Chapter 3 Chapter 3

ADRIANO DE COSTA

Bridget has just taken her oath, but I wish she knew this vow is not just about becoming a member. It is for something else entirely.

Now she is standing in front of me, completely confused. Her lips are slightly parted. Her long black hair falls around her pretty face. Those big eyes are dangerous. She is slim, fair, and undeniably attractive.

“Where will I be staying?” she asks innocently.

Diomio.

I clear my throat. “Wherever I stay, you stay. If I am at the Bellagio Hotel, you stay there. If I go to the mansion, you go there too.”

She nods quietly.

“I need to get my suitcase from the luggage room,” she says, gesturing with her hand.

“I’ll have someone bring it,” I reply.

I take out my phone and call Vinn. “Vinn, get a suitcase from the luggage room for Ms. Bridget Rossi.”

“Sure, boss,” he answers.

I hang up.

“Your suitcase will be brought here. For now, go to the laundry room. All the cleaning supplies are there. Start with the living room, and I’ll tell you what to do next,” I say.

She nods again.

“Bridget,” I call out.

She startles. “Yes, Mr. De Costa?”

I step closer. “I don’t want to see a single speck of dust,” I say firmly. “I will check every corner.”

“Yes, sir,” she replies instantly.

The way she speaks to me so respectfully does something to me. She turns and heads toward the laundry room.

I sit on the edge of my desk near the large windows, looking out at the private pool on my terrace. I pull out some hotel documents and start reviewing them. I also prepare an access badge for Ms. Bridget Rossi so she can enter all my properties. I send her name and photo to my men so they know she works for me now.

A few minutes later, Bridget comes back into the living room. Her hair is tied up in a messy bun. She holds a mop and cleaning products, with a cloth tucked into her pocket. She starts cleaning without looking at me even once.

Good girl. Focused on her work.

I watch the cursor blink on the oversize monitor while my own pulse thumps loud enough to drown the soft tick of the wall clock. Ten a.m. sharp, my preferred hour for clearing ledgers and disciplining men who skim from the casino take. But the numbers blur because Bridget Rossi is on her knees across the marble, wiping the same stretch of skirting board she’s already polished twice. The vacuum lies idle; her rag is only an excuse. She’s bending farther, the jeans stretched drum-tight over her round ass. My cock stirs inside tailored slacks. Control is currency in this house, and right now my attention is the only coin that matters to her.

I lean back, chair groaning under my weight. My inked knuckles drum on the walnut desk, the letters A.C. carved into each finger so no one forgets who owns this territory. 

The elevator dings down the corridor. My spine straightens, predator instinct prickling. Staff uses the service stairs, only one person rides that lift this time of day. Lucia. A click of white flats on terrazzo precedes her, the pace decisive, impatient. She wheels her housekeeping cart into view, platinum-blonde tail swinging like a metronome. The white mini dress clings to her narrow waist, apron knot pressing the fabric tighter across her tits. Her gaze slices to me, dark eyes, almost black, unreadable for a single heartbeat, then flicks to Bridget. A microscopic smirk plays at Lucia’s lips, vanishing so fast I might have dreamed it.

She parks the cart outside my bedroom door, unbuckles a spray bottle, and smothers the chrome handle with disinfectant. All unnecessary: my suite was cleaned before dawn. She’s announcing presence, claiming territory. My balls ache. I shove the laptop closed with a soft slap. The sound jerks Bridget upright; she catches my stare, cheeks flushing. 

I crook two fingers at Lucia. “Inside.”

She doesn’t ask why. The bottle clicks back into its holster, nails tapping plastic. Bridget’s rag stalls mid-swipe; jealousy radiates like heat off asphalt. Lucia brushes past her without a word, chin lifted. The cart stays in the hall. I follow, shutting the bedroom door with the muted thud of thick oak.

Noise from outside fades, just the hum of centralized air and Lucia’s measured breath. She already stands at the foot of the bed, hands clasped behind her, breasts thrust high by posture and by that wicked little knot at her spine. Waiting. A vision of discipline that begs to be broken.

“On your knees.” My voice comes out gravel.

She folds with dancer precision, white flats tucking beneath her thighs, the dress riding just enough to threaten exposure. My belt unbuckles one-handed; leather hisses free. The zipper lowers, my cock thick and heavy as it springs into my fist. Veins pulse beneath the skin; pre-cum beads at the slit. Lucia’s pupils dilate, but she keeps those lips sealed until I brush the crown across them.

Then she opens, warm, wet, tongue already swirling under the head like she’s starving for taste. A low growl climbs my throat. I wind her ponytail twice around my fist, yank until her spine arches and her mouth becomes a sheath for my length. She takes me to the root in one measured glide, throat flexing. My eyes slam shut, but instead of Lucia’s platinum hair I see Bridget’s darker waves, imagine shoving between those plump lips while she kneels on the same marble she polishes. The thought ignites fire in my blood. I thrust, balls slapping Lucia’s chin. She gags beautifully, saliva spilling glossy over my shaft.

“Fuck, yeah—choke on it.” My hips piston, fist tightening in her hair until the strands bite my skin. She hammers back with enthusiasm, nose burying in my pubes each time. Filthy suction noises fill the suite, punctuated by her ragged snorts for air. My cock gleams, coated in thick spit. I picture Bridget standing in the doorway, hand between her legs, shock widening her hazel eyes while I defile Lucia’s mouth. The fantasy detonates urgency low in my gut.

I jerk Lucia off me. She gasps, strings of saliva bridging her lower lip to my crown. Mascara’s already smudged; I want more ruin.

“Stand.”

She rises, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand, chest heaving beneath the apron. I grip the dress’s zipper at her spine and yank. The white shell peels down, reveals tits cradled in a sheer bra so thin her dark areolae show through. Lust pounds behind my temples. I hook a finger in the elastic, tug it under her breasts so they spill free, high and round, nipples hard as pearl beads. I bend, capture one, sucking hard enough to leave blooming purple. Lucia hisses, fingers spearing my hair, holding me closer. I bite; she yelps, then groans when I soothe the sting with my tongue.

My pants drop to my ankles. She kicks them aside with me still latched to her tit. My hand fumbles up her skirt, finds nothing, no barrier, just slick heat coating her shaved lips. She went commando. Calculating little witch. Two fingers plunge inside her cunt, curl hard. She convulses, knees buckling.

“Jesus—soaked.” I thrust deeper, spread my digits to stretch her open. “You planned this the moment you stepped off that elevator.”

Her answer is a breathy moan, thighs spreading wider. I pull out, smear her juices over her clit, then shove her backward onto the bed. She bounces once; ponytail whips across the sheets. I haul her hips to the edge, lift both legs until her ankles rest on my shoulders. The white skirt bunches at her waist, exposing glistening folds, pink and swollen and begging. My cock jerks, smearing pre-cum on my abs.

I press in slow, watching her cunt lips flower around my crown. Heat clamps down, silk and vise. We both groan. Inch by inch I spear her until my balls kiss her ass. Her nails claw at the duvet, mouth opening on a silent scream.

“Look at me,” I grunt.

Dark eyes find mine, pupils blown. I pull out halfway, slam back, setting a brutal rhythm the instant her breath catches. The bed creaks; headboard knocks the wall with steady thuds. Her tits jiggle, bra still trapping them from beneath so they mound obscenely. I shove her knees wider, fold her nearly double, angle so high her ass lifts off the mattress. Each thrust pummels her G-spot; her juices drip down my shaft, run to my thighs.

Through the pounding blood in my ears, I still hear the distant vacuum cleaner outside, Bridget’s accompaniment. The mundane noise grounds me in perverse contrast: here I am gutting Lucia while the other woman sweeps my hallway, both of them under my roof, my rule. Imagining Bridget stepping inside, the gasp she’d make at the sight of my cock stretching Lucia’s little cunt, spurs me faster. I close my fist in Lucia’s ponytail again, yank her head sideways so she has to watch the door even if blind with pleasure.

“You want her to see you, eh?” I snarl. “Want Bridget catching you stuffed full of dick?”

Lucia whines—half protest, half plea. I slap her tit, watch it bounce pink, then pinch the nipple until she writhes.

“Answer. You’re jealous of my new maid.”

“Yes—fuck, yes,” she pants. “Let her see what a whore I am.” The confession detonates heat down my spine. My thrusts turn animal, hips jackhammering, the wet slap of skin echoing louder than the creaking wood.

Her first orgasm rips through without warning; walls clamp so hard my vision tunnels. She screams, back arching, liquid gushing around my shaft, soaking my balls. I keep pumping through it, prolonging her convulsions until her voice breaks to sobs.

I don’t let her down. Just when she starts to sag I withdraw, flip her onto her stomach, drag the dress up farther. Perfect peach ass revealed, flushed from hipbones pounding the mattress. Asshole tiny, clenching nervously. I spread her cheeks, spit once, watch it slide down the crack. She tenses, but a low moan escapes. Trust. Or surrender. Makes no difference; I’m taking.

I hook a thumb into her cunt, scoop more of her cream, paint it around her rim. Press inside the tight ring to the first knuckle. She mewls, fingers fisting sheets. A second thumb joins, scissoring until muscle loosens. My cock, glistening with her squirt, lines up. I lean over her back, growl in her ear. “Breathe.”

She does one shaky inhale 

and I drive forward, crown popping past resistance. A ragged cry tears from her throat. I freeze, let her adjust to the stretch, then sink deeper, feeding her ass every thick inch until my pelvis flattens her cheeks. Sweat beads on my brow, drips onto the curve of her spine. So fucking tight. Her walls ripple around me like a fist.

I rise to my knees, grip her hips, and start fucking in earnest—long, deep strokes that pull out to the flare before spearing back to the root. Her whimpers turn to guttural grunts each time I bottom out. The bedframe protests; the scent of sex coats the air, raw and musky. I lift one hand, land a harsh slap on her right cheek, watch the flesh jiggle red. Another. And again until both globes glow, heat radiating under my palms.

“Adriano—fuck, fuck,” she chokes, words muffled by the mattress. Tears varnish her cheeks, mascara carving black trails. She grinds back against me despite the pain, greedy for more.

My mind drifts again to Bridget, picture her ghost entering, skirt hiked, fingers rubbing circles on her clit while her gaze devours the sight of Lucia’s ass getting reamed. I imagine ordering Bridget to her knees, forcing her to lick Lucia’s dripping cunt while I keep destroying that tight hole. The image sends electricity crackling up my thighs.

I rut faster, balls churning, the wet squelch of lube and cum and sweat mixing filthy music. Lucia’s knuckles blanch as she claws the bed. Her spine bows, legs trembling. “Pleasepleaseplease—“

“Come on my cock, you filthy slut.” I snake a hand under, strum her engorged clit. “Squeeze me dry.”

Two rubs and her entire body locks; then she detonates, second climax ripping through harder than the first. Her asshole clamps like a vise around my shaft. Wetness splashes my wrist: another jet of hot squirt that drenches the sheets, runs down her thighs. The contractions milk me mercilessly. I roar, bury to the hilt, and explode, cum pumping in thick ropes deep into her bowels. Spurt after spurt until my legs shake and vision whites out.

She cleans herself up and gets dressed. I hand her a thick stack of dollar bills.

She takes the money and grins at me. “Thank you, boss,” she says, because she always does this for the money.