Santos smiles. "We have the presidential suite," he says.
I take a slow breath through my nose. Immediately regret it. Also do not regret it at all. Saffron, sandalwood, silver musk. Allthree of them, hitting me at once like something I didn't know I was hungry for until it was right in front of me.
I look down at my empty clutch. Three hundred dollars gone. Chips gone. Dignity, negotiable. Red dress, still excellent.
I slide off the stool, smooth the dress over my hips with both hands, and look at all three of them in a row.
"Presidential suite," I say. "How many bedrooms?"
"Four," Tomas says.
"Good," I say. "I like options."
Santos laughs. Matteo makes a sound that is the closest thing to a laugh I have heard from him yet, low and brief, doing something very specific to my pulse. Tomas simply stands and holds out his hand.
I look at it for one second. It is the hand of someone who doesn't waste a movement.
I take it.
Santos falls into step on my left and his warmth comes with him like weather. Matteo takes the outside right, one hand arriving at the small of my back, light and certain, and I feel the three of them arrange themselves around me with a naturalness that my instincts register before my brain does.
The casino floor slides past. All that noise and gold light, the slot machines and the voices and the spinning wheels and the collective hope of being a winner.
I realize as we reach the elevator doors that I haven't been lucky at winning chips on the roulette table, even if all the chips weren't mine. They gave me some, they said to help me. But I know they did it to flirt, and pay me the attention I craved my whole life.
I've never been with two alphas.
Let alone three.
Tonight is going to be a night of new beginnings and I can't wait.
Neither can I, says my omega.
4
JENNIFER
The elevator doors slide shut with a soft pneumatic hiss, and the glittering sprawl of the Vegas Strip drops away behind smoked glass. Mirrors line every wall of the car, turning the space into an infinite hall of reflections, gold light bouncing endlessly. I see myself from every angle, red dress hugging my curvy frame, the silk stretched tight over my full breasts and the plush swell of my hips and ass, dark honey hair piled up with a few defiant strands curling against my warm olive skin.
And then I notice them.
The three alphas closing in, their bodies filling the small space until there's no room left for doubt. Santos presses close behind me, his broad chest nearly brushing my back, hand resting light at the small of my waist, fingers splayed wide enough to span the soft give of my flesh through the fabric. To my left, Matteo leans against the mirrored wall, his tall frame relaxed but eyes locked on me, pale blue and piercing under dark lashes. Tomas stands to my right, shoulders squared, gray gaze steady on my reflection.
The air thickens immediately with their scents. My strawberry-rose scent flares in response, sweet and ripe, betraying the slick heat starting to gather between my thighs.
"We're taking you to our presidential suite."
The words rumble low, directly into my skin, sending a shiver racing down my neck to pool low in my belly, where my pussy clenches with sudden, unwelcome need. His hand slides a fraction lower, thumb tracing the curve where my waist flares to hip, the callused pad scraping silk in a way that makes my nipples tighten against my bra.
I smooth my dress down over my soft belly and thick thighs, a nervous tic, but it only draws their eyes in the mirrors. Matteo's lips curve. Tomas's jaw ticks.
Omega, are we really doing this?I think, heart hammering loud in my ears over the elevator's hum.
My inner omega surges back, bold and hungry:Oh yes we are.
Heat floods my cheeks, my breasts feeling heavier, fuller under their stares, and I fight the urge to cross my arms. Self-doubt creeps in. Girls like me, all curves and carbs and no polished perfection, don't end up boxed in with billionaire alphas. My ex's voice echoes faintly:Too much woman for your own good.But these men look at me like I'm the feast they've been starving for.
"Don't be scared," Santos murmurs, his free hand brushing a loose strand of hair from my neck, fingers lingering to stroke the sensitive skin there, rough texture sending goosebumps racing across my arms.