Couldn’t help but do a double-take the first time she arrived at my suite to clean. While she wears the Blackwood housekeeping uniform—traditional knee-length dress in black with a white Peter Pan collar for a classic look—there’s no denying her natural beauty. Dark brown hair, golden skin, and amber-colored eyes that slant slightly enough to make her features exotic.
Sexy as hell, too. She fills her uniform out a little too well. Petite but curvy, she has an ass that was made to be gripped hard.
“Good morning, Mr. Blackwood,” she says demurely. Head bowed, she doesn’t meet my eyes.
I don’t reply, making a sweeping motion for her to enter. At the same time, Sonya reaches the door. The two women eyeball each other for a nanosecond. The maid pauses, shifting sideways to give Sonya room to exit.
She glides past me, nose in the air, and mutters, “Asshole.”
I don’t reply. I’m simply happy she’s gone without a big confrontation. I’ve been on the end of a few ugly, screaming tirades when women refuse to understand I don’t want anything but a fuck. Honestly, it’s the reason I spend so much time at The Wicked Horse. The members of the club are there for the same reason I am.
Sex and nothing else.
My gaze returns to the housekeeper, her gaze still averted in a subservient manner. Somehow, I sense she doesn’t have a demure bone in her body. Her straight posture screams she’s not the type to bend to people.
But I am her employer, so I’m not surprised she’s putting on a servant-like manner.
Once again, I sweep my arm, indicating she should come in. She enters, pulling behind her a cart laden with clean sheets, towels, and other cleaning essentials. We are The Blackwood, though, so this cleaning cart isn’t the norm you’d see in other hotels. This one is carved from cherry wood with gold detailing. It’s thin and portable, filled with only enough supplies to clean one suite at a time. The sheets are expensive—a thousand dollars a pop—and the towels equally as luxurious. The cleaning supplies are natural and non-animal tested, something they’d polled and realized was important to the rich for some reason, and the toilet paper costs thirteen dollars a roll. It’s some Japanese brand made with high-quality wood fiber, treated with purified water, and then dried slowly to ensure the most supreme softness of anything to ever touch an ass.
It’s ridiculous what people will pay for luxury items. Yet, I don’t bat an eye over it. It’s how I was raised—on thirteen-dollar-a-roll toilet paper—so it seems normal.
After I close the suite door, I head into the kitchen for my coffee. The maid goes into my bedroom, where the smell of sex is probably strong.
Am I embarrassed?
Fuck no.
Besides, my cock is happy right now. Fuck what the maid thinks.
Grabbing my espresso, I sip it while I use my phone to check my email, responding to a few items that only require short replies. When I finish my drink, I brew another cup, then pull a bowl of fruit from the fridge. I don’t bother with a plate, merely grabbing a fork from the drawer and eating straight from it as I watch the news on the small TV set into a cabinet beside the stove.
When the maid finally finishes with my room, I head that way, leaving my cup and breakfast dishes on the counter. The maid will clean it up. She patently ignores me as I walk by, but I don’t return the courtesy. I peruse her body as she bends to polish the coffee table. Briefly, I wonder what her name is.
But it’s a fleeting thought at best. I didn’t even bother to glance at her name tag—not this morning or any of the other occasions she’s been here—so why wonder now?
Shrugging, I go take a quick shower before I get dressed for the day.
CHAPTER 2
Bailey
The minute the master suite door closes, I breathe a sigh of relief that he’s gone. I absolutely can’t stand being in the presence of that man. Everything about him—from his perfectly wavy hair and GQ features to his arrogance sets my teeth grinding together.
I’m new at this job, only at it a few weeks, and cleaning the heir’s penthouse suite for roughly half that, he has yet to say “good morning” back to me when I arrive at his door. I mean… come on, jackass! How hard is it to just say hello to your peon workers?
Freaking one-percenters, entirely out of touch with us little folks.
I take in a deep breath, reach for my feather duster, and let it out slowly. Calm down, Bailey. Declan Blackwood isn’t your enemy, and he’s not the cause of your problems.
Which is true, but it’s just easier to throw my ire his way. I mean, the not replying to my morning greeting is irritating as hell.
Just plain rude.
In my mind, his name isn’t Declan. That first morning he opened the door, barely spared me a glance, and ignored my chirpy, “Good morning,” I’d officially renamed him Dicklan.
I snicker, thinking about it.
Dicklan, Dicklan, Dicklan.
The peeved, scantily dressed blonde with mussed hair that just called him an asshole on her way out the door probably agrees with me.
I had heard that His Highness, Declan Blackwood of Blackwood Hotels and Resorts, was quite the player; rumor down in the bowels of this hotel where the housekeepers had their breaks was he slept with a different woman each night of the week. But today was the first time I’d actually witnessed a woman leaving his suite, so I’m not sure whether it’s true.
Not any of my business, though. His sex life, lack thereof, or overabundance, doesn’t mean anything to me. I’m merely here to do my job, do it well, and collect a paycheck so I can start paying off the gobs of debt my jerk of an ex-husband left me saddled with.
After I work the morning shift here at Blackwood, I’ll drive a few hours for Uber, which is always good for a few bucks down on the Strip. Once finished, I’ll head off to my part-time casino job, waitressing drinks to cheap tippers at the slots. The moderate tippers are at the blackjack tables, thinking they have the right to grab my ass for every ten-spot thrown on my tray.
That’s right… Dicklan would never understand that it’s impossible to keep my head above water on minimum-wage jobs and high housing costs. He’s so out of touch with the common man, from where he rules from his throne atop the Blackwood Vegas, that he’d never understand that a simple ‘good morning’ can mean a lot to someone in my situation.
A woman who has to hold down three jobs to pay off a debt that isn’t even hers while caring for her two disabled parents, I mean. I’d give anything for him to spend five minutes in my shoes. I bet His Royal Prissy Pants would be crying in less than four.
I spend time dusting the expensive furniture, devoid of any personal decorations or knickknacks, which makes my job easier. I’ve heard Dicklan doesn’t stay in one place more than a few years before moving on, ensuring his hotel is in peak condition before turning it over to a manager. I guess it explains the lack of personalization in this penthouse suite. Rumor says it will go for close to four thousand a night after he vacates the premises.
That type of wealth boggles my mind.
Four grand a night to stay in a bed. Have a fancy espresso machine at your fingertips. Have the softest toilet paper to wipe your butt.
I’d kill to be able to make four grand a month at a job. Most people would.