Page 86 of The Perfect Wrong

Watching her walking a little ahead of me down the Strip doesn’t do the trouser fire in my pants any favors.

She’s adorably unsteady on her heels—something I can tell she doesn’t wear much, but she insisted on dressing up today—and it makes her peach of an ass bob.

My balls ache to unload inside her, drilling lust through my skull from a thousand angles, hounding me to let go of all reason and pin her legs behind her head by any means possible.

I am a fucking goner.

But it’s Vegas, baby, isn’t it?

People come here for a reason. This town is a duty free moral zone, an invitation to do every ghastly sin in the book before you go back to real life.

I’m not sure where fucking your own stepsister ranks anymore.

Still, I can’t let that happen.

I have to protect her—especially from me.

I have to see her laugh.

And I absolutely, positively cannot devour every virgin inch of her.

* * *

We driftin and out of casinos and attractions for most of the day, walking along the Strip.

I feel lucky we’re breaking even with our money.

The way her eyes light up with slots and craps, riding the roller coaster of luck, makes it all worth it.

By evening, when the city morphs into the world’s greatest light show, we’re running on sugary iced coffees from this place she dragged me to and my stomach growls like a bear.

“Woman, we need real food,” I tell her, surly as ever, but damn if I don’t laugh when she looks at me smiling.

I’ve forgotten just how lively Vegas can be as night closes in—though I also haven’t forgotten its seedy side.

The telltale signs of shifty thieves, petty drug dealers, and biker brutes linger in the shadows, reminding me the vampires come out to play after dark.

I can’t keep my hands off her as we roam the streets, weaving in and out of tourist crowds. It’s not just the hellfire scorching my veins that makes me do it.

I want to keep her close.

Protect her, especially when we start doing hit and runs at bars.

I hope she doesn’t notice that I’m going light, mostly scarfing down appetizers while she drinks one half-frozen drink after another.

Pounding shots is off the table when I can’t help feeling a presence.

Call it a sixth sense.

That imminent spider-on-your-neck feeling when you just know there’s somebody watching who damn well shouldn’t be.

“You okay?” Delia asks at our third bar, smiling up at me with a neon-pink and yellow guava mai tai in her hand.

“Never better,” I lie with a smile, throwing back my beer.

I want it to be true.

Just not as bad as I’d like to find whatever the fuck keeps making my Spidey sense tingle. If there’s somebody out there zeroing in on us, I’m confident they’ll slip up sooner or later.