A few minutes later, we slide into the limo. I pop open the champagne and toast to my bride as we drive around town after midnight, getting horizontal again. Soon, we stop at the Flamingo for roulette. When we win a round, a tipsy dude at our table who says he works for a rapper invites us to a party in the penthouse suite.

“You guys are cool. You gotta come check out Secretariat’s bash,” he says, running his big palm over his shaved head.

We cash out and go, because why the fuck not?

Especially, since the rapper named himself for a Triple Crown winner.

On the top floor of the hotel, the party rages. Music pulses so loudly it thrums in my bones, as scantily-clad women grind against scantily-clad men, and another group of partygoers ride hobby horses as they chug their drinks. Natalie and I take it all in, then check out the view of the Strip, and enjoy the free-flowing champagne.

Natalie cups her hand around my ear. “Need to find the little girl’s room.”

That sounds like a fine idea to me too, and when we’ve both answered nature’s call, she peers down the hallway at the end of the suite and points.

Holy shit.

“There’s a fucking Titanic slot machine in the penthouse,” I say, heading straight for it, parked next to a standard Las Vegas slot machine with fruit on the screen.

“Wanna play? It takes bills,” she says.

We slide some dollars into its mouth, and proceed to lose all our roulette winnings. But it hardly feels like losing when Natalie parks herself on my lap and wraps her arms around me as Jack, Rose, and a Heart of the Ocean spin into view.

Feels a lot like winning when her lips crush mine, and her hands slide down my chest. All sense of propriety slinks around the corner, as I check to make sure the coast is clear, pull her behind the slot machine, and make good use of another one of those condoms she so thoughtfully packed for our trip. She must have brought a box.

As I hike up her leg around my hip and drive deeper, I whisper in her ear. “You’re so fucking daring.”

“And you’re so fucking interesting,” she says on a moan.

As she grows louder, nearing the edge, I cover her mouth since someone’s now in the hallway with us, yanking the other one-armed bandit. Whoever it is nails three cherries, right as Natalie lands her third climax of the evening.

Guess we’re all getting lucky tonight.

We say goodbye to Secretariat and the bald-headed dude, thanking them profusely for their hospitality, as well as the wonderfully convenient height of the slot machines. Good thing they were so damn tall and provided just enough cover. Once we leave, we cruise down the Strip and take a selfie at the famous Vegas sign. Natalie posts that on Facebook, too. And we dance dirty at the Edge nightclub at a newer hotel. Sometime after four thirty, we make it back to her room. Or maybe it’s mine. I honestly don’t know. The night is a blur. A streak of laughter and sex and wild, crazy fun.

All I know for certain when we stumble into the suite with the king-sized bed is that this night is far from over. Not when she looks at me with sultry eyes while her busy fingers make quick work of her shirt and skirt.

My hands cover hers, stopping her. “I’ll take it from here. It’s time for me to fuck my wife.”

It will be the first time I see her naked, and I’m like a kid on Christmas morning. There’s nothing I want more than the gift of Mrs. Hammer’s nudity.

13

Generally speaking, all sex is good sex.

It’s a guy thing. Honestly, it’s just anatomically difficult for us to have bad sex. Enough friction, along with a little something wet on the equipment, and chances are good we’ll achieve the big bang. That’s the nice thing about being a dude.

But some sex is better than others, and at the pinnacle is hotel sex. The dark of the night, the size of the bed, the escape from reality . . . hotel rooms are designed for great sex.

Nothing could be truer for Natalie and me right now, here on the last stop of our great escape.

Neon from the Las Vegas night casts a faint light, illuminating her face, silhouetting her body. She’s perched on the edge of the bed.

A part of me wants to undress her slowly, to savor every slide of silk and lace along her smooth, soft skin. But a stronger part of me knows now’s not the time for lazy, unhurried, we-have-all-night foreplay. The red lights on the hotel radio remind me that it’s not long before the sun comes up, so I tuck all the images of slow kisses along her calves and lingering caresses across her belly out of my mind.

Besides, her tits are pretty much calling my name. The low-cut cups of her black lacy bra expose succulent, kissable, bitable pale flesh. In mere seconds, they’ll be free, and I’m not sure I’ll be able to take my hands off them. I think I’m in love with them already.

“Can’t believe I haven’t gotten acquainted with these beauties yet tonight,” I say as I unhook her bra with a quick snap. “But no time like the present to rectify that.”

As I throw her bra behind me, the lace falls somewhere, but I don’t notice or care because her tits are now liberated, and I was right.

It’s fucking love at first sight. My hands dart out to cup her breasts, and yep, it’s love at first touch, too, because damn. They feel spectacular. Evidently, it feels good to her, too, since she gasps as I squeeze and knead. I rub my calloused fingers over her nipples and pinch. Her hands shoot out to my hair. She threads her fingers through the strands and grips me tight, saying my name like a long, low moan. “That turns me on so much,” she murmurs.