rational thought evaporate like morning dew in the Nevada sun.
Doing his best to keep things cool, he answered her previous question. “I promise to share her,” he said, settling behind the wheel and breathing in the intoxicating combination of Reagan’s vanilla shampoo and the car’s leather interior. “Besides, she’s got plenty of room for both of us.”
Reagan snuggled closer against his side, her hand coming to rest on his thigh with a familiarity that should have terrified him. Instead, it felt like the most natural thing in the world.
“I love bench seats,” she said, looking up at him through those long lashes. “So much more... intimate than bucket seats.” Making her point, she playfully brushed her hand upwards to graze the fly of his pants before returning it to his inner thigh.
Christ, she’s going to be the death of me.
Forcing himself back to the task at hand, Elijah turned the key, and the 351 Cleveland V8 engine rumbled to life with a throaty growl that reverberated through his chest. The sound was pure mechanical poetry, almost as beautiful as the satisfied sigh Reagan released as she relaxed against him.
“Ready for this?” he asked, his hand hovering over the convertible top controls.
“More than ready. I love the wind in my hair.”
Twenty minutes later, with the Nevada landscape stretching endlessly ahead of them, Elijah realized Reagan’s enthusiasm for wind-blown hair had been optimistic.
Her beautiful auburn locks whipped around her face like silk ribbons in a tornado, and she spent more time trying to tame the chaos than enjoying the scenery.
“I think I need you to pull over,” she laughed, still attempting to gather her hair into some semblance of order. “I’m going to look like I stuck my finger in an electrical socket by the time we get to LA.”
Just ahead, Elijah spotted a small roadside shop advertising “Native American Crafts and Gifts.” He pointed at the sign, confirming, “We’ll stop there.”
A few minutes later, he slowly pulled into the gravel parking lot, careful not to throw gravel against the pristine paint job on his car.
The dilapidated building looked like it had been in service longer than his vintage Mustang, yet the weathered wood and faded paint gave it a kind of authentic character that couldn’t be manufactured.
“Come on,” he said, cutting the engine. “Let’s see if we can find you something to tame that beautiful mane of yours.”
He was pleased when Reagan waited for him to walk around opening the passenger door for her. The feel of her hand in his felt natural as they walked across the dusty lot.
Stepping into the air-conditioned shop, they realized they’d found a treasure trove of handmade goods—turquoise jewelry, pottery, and woven textiles that spoke of traditions passed down through generations.
But it was a display of silk scarves near the back corner of the store that caught Elijah’s attention.
He placed his arm around Reagan’s waist so he could steer them in that direction.
The scarves were not Native American—more likely imported from somewhere in Asia. The display felt out of place, yet the fine-woven silk was exactly what Reagan needed.
Elijah watched her graze her hand across the fine fabrics, admiring each. He noted she gravitated toward a deep burgundy scarf with gold threads woven through the silk, holding it up to catch a small stream of natural light streaming through the shop’s window.
“This one’s beautiful,” she whispered as she flipped over the attached price tag before shaking her head.
Before she could return the coveted scarf to the shelf, Elijah plucked it from her hands and headed for the counter, reaching back to drag her into motion alongside him.
Pulling out his wallet, he declared, “We’ll take this one,” to the elderly woman looking bored behind the register.
“Elijah, you don’t need to—” Reagan protested until she caught the look in his eyes.
He had turned in her direction, deciding it was time to introduce her to what he called his ‘Dom stare’—the look that could stop a mouthy submissive mid-sentence at Black Light.
“What did I tell you about arguing with me about money this weekend?” He scolded, letting a small smile soften his rebuke.
Reagan’s cheeks flushed pink, and something flickered in her eyes that made his cock twitch with interest. She liked it when he took charge. The question was whether she understood what that might mean beyond their weekend bubble.
“Besides,” he added, his voice gentling, “a woman as beautiful as you deserves beautiful things. And I enjoy taking care of you.”
The shop owner broke out in a smile at their exchange as she wrapped the scarf in tissue paper. “You two remind me of my late husband and me when we were young,” she said. “He was always buying me little gifts. He said a woman should be treasured.”
Elijah felt Reagan stiffen against his side, and he wondered if the woman’s assumption about their relationship—whatever it was—made her as uncomfortable as it made him hopeful.
Back at the car, he helped Reagan position the scarf to protect her hair while still allowing her to feel the wind.
His fingers lingered at the nape of her neck as he tied the silk, and he couldn’t resist leaning in to press a soft kiss to the spot where her pulse fluttered.
Her sigh of pleasure went straight to his cock.
“Better?” he asked, nibbling along her neck a bit more before pulling away.
“Perfect,” she murmured, but when she looked up into his eyes, there was a longing in her eyes that suggested she meant more than just the scarf.
Breaking their intimate connection, Elijah opened the passenger door and ushered her into the car before hopping in and returning them to the interstate.
They drove in comfortable silence for a while, the desert gradually giving way to the stark mountains that surrounded Los Angeles.
Reagan reached for the radio, scanning through static until she found a classic rock station.
The opening guitar riff of “Free Bird” filled the air, and she cranked up the volume with a satisfied grin.
“Perfect driving music,” she called over the wind, settling back against his side, her hand again resting on his inner thigh.
Elijah couldn’t hide his surprise. “Most women your age would be looking for pop music or that electronic stuff.”
“Most women my age don’t have taste,” she shot back before she started singing along to Lynyrd Skynyrd with surprising accuracy.
Another piece of the puzzle that was Reagan Murphy fell into place. Beautiful, intelligent, sexually adventurous, and she appreciated classic rock. If he wasn’t careful, he was going to start believing the universe had custom-made her just for him.
With each mile he drove, Elijah memorized every detail of the moment. The weight of her against him, the way the afternoon sun caught the gold threads in her scarf, the contented sigh she released every few minutes.
It was Reagan who broke the amicable silence as they began their descent toward the city sprawl. Traffic was now heavy enough that he’d had to slow to speeds that made it easier to hear each other over the wind.
“Penny for your thoughts,” she said, her fingers tracing absent patterns on his leg through his jeans.
Elijah glanced down at her for the hundredth time, struck again by how right she felt beside him. “Just thinking about what a perfect weekend this has been,” he said truthfully.
“Has been?” she teased. “Past tense already?”
“You know what I mean,” he replied, letting his growing dread at the idea of saying goodbye seep into his voice.
He needed to put distance between them—start preparing for the inevitable goodbye. Because what else could this be? She was young, successful, beautiful—she could have any man she wanted. What would she want with a banged-up ex-stuntman who got his kicks tying women up and making them beg?
As if sensing his thoughts, Reagan shifted beside him, pulling back enough to study his profile.
“You’re getting that look again,” she said.
“What look?” Elijah tried to play it cool.
“The same one you had in Vegas when you thought you were too old for me. Like you’re trying to talk yourself out of something good.”
Damn, she reads me like a book.
“Maybe I am,” he admitted. “Maybe we both should.”
The words hung between them like a challenge, and Elijah regretted them. But it was better to be honest now than to let her get too attached to something that couldn’t work long-term. Right?
Reagan was quiet for a long moment, and when she spoke, her voice was smaller than he’d heard it all weekend.
“Is that what you want? To talk yourself out of this?”
The question hit him like a physical blow.
What he wanted and what was smart were two entirely different things.
What he wanted was to take her home to his place, to show her his playroom, to introduce her to a world of pleasure and pain that would bind them together in ways vanilla relationships never could.
What he wanted was to wake up next to her every morning and fall asleep with her in his arms every night.
Unfortunately, what was smart was recognizing that she deserved someone who could give her the white picket fence future he’d never be able to provide.
“I want what’s best for you,” he answered.
Anger flashed through her green eyes. “Shouldn’t that be my decision to make?”
Before he could answer, the highway curved, and the Los Angeles skyline came into view, a sprawling metropolis of dreams and broken promises stretching toward the Pacific Ocean.
The sight of downtown’s gleaming towers should have felt like coming home after their desert adventure, but instead it felt like approaching the end of something magical.
They drove in silence until he neared the general area that he knew she lived. “Tell me where I’m going,” he said, his voice rougher than he’d intended.
Reagan’s directions were quiet and precise, guiding him through the familiar streets of West Hollywood toward a modern apartment complex that looked like the kind of place a successful young professional would live. Safe, upscale, respectable.
Everything he wasn’t.
When he pulled under the covered portico at the building’s entrance, neither of them moved to get out. After turning off the key, the Mustang’s engine ticked as it cooled, and Elijah could hear the distant sounds of city traffic even as time seemed to freeze in their own little bubble.
“Reagan,” he started looking straight ahead, unable to look her in the eyes as he contemplated how to best let her down. What was he supposed to say? ‘Thanks for the great weekend, but you’re too good for a kinky old bastard like me?’
He could feel her intense stare even before she reached to touch his face, turning him to face her. The vulnerability in her green eyes nearly undid him.
“This doesn’t have to be goodbye, does it?” she asked softly.
Every instinct screamed at him to whisk her away and never let her go, but his brain demanded he make it easy for both of them.
To kiss her forehead and walk away before either of them got hurt.
But looking at her face, seeing the hope she was trying so hard to hide, he said the exact opposite of what his brain demanded.
“Have dinner with me Tuesday night.”
The words tumbled out before he could stop them, and he held his breath waiting for her response.
Reagan’s face brightened for a moment before falling. “I’d love to, but I work Tuesday. I’m on call that evening and it’s usually pretty brutal.”
Disappointment crashed through him, followed by relief. Maybe this was the universe’s way of telling him to let her go.
“Of course,” he said, reaching for the door handle until he blurted, “How about Friday then?”
“But I’d love to go another night…” she clarified.
They spoke at the same time, their words overlapping in a rush of simultaneous hope, and then they both started laughing.
“Friday it is,” Elijah said, feeling lighter than he had since they’d left Vegas. “I know the perfect place.”
“It’s a date,” Reagan said, then blushed at her own words.
Elijah got out and retrieved her luggage from the trunk, taking his time because he wasn’t ready for this moment to end. When he walked her to the lobby door, he set her bags down and pulled her into his arms.
“Thank you,” he said, hugging her tight and taking in the scent of her hair against his cheek. “It really was the best birthday weekend of my life.”
Reagan tilted her face up to his, and he kissed her there under the afternoon sun, not caring who might see them. It was soft and sweet and full of promise, and when they broke apart, her eyes were shining.
“Thank you for showing me what I was missing,” she whispered.
As he drove away, watching her wave from the lobby in his rearview mirror, Elijah realized he was in serious trouble. For the first time in decades, he knew he was falling in love. And this time, he wasn’t sure he was strong enough to walk away.