Claiming Atlas (Completely Rocked Book 1) Read online

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter One

  © 2017 Jessalyn Jameson

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. This book is a work of fiction. References to real people, events, establishments, organizations, or locations are intended only to provide a sense of authenticity, and are used fictitiously. All other characters, and all incidents and dialogue, are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real.

  Cover Image from Bigstock Photo, User ID: Tverdokhlib

  Edited by Tamara Mataya

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter One

  Also by Jessalyn Jameson

  Chapter One

  Atlas

  If Las Vegas isn’t the cure, I don’t know what is. I need a distraction, something—or someone—to take my mind off this constant feeling of unrest.

  I’m bored out of my fucking mind.

  And that’s a problem.

  What kind of prick travels the world doing what they love, what they dreamed of their whole life, and still isn’t happy?

  Me. I’m that kind of prick.

  I rise, stretching my legs. I never have been able to sit still for very long. Virgin Atlantic offers the perfect solution for restless people like me: you just can’t beat a bar on an airplane. It gets you out of your seat and fills your belly with booze. What could be better?

  Pussy. A good fuck is better than a belly full of booze. But I’m in the mood for both.

  A woman sits at the bar, her nose in a book and her jet black hair pulled tightly into a bun. Her red pinstriped suit jacket dips in at the waist, then spans out above a plump ass in a matching skirt. I let my gaze dip lower to her feet below the barstool. Black high heels cap off perfectly pale legs, crossed neatly at the ankles. A black pinstripe stretches up the back of each leg, disappearing into her skirt.

  I’m going to reinstate my mile high club membership on this flight.

  “Can I help you?” the in-flight bartender asks, drawing my attention away from the woman at the bar.

  I raise my bottle of Dom in the air and wink as I bring the bottle to my lips. He scowls his disapproval, then resumes his work behind the bar. I take a long drink, step up beside the woman and set the bubbly on the bar, then slide it toward her. Sharing is caring.

  She glances up from her book long enough to acknowledge the champagne bottle, giving me an unobstructed view of her blood red pout. Lips so luscious they could lure a celibate monk to the dark side. She frowns at my bottle of Dom, but she somehow manages to make the motion look sexy. “No, thank you. I’m good with my glass.” She taps the base of the flute with her fingernails as if to show me that champagne belongs in a glass.

  Her bright red fingernails match her lips, but unlike her soft, full lips, her nails are long and slightly pointed like claws. She’s the perfect contradiction, all sharp edges and plump clouds. I’d like to fuck her until those nails tear into the skin of my back. I lick my lips and bring the bottle to my mouth once more. “Where are you headed?”

  “Las Vegas.” She says this with such boredom, like I must be a total moron since this plane is set to land in Vegas in an hour. Hey, she could have a connecting flight at McCarran. How the hell am I supposed to know?

  “Cool.” I crane my neck to see if there’s anyone more suitable to talk to in economy. The curtain is closed, but I could always just walk back there. It’s a flight to Vegas, for fuck’s sake. There’s got to be at least one more hot chick on this plane. Maybe I can get Red to drag his ass back to coach and recruit some clientele—

  The woman clears her throat.

  I look back at her and her blue-gray gaze meets mine, one eyebrow raised.

  I flash her a wide grin. “I’m Atlas Reynolds.” Extending my hand, I wait for her eyes to widen at the mention of my name. Everyone knows who Banging Cade is.

  She glances down at my hand, then back up at me. “Your nails are black. Are you a mechanic?”

  I look down at my hand still hanging between us, then bring it up to inspect my nails. Black polish is stuck around the edges of my fingernails. I was still half-drunk when I scratched it off this morning. I laugh and settle my hand around the bottle. “No, I am not a mechanic.”

  She reaches for my free hand and startles me when she wraps her fingers around my palm, turning my fingertips toward her to look them over. “Not a mechanic, so that’s not grease.” She inspects my hand further, and her brow furrows as she looks up at me through thick black lashes. “Nail polish?”

  I nod, smirking.

  “Black nail polish... callused fingertips...” she whispers the words as she trails her soft, completely un-callused fingers over mine. Her touch sends a spark straight up my arm and right down into my dick. “Should ‘Atlas Reynolds’ ring a bell?”

  She says my name like it’s an invitation.

  I haven’t been laid since the night of our gig in Boston, and that was like, six whole days ago. I swallow hard. She catches the movement and a slight smile cracks that stony façade. She’s into me. That uptight suit and bun-thing had me fooled, but this chick is down to fuck, and my first night in Vegas is going to be just the distraction I need.
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br />   I lick my lips and clear my throat. She’s running her fingers over my palm and down my arm, and this might be the most torturous thing I’ve ever experienced. Each gentle graze of her fingertips might as well connect directly with my cock.

  “Can I get you another glass of champagne, Miss?” one of the stewards asks as he steps behind the bar. When she doesn’t respond, he looks at me, then at our hands, then at the side of this woman’s head. His lips twitch, but he doesn’t say another word. He starts to step out from behind the bar—

  “A blanket,” she says, her eyes locked on mine. “It’s a bit chilly in here, don’t you think?” She releases my hand and reaches for the bottle of champagne on the bar. “And another bottle of Dom.” She raises her brows as she brings the bottle to her lips, and I nod.

  “On me,” I say, not dropping her gaze.

  She tilts her head. “I can afford a bottle of Dom Perignon, Atlas.” Amusement sweetens her tone.

  It’s really not about the champagne at this point, and neither of us could care less who pays for it. She returns the champagne bottle to the bar, then closes her book and swivels the barstool toward me. Her knees are slightly parted, an invitation for me to step between them. I pull my gaze away from that opening between her legs, only to get stuck on her chest. Her red suit jacket is open, exposing a white dress shirt unbuttoned low enough to expose the curved black lace cupping each tit.

  When I think I can speak without sounding like I’ve never seen a set of perfect, store-bought tits before, I clear my throat and go for it. “I never did get your name.” Dropping my hand to her knee, I tuck my thumb just beneath her skirt.

  “We seem to have run out of Dom Perignon. Can I get you something else? A bottle of Veuve Clicquot, perhaps?”

  The woman’s eyes close on a long blink. “We seem to have taken a major leap in quality.” She shakes her head. “But we’ll take it. If we must.” She dismisses him with a quick flick of her wrist. Looking back at me, she grins, her eyes playful again. “What brings you to Vegas, Atlas?”

  I narrow my eyes. Why won’t she tell me her name? Is she famous? Searching her eyes, I wait for a hint of familiarity, but nothing comes to me. She’s older than me, but I’m not sure how much. Her eyes have the faintest smile lines in the corners, but not even a hint of a line between her eyebrows. She’s taken care of herself. Botox? I focus on her lips, but I can’t tell if they’re naturally full or if they’ve been injected. I really don’t care. She’s one of those women who don’t age. Or refuse to. Either way, I win.

  She pulls her bottom lip into her teeth and I meet her gaze. The challenging look in her eyes tells me I should already know who she is.

  I want to.

  I slide my hand a little further up her skirt, and the calluses on my fingers catch on the thin fabric of her tights. I grip her thigh, then lean forward to whisper in her ear. “I’m here for a distraction, Miss...?”

  She runs her tongue over her lower lip, slowly, torturously. Definitely DTF. Gradually, she brings her gaze up to meet mine, and I wait, hopeful, for a name.

  “I’m in the market for the very same thing, Atlas.” Her voice drips with honey, smooth and thick, and it’s all I can do not to claim her mouth with mine and taste that honey for myself.

  I tighten my grip on her thigh, then watch the motion of her throat when she swallows.

  Fuck names.

  “I’m heading to Vegas to see my divorce attorney.” She pauses to gauge my reaction, but I give her nothing. “If my husband can screw anything and everything that walks, why can’t I have a little fun?” She brings the bottle to her lips once more, then takes a long pull of champagne. “Plus, I’ve never joined the mile high club.” With these words, she opens her legs further.

  I drop my gaze and fight back a moan of pleasure when the skirt slides up to expose the lace tops of her nylons. She’s wearing one of those things that straps to the pantyhose to hold them up. Fuck me. With my hand so close to the bare skin of her thigh, I can barely think straight. Just a couple inches further and I’m in. But would she let me finger her right here in the middle of the first class bar?

  If she were a Banger, the answer would be yes. I could fuck her and five of her friends, right here, right now, with little to no hesitation.

  But she’s not a Banging Cade groupie. I don’t think she has even the slightest clue who I am.

  And that makes me want her even more.

  I try to compose myself and drag my focus back to her face. “Sorry about your divorce,” I say, and it sounds like the dumbest thing I’ve ever said. I could have invited her to join the club with me, but I keep us on topic. A topic she’d probably like to get off of.

  I’d like to get her off.

  “We got married young.” She shrugs. “Once my career took off, I guess he just couldn’t handle not being the bread winner.” She narrows her eyes. “You know, he’s suing me for alimony. Can you believe that?” She laughs, but it’s a bitter sound. “The bastard is a goddamn surgeon who’s fucked every RN west of Texas, and he wants alimony from me.”

  If he’s a surgeon and he’s asking her for money, this chick makes bank. Hello, Curiosity, I’m Atlas. “What do you do?”

  She pins me with that grayish-blue gaze. “No more questions, Atlas.” She places her hand firmly on my dick and leans forward, bringing her lips to my ear. “I’d like to keep this as impersonal as possible.” She pulls her head back just enough to meet my gaze. “Deal?”

  I swallow hard. Maybe I’ve had it wrong all this time. Young chicks aren’t where it’s at. Older women with confidence and experience and a desperate need to get back at their cheating ex-husbands might be my new bag. “Deal.” The word is choked off when she squeezes my cock.

  The bartender shows up at the perfectly wrong time and clears his throat.

  My new friend removes her hand from my crotch, then laces her fingers together in her lap, perfectly poised. I’d almost think I imagined the way she just groped me, but the spark in her gaze is unmistakable.

  Like the pressure in my pants.

  He sets the second bottle in an ice bucket, then places two flutes beside it, the blanket folded up neatly on the bar. “Can I get you anything else?”

  She shakes her head slowly, holding my gaze. When the bartender leaves, she smiles. “Join me at my seat? Or should we stay here?”

  I shake my head. It really doesn’t matter at this point; I’d fuck her right here on the bar. The floor. Against the wall. On the wing of the motherfucking plane, if she’d let me.

  Chapter Two

  Kayla

  Destiny’s downward dog is pretty on point, but I wish she was just doing yoga, not regretting the Taco Bell she had on the way to work tonight.

  I hold my breath as I pass her on my way to my locker. “Girl, you need to stop eating that shit.”

  She twists her head sideways to look up at me through her armpit. “I stay skinny because of that shit.” She grins. “Instant laxative.”

  I frown. “And look at what it does to you.”

  She grimaces. “Par for the course. I can handle a little gas.”

  “I can’t.” Scar comes through the black curtain from the main stage and stops a few feet away from Destiny. “Again, Des?” She shakes her head and meets my gaze. “We really shouldn’t have to suffer through this.”

  Destiny laughs, then slowly curls and exits the pose. “It doesn’t even smell.”

  Scar scoffs. “We shouldn’t even have to breathe it.”

  I snort. “Who knew yoga would be so helpful for flatulence.”

  Destiny grins as she stands, then steps into her stilettos. “It’s not bad for the body either.” She gives me a little shake, then heads toward the curtains.

  “Try not to fart on the customers.”

  Destiny disappears onto the stage and Scar laughs. “Classy.”

  I turn to her and widen my eyes. “If only they knew what really goes on in the dressing room of a strip club, rig
ht?”

  “We’d be broke.”

  “Definitely out of work.” I laugh. “What’s it like out there?”

  “It’s not great for a Wednesday.” She holds up her wad of singles. “But I think I may take a few days off, maybe relax until that tech convention rolls through next week.”

  “Probably a good idea.” For her, not me. I don’t take time off. Which is why I’m retiring at the end of the week. I’ve worked my ass off on that stage for five long years, and aside from Mondays when we’re closed, or the bi-monthly trips to clubs around the country where I spotlight, I’m at Top Tier every damn night.

  I love these girls, but very few of them have the desire—drive?—to get out of here anytime soon. My best friend here loves the lifestyle. The gifts, the adoration, the money—

  “There are a couple of hotties sitting at the stage.”

  —she wouldn’t leave the spotlight, even if she’d saved a mill in the bank. Hell, knowing her, she might have already done that.

  “They want to go out tonight.”

  The limelight is great and all, but it’s not really for me. I have dreams that don’t involve nudity, if you can believe it—

  “Kayla Jane.”

  Scar’s use of my first and middle name brings me back to the present. I roll my eyes. “Scarlet Rae,” I say, giving it right back to her. “You know the rules.”

  She tsks her tongue. “Friday’s your last day.”

  “Then I’ll have fun on Saturday.”

  “Lies. You’ll use packing as your excuse on Saturday.”

  She knows me way too well.

  “I think you can make an exception to the rule just this one time, no?”

  “No.” I pull my red sequin dress from my locker and hold it up, inspecting the sequins for any bare spots. My Jessica Rabbit routine is up next.

  “Kayyyyy,” Scar whines. “You never have any fun.”

  “I have fun.”

  Scar snorts, so I turn around. She’s naked.

  Because of course she is. My best friend would live at a nudist colony if there was one close enough to the club. She strides toward me, wavy blonde hair cascading down over her breasts. She looks up at me through her falsies, like this will have the same effect on me that it does on the dudes who are always taking her out. She places her hands on my upper arms. “Come on, Kay, it’s just one night. You, me, two incredible looking men with deep”—her eyes widen dramatically—“pockets. Let loose one time. For me.”