Breaking Beauty (Devils Aces MC): Vegas Titans Series by Celia Loren Page A
Authors: Celia Loren
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eyes—was unwilling. Despite the nearing danger, despite the sounds of his
parent's snores across the hall...he'd gotten massively hard just thinking
about Romy Adelaide. There was nothing for it.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Monday was strange in that everything seemed back to normal:
Romy went to class. Romy went to seminar. Romy went to the library, and made
some progress on a difficult take-home midterm. One professor noted her
distance—she'd been caught dozing in class for the first time since starting
her master's degree—but no one else cared to comment. Not even Eliza, Romy's
closest friend at school, took proper note of what she assumed were sleepless
eyes, and a manic disposition.
“Want to get pizza after lab?” Eliza asked, while the two
were puttering away on their laptops inside the campus cafe. “I'm back on carbs
this week.”
“I should probably work alone tonight.”
“What is it really? You have a big date?”
The very word 'date' brought back a series of memories that
still felt like the shreds of a dream: Bryson flaunting champagne by a bath-tub
brimming with rose petals. Bryson on his knees, his head in the vice of her
quivering thighs. Bryson kissing and cradling her naked breasts. The feel of
Bryson's throbbing cock straining through the cloth of his pants, all but
bursting toward her...
“Nope. Just think I should tackle differential equations by
my lonesome, is all.”
“Suit yourself.”
Bryson hadn't contacted her since Saturday night—which would
have been fine, were she able to stop thinking about him. But she couldn't.
Everywhere she turned, even through the halls of her safe, snug campus—all the
men in sunglasses might have been her hero. And likewise, every unfamiliar face
was an agent of Lefty DiMartino's sent to spy on her and ensure her discretion.
Sunday morning, Romy had risen early in Bryson's hotel room
at the sharp sound of knocking. While the man lay strewn through the hotel
sheets, she'd risen quietly, donned a terry cloth robe, and answered the door.
Zaida—looking simultaneously as polished as ever and as if she hadn't
slept—had silently passed her an envelope, before nodding up at the room
security camera. “Very lucky, you are,” she'd said through thin lips. And
then—before Romy could discern any deeper meaning in these words—she'd left.
That envelope had been book-thick with crisp hundred dollar bills.
It would have been unseemly to stay in the hotel room,
though it was hard to leave him sleeping there. His eyes fluttered through his
dreams. He yawned and stretched like an alley cat. But she'd kissed him on the
forehead, slid into her leotard and coat with not a little difficulty, and left
the casino for her car. That morning was now three days ago and counting.
In the present, Romy paced the premises of her quaint studio
apartment, listening only to the clacking of her beloved cocker spaniel's nails
on the tile and wood. This perpetrator was called Goofy, and she wasn't
embarrassed to admit that he was her truest friend and ally. Moving listlessly,
like her dog, she weighed her options. Considered her odds. When no answer to
any personal problem seemed to materialize, Romy opened her statistics book and
flicked through several pages of the current unit:
An epidemic affects 7.5% of the population. There is,
however, an inheritance factor. If one's mother experiences symptoms, the probability
that one will contract the illness is increased to 22%. What's the probability
of getting the disease when the mother hasn't been affected?
Then she fixed tea, standing upright in the kitchen as she
waited for the water to boil. She considered drawing a bath from her cramped
tub the color of avocado, but this notion only brought back visions of Bryson—particularly,
the damp curls of his snaking chest hair—and this kind of thinking was going to
drive her insane. Perhaps it had been a mistake to spend time alone this
evening,
parent's snores across the hall...he'd gotten massively hard just thinking
about Romy Adelaide. There was nothing for it.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Monday was strange in that everything seemed back to normal:
Romy went to class. Romy went to seminar. Romy went to the library, and made
some progress on a difficult take-home midterm. One professor noted her
distance—she'd been caught dozing in class for the first time since starting
her master's degree—but no one else cared to comment. Not even Eliza, Romy's
closest friend at school, took proper note of what she assumed were sleepless
eyes, and a manic disposition.
“Want to get pizza after lab?” Eliza asked, while the two
were puttering away on their laptops inside the campus cafe. “I'm back on carbs
this week.”
“I should probably work alone tonight.”
“What is it really? You have a big date?”
The very word 'date' brought back a series of memories that
still felt like the shreds of a dream: Bryson flaunting champagne by a bath-tub
brimming with rose petals. Bryson on his knees, his head in the vice of her
quivering thighs. Bryson kissing and cradling her naked breasts. The feel of
Bryson's throbbing cock straining through the cloth of his pants, all but
bursting toward her...
“Nope. Just think I should tackle differential equations by
my lonesome, is all.”
“Suit yourself.”
Bryson hadn't contacted her since Saturday night—which would
have been fine, were she able to stop thinking about him. But she couldn't.
Everywhere she turned, even through the halls of her safe, snug campus—all the
men in sunglasses might have been her hero. And likewise, every unfamiliar face
was an agent of Lefty DiMartino's sent to spy on her and ensure her discretion.
Sunday morning, Romy had risen early in Bryson's hotel room
at the sharp sound of knocking. While the man lay strewn through the hotel
sheets, she'd risen quietly, donned a terry cloth robe, and answered the door.
Zaida—looking simultaneously as polished as ever and as if she hadn't
slept—had silently passed her an envelope, before nodding up at the room
security camera. “Very lucky, you are,” she'd said through thin lips. And
then—before Romy could discern any deeper meaning in these words—she'd left.
That envelope had been book-thick with crisp hundred dollar bills.
It would have been unseemly to stay in the hotel room,
though it was hard to leave him sleeping there. His eyes fluttered through his
dreams. He yawned and stretched like an alley cat. But she'd kissed him on the
forehead, slid into her leotard and coat with not a little difficulty, and left
the casino for her car. That morning was now three days ago and counting.
In the present, Romy paced the premises of her quaint studio
apartment, listening only to the clacking of her beloved cocker spaniel's nails
on the tile and wood. This perpetrator was called Goofy, and she wasn't
embarrassed to admit that he was her truest friend and ally. Moving listlessly,
like her dog, she weighed her options. Considered her odds. When no answer to
any personal problem seemed to materialize, Romy opened her statistics book and
flicked through several pages of the current unit:
An epidemic affects 7.5% of the population. There is,
however, an inheritance factor. If one's mother experiences symptoms, the probability
that one will contract the illness is increased to 22%. What's the probability
of getting the disease when the mother hasn't been affected?
Then she fixed tea, standing upright in the kitchen as she
waited for the water to boil. She considered drawing a bath from her cramped
tub the color of avocado, but this notion only brought back visions of Bryson—particularly,
the damp curls of his snaking chest hair—and this kind of thinking was going to
drive her insane. Perhaps it had been a mistake to spend time alone this
evening,
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