Page 14 of Shameless in Vegas

I don’t fucking like Malachi, but I offer a polite nod. “Thank you.”

Joaquin points two fingers at his eyes before turning them toward Malachi, as if saying,I’m watching you.

Malachi purses his lips in exasperated annoyance. “See you both tomorrow.”

I watch them slip through the heavy, wood-paneled door, and a moment later a female member of the house staff slips in.

Joaquin waves his hand. “We’re good, Sarah. Take a load off.”

Sarah offers a curtsy—acurtsyfor fuck’s sake—and silently sees herself back out.

Drawing in a breath, I weigh all the information provided during the evening’s conversation. In a last-second mental double check, I compare it to everything I already know to ensure I don’t accidentally mention something I’m not supposed to know yet. Then, turning to Joaquin, I start, “Cariño,I do not want to speak out of turn, but I—”

A heavy click echoes across the cavernous lounge, and I flick my gaze to the door on pure reflex. I know the sound well, and I’m instantly and unwittingly catapulted to a mental state that I don’t have full control over.

The Room.

The lock on the door.

The lack of simple sunlight for weeks and weeks and weeks on end.

Every cell inside me goes cold and stiff like a days-old corpse.

I’m not even in the Reyes’ lounge anymore. I’m back in The Room, waiting and bracing for the next visitor.

Animalistic survival instinct fights and claws its way through the fog of trauma, latching onto my frontal lobes and grappling to maintain an external semblance of normalcy.

It doesn’t do a very good job. But it also doesn’t do poorly enough that Joaquin suspects anything beyond what his mind has used to fill in the gaps.

“Hey,” he says soothingly, sliding his hand over my cheek to the nape of my neck to turn my face toward him. “Don’t freak out. I locked the door.” He waves his phone in my line of sight. On its screen is some kind of security app that features switches named for various doors and entrances of the estate. He leans forward to set the phone on the coffee table and then turns to me again, wearing a mischievous, heated look and a smirk. “Just giving us a little privacy.”

The survival instinct subdues my panic in a cold wash over my face, and I offer a convincing light laugh. “Oh. I’m sorry. I didn’t realize you could lock a door with a remote control.” I laugh again and quickly touch my fingertips to my cheeks. “I have a little claustrophobia.”

That’s actually true, thanks to The Room, but I can control it for the most part.

Sympathy slips over his expression, and his brows knit. “You’ve been through some shit, huh, baby doll?”

I can’t let on to theactualshit, so I deflect with a gesture in the direction Isla and Malachi left. “Haven’t we all?”

The sympathy morphs to disgust and righteous indignation. “Yeah, well,” he huffs. “Yeah.”

I pause as though weighing my words. “What was all of that, Joaquin? What happened to her?”

He blinks rapidly and shakes his head. “I’ll tell you later.” He cuts his eyes toward me, his mischief resurfacing. “That’s not why I locked the door.”

Ah, yes. Of course. The only reason a man ever locks you in a room with him. Which is fine. It’s part of the job, and Joaquin is a sexy, appealing contrast to every previous job.

I arch an eyebrow coquettishly. “Oh no?”

“No.”

He advances toward me, still holding my nape while his lips capture mine, and I focus on that. The heat. The attraction. The first orgasms I’ve ever experienced back in the suite at the Bellagio.

I purr against the side of his head as he kisses his descent over my jaw and down my neck, his nimble fingers seeking a crevice in my clothing through which they can make contact with my skin. Finding no entrance through the luxurious, white linen Chanel jumpsuit, Joaquin tears his lips from mine as he reaches down my legs to the jeweled stiletto sandals and pulls them off my feet. Snagging both of my wrists, he pulls me to stand only long enough to drag the zipper down my back, and the designer cloth falls in a pile on the floor. His hands encircle my back, his lips crashing back to mine, and he lowers me, flat on my back on the loveseat while he sits between my bent knees.

Joaquin utters a groan of appreciation as he takes in the sight of me reclined on the supple chestnut leather wearing nothing but the risqué ivory bra-and-panties set—one of many lingerie pieces he purchased for me during our impulsive Vegas shopping spree yesterday.

“You are so fucking beautiful,” he growls, blindly reaching for his crystal lowball glass of whiskey. “I bet you tastemagnificent, too.”

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