Rolling the Dice (All In Duet Book 0) Read online

  ROLLING THE DICE

  ALESSANDRA TORRE

  CONTENTS

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Continue on with…

  1

  STEPHANIE

  Let’s imagine the perfect man. Six three, with a body like The Rock, but a face that could have its own modeling career. Then let’s add in some bad boy. A background in security, and fists that knew how to protect himself. Toss in enough shady dealings to add an air of mystery and danger. Now, the kicker: a promotion that makes him your boss, a smile that reveals his playful side, and bedroom eyes that manage to unzip your dress without even trying.

  I found that man. Hell, every woman in Biloxi, Mississippi found that man. Dario Capece. And we’ve all been making fools of ourselves over him for the last umpteen years.

  But I had come close. SO close. Close enough that he asked me on a date. Three blissful hours. And then a second, though it hadn’t ended in the panty-ripping way I had hoped for.

  Then disaster struck in the form of a leggy brunette with diamonds in her ears the size of cherries. Gwen Hawk strolled in our casino on her daddy’s arm and somehow managed, in the course of three days, to snatch Biloxi’s most eligible bachelor away.

  Like AWAY, away. This afternoon he will be Vegas-bound on a private jet, heading off to run one of Gwen’s daddy’s hotels. Rumor is, he’s getting seven figures a year and all the Gwen Hawk pussy he wants.

  Do I sound bitter? I might be. Just A WEE BIT. Bitter…and hell-bent on revenge, in whatever way I could get it.

  Which brings us to the decidedly unperfect man.

  Tripp Reinhart. Also tall. Thinner than Dario, with a different sort of beauty. He’s the scowling type, when he’s not glaring, or ignoring you all together. He grew up on the same rough streets as Dario, but it didn’t make him dangerously attractive—just scary. And rumor has it, he has a kinky streak and a ginormous penis—a combination which seems to give me an equal measure of confusion and arousal whenever his icy stare makes its way over to me.

  He’s fired me—twice. Hired me back, but with stiff reprimands each time. And he’s like a brother to Dario, a closeness which makes him my best (and worst) chance at attention-getting revenge.

  So… yeah. That’s why I’m in the casino bar, three hours after our accounting manager told us to go home, pack a bag, and evacuate. An hour ago, an alarm blared, clearing the casino floor. Thirty minutes ago, I heard a housekeeper say that they were going room-to-room, kicking out guests. And five minutes ago, I pulled off my panties in the bathroom and returned to my barstool, ordering a second Cosmo and waiting for Tripp’s meeting with casino executives to finish.

  “We’re closing up soon.” Clint pushed the martini toward me. “Shouldn’t you be out of Mississippi by now?”

  I shrugged. “Shouldn’t you be?”

  “The top dogs have to drink. You know that.” He smiled at me. “Their tips make it worth the risk.”

  I eyed the trio of men at the high-top by the High Roller Slots room. Tripp and two suits from corporate. They had a map of the property spread out and were going over, best I could tell, evacuation proceedings. In the last half hour, they’d been interrupted several times by the security managers, reporting on different parts of the building.

  One of the suits stood and offered Tripp his hand. I took a deep sip of the martini and steeled myself. The second exec followed suit, and I watched the men walk out together, and Tripp’s head drop, his attention back on the map.

  I swiveled on the stool, facing him, and snuck a glance around, verifying that the bar was empty. Crossing my legs, I pinched the hem of my skirt, inching it higher on my thighs. My normal seduction skills maxed out with a few saucy looks. I’d attracted Dario with the unlikely combination of stuttering and blushes. But I’d need to up my game with Tripp, which is why I was sporting my first Brazilian wax and about to go full Sharon Stone at him across the bar.

  I waited until he straightened, running his hand through his hair, his attention caught by a large Korean couple who hustled past the bar toward the exit, their suitcases rattling behind them. He glanced back, then paused, his gaze flitting to me and sticking.

  While Dario Capece could charm the dress off any woman with his cocky smile, Tripp Reinhart had an entirely different weapon: his glare. He pinned me with it, his face darkening, and I uncrossed my legs slowly, attempting the sultry motion that Sharon Stone had perfected, and left one heel hooked on the bar rail, while the other brushed the floor, the angle one which should give him a clear view up my short skirt.

  I held my breath, masking my nerves behind my martini glass, and I slowly took a sip, holding his eye contact as I forced myself to weather his storm.

  He immediately moved, crossing the opulent space and leaning forward, his mouth at my ear. “What are you doing, Stephanie?” He rested his weight on the bar on either side of me, caging me in.

  I tossed my hair over one shoulder and inhaled the clean scent of his cologne. “I’m having a drink, Tripp. What are you doing?”

  “At the moment? Trying to keep my dick from slicing a hole through my slacks.” He turned his head, meeting my eyes. “But you didn’t answer my question. What are you doing?”

  I lifted my glass in response, taking a healthy sip of the bitter mixture.

  “You play a slut well, but we both know what is underneath those clothes, Steph.” He tugged at the bottom hem of my dress, pulling it to my knee before turning to head back to his table.

  “You have no idea what’s under my clothes.” I smirked at him, and he stopped his retreat, turning slowly on the heels of those expensive Italian leather dress shoes.

  His eyes drug over the length of my body, and he smiled. “I have a little bit of an idea,” he said softly. “But that’s not what I meant, and you know it.”

  Yeah, I knew what he meant. Straight Steph, that’s what they all knew me as. Goody-two-shoes. Little Miss Perfect. I’d heard every snide comment made over the last twenty-three years. For the most part, they’d all been right. I’d always followed the rules. Went to bed early. Turned in perfect reports early. Didn’t curse. Didn’t drink, not until I’d turned the legal age to. But it didn’t mean that I didn’t have a secret wild side—just that I’d never explored it before.

  I was ready to explore it. Losing Dario made me want to do the opposite of everything I normally did, which is why I was right here, flashing the most intimidating man I knew.

  His eyes dropped to the martini glass in my hand. “How many of those have you had?” He raised one deliciously dark eyebrow.

  “Does it matter?”

  His eyes cut to Clint, then back to me. “I gave the order to clear the admin floor several hours ago.”

  “Which is why I’m not there.”

  “What I’m trying to figure out,” he said evenly, “Is why you are here, and not getting to a safe place. We have a fucking hurricane fifty miles off the coast.”

  “There are other things I’m more interested in.” I lifted the glass and took a sip, watching him over the sugar-dipped rim. Was this working? I’d never seduced a man before. I’d spend last night in front of the mirror, attempting a sultry look and found that—if I hid behind things—they came across a little better. Hence my glass in hand.

  He rested one hand on the bar and leaned in, his other hand falling on my knee. “You’ve got to stop giving me those looks, Steph.”

  A fissure of arousal ran, straight from his hand, to the place between my legs, and my confidence grew at the
rough edges of his words. “Or else what?” I turned my head and met his eyes.

  “Don’t test me,” he growled, and I shivered a little under his direct gaze. There was a reason the casino floor never had issues, why everything on the first floor ran with precision. It was because Tripp ruled by fear. Everyone quaked under his stare, and now, he was sliding his hand further up my thigh.

  Between my legs, my body hummed, the bare skin sensitive and already throbbing at the possibilities of what was to come.

  I thought of the rumors, all backed up by the folios I’ve processed for his suite. It’s the most interesting part of my day—typing in his room charges and attempting to create an explanation for each one. They were never boring. Room service charges at 4am, of only whipped cream. Explicit movie charges at two in the afternoon. A deep clean that took housekeeping six hours, with rumors of ripped curtains, a broken bed, and two naked women, still asleep on the porch lounges. Tripp Reinhart worked like an animal, but he partied (and seemed to fuck) just as hard.

  And tonight, that’s what I wanted. I wanted something to make me forget everything. I wanted a man to look at me, and not turn around and run off with someone else. I wanted to prove to myself, and to Dario, that I didn’t need him to give me orgasms or make me happy. I wanted to prove that I had other options, and make him red with jealousy.

  As if he could read my mind, Tripp’s eyes darkened. “Is this about Dario?”

  “No.”

  His mouth twitched, those delicious lips curving into a knowing smile. “Sure, it isn’t.”

  Still, as if in defiance of his thoughts, his hand moved higher up my thigh, the action hidden from casino floor by his body. My legs parted, and I swallowed a groan at the possessive and confident sweep of his palm.

  “You need to go home, Steph. Pack up that car, and head north.” His hand slowed, taking its time as he moved higher, my thighs parting wider, waiting for him. Who was I? What was I doing? This wasn’t me. Stephanie Wilson should be fully gassed up, two cases of water and a package of dry goods in the trunk, already over the Mississippi line and halfway to my sister’s house in Atlanta. I should be watching the hurricane approach from her sofa, a sweet tea in hand, and wondering if Dottie Stickelber and her three cats got out in time.

  But I wasn’t thinking about Debbie, or her Siamese, or my sister. I was ignoring my Ford Fiesta, sitting on the third floor of the parking garage, bottled waters in tow, and spreading my legs in the middle of the Beau Rivage’s bar, in front of a dozen guests and the bartender. I snuck a glance at Clint and saw him wiping down glasses on the other end of the bar, his back to us. Tripp could probably fuck me on this bar top, and he wouldn’t turn around. He’d probably skirt around my bouncing feet and deliver drinks without so much of a second look. That was what everyone did around Tripp and Dario. They owned everyone within these walls, and we all danced to whatever beat they were playing at the time.

  He reached my freshly waxed core, and his fingers played softly over my bare skin as if testing the keys on a keyboard. An exploratory touch traced down the line of my slit and then pressed in between.

  Oh my God. Tripp Reinhart was touching me. In the middle of the bar. At the casino. Tripp was touching me and whatever I’d hoped to occur, it was certainly not this. His fingers pushed inside of me and I gasped, the glass falling out of my hand.

  “Easy…” he caught the glass before it fell from my stool and onto the floor, setting it down on the bar, while still delicately torturing me with his hand. I looked into his face, and found him watching me, his forehead creased as he focused on his exploration of my—oh god. My hand flayed out and I grabbed at his shirt. He found what he wanted, and his mouth curved into a smile, his finger rubbing leisurely over my g-spot.

  “That’s it,” he said softly, and angled himself closer to me, shielding our activity from Clint and the rest of the bar. Still, I could hear everything. The muffled conversation of the TV sportscasters. The music and chimes of the slot machine room. The sound of the sink as Clint ran the water.

  We couldn’t do this here. I was an employee. I don’t know what I’d been thinking, sashaying down here without panties and flashing Tripp, but I’d envisioned something behind closed doors, my actions private, and not something that could risk my entire job.

  Only … I wasn’t really risking my job. Not with Tripp involved. He was untouchable. And I—I lost the next thought, his touch quickening, excruciatingly perfect as it strummed over my swollen pleasure center. I was going to come. So embarrassingly quick and right here in the bar, in such a public place.

  One of my heels fell off, hitting the floor with a crack that seemed loud enough to wake the dead. No one noticed, and I began to pant, my hand tightening on Trip’s shirt, twisting at the fabric. He leaned forward, his mouth against my ear. “Look at you, you filthy thing. Who would have thought, that innocent little Stephanie Wilson had such a sweet and hungry pussy?”

  I bit at his neck to stifle my scream, digging my teeth in and moaning, my hips twitching, his touch commanding, my body spasming around his hand as the pleasure radiated out from his touch. It was quick and sharp, ending as soon as it began, and I was needy and desperate when he withdrew his hand, dragging it along my thigh, his fingers leaving a wet trail that showed exactly how much I’d enjoyed his touch.

  He reached into his pocket and I envisioned him wiping off his hand on the fabric of the slacks. When he pulled it out, he had a gold key card. Setting it on the bar, next to my empty glass, he leaned forward and spoke into my ear. “You know my room number. I’ll be up there. Waiting.”

  Yanking my dress back down to cover my knees, he pulled two twenties from his wallet and set them on the bar, knocking on the granite top to get Clint’s attention.

  “Close up,” he ordered. Clint nodded, and I watched as Tripp gave me one hard look, then turned and left, his tall figure winding through the empty tables.

  I looked down at his room key, my body still twitching from my orgasm, and saw the smear of my arousal across its glossy surface.

  I’ll be up there. Waiting. He had spoken with such confidence. Then again, Tripp didn’t issue orders without someone jumping to perform. I stood, grabbed the key, and fled the bar.

  Above me, the lights flickered and the fleeing guests let out a low hiss of anticipation.

  The storm was growing closer.

  2

  T RIPP

  Tripp Reinhart strode down the hall, his phone out, fingers almost shaking as he dialed a number he knew by heart. When Dario answered, he let out a long sigh. “Where are you?”

  “Down in housekeeping. Employees have all been evacuated. I’ve got Gwen and her father waiting for me at the airport. We’ve got a seat on the jet for you, but we’ve got to leave in the next ten minutes.”

  “I can’t. Go on without me. I’ll hold down the fort.”

  “Fuck the fort,” Dario growled. “We’ve made the rounds of the room. Guests are out, employees are out. I’ve got a skeleton crew of security who’s staying to protect against looters and put out any fires—literal or figurative. There’s no reason for you to stay.”

  And there wasn’t, except that he’d wanted Stephanie Wilson since the day she walked into this casino, and he’d take her in any way he could—even if it was fresh from being jilted by Dario.

  “Go ahead. I’ll be fine here.”

  His best friend was silent for a long moment. “There’s something you aren’t telling me. What’s wrong? Is it a security breach?”

  He snorted at the hypocrisy of the statement. Talk about not telling someone something. He’d known Dario since they were kids. And something was going on with him. Something other than a sudden infatuation with Gwen Hawk. Everyone else might believe his story of quick love, but Dario Capece wasn’t the type to swoon over a woman. And he hadn’t seemed overly charmed by her after meeting her. No, something had happened the second night of their visit, and there was a gap in security footage to prove i
t. Whatever had happened, Dario was staying mute on, and suddenly putting in his notice, yanking up roots, and moving across the country with her.

  Not that Tripp entirely minded. As much as he’d miss his friend, Stephanie Wilson had always been gaga over Dario. His first thought, when hearing about his move, was that he might finally have a chance with the woman.

  He thought of her, gasping against his neck, her sweet hot pussy flexing around his finger. Had he bet his life savings, he wouldn’t have expected that chance to come barreling at him so quickly.

  “Tripp?” Dario prodded. “Why’re you staying? What’s wrong?”

  He tried to focus on the conversation. “There’s no security breach. And my staying here has nothing to do with anything at the hotel. It’s Stephanie. She didn’t evacuate. I need to make sure she’s safe.”

  Dario chuckled. “That’s all you had to say. About damn time.”

  In the following silence, Tripp could hear his unspoken admonishment, something similar to the ass-chewing Dario had given him a few days earlier. Turns out, the best time to confess your crush wasn’t during the middle of someone’s date with said crush. He’d called Dario to warn him off of Stephanie and had gotten an earful in response.

  But Dario had ended their date and backed off, then turned around and claimed ‘true love’ with this Vegas stranger. Whether the sudden love had anything to do with Stephanie, Tripp hadn’t yet figured out. But Dario had seemed happy to step aside, with stern instructions to “make a damn move already.”

  He stepped into his office and opened the top drawer of his desk. “I’ll see you after the storm. Stay safe.” He ended the call and grabbed a thin envelope with cash, his master set of keys, and a security walkie. Striding for the door, he paused, then returned to the desk and opened up the side drawer, reaching in and pulling out two sets of handcuffs.

  3

  STEPHANIE

  I stood in the staff bathroom, one dingy hallway away from the opulence of the casino floor and stared at my reflection in the mirror. Did I really want to do this? I’d only had one sexual partner before—John. That three-year relationship had started in a freshman dorm party at LSU and ended with a phone call from Cancun our junior year. Sorry, Steph. Things just didn’t work out. I’m not sure what didn’t work out on his spring break, but if I had to guess, judging from his cleavage-filled social media posts, the situation involved lots of alcohol and drunken sex. I had skipped spring break trips to interview for summer internships and spent the remainder of the week watching daytime soaps on my mother’s couch and drowning my sorrows in a tube of raw cookie dough. That decision had put me in the hospital with food poisoning, and I’d come back from spring break pale and ten pounds lighter, thanks to my stint in ICU.