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few new bottles at my side. I want tits in my face and tight, hot pussy sliding up and down my cock, draining this venom from my system.
    Mostly, I just want to get out the latest orders to my entourage. Tell them I'm tired, pissed, and not to be disturbed with any business, official or petty, until past noon tomorrow.

    * * *
    S leep won't come , no matter how many times I flop down on my Egyptian cotton sheets and shut my eyes.
    Only thing worse than the anger throbbing in my temples is that ache in my balls. The one that's been there since I grabbed Little Miss Warwick's ass, looked into her dark brown eyes, and wondered how they'd roll with her riding my cock.
    I need to shake this. I'm going for a walk.
    I'm drunk, staggering downstairs from my VIP room, sometime around two A.M. Half the girls have left, disappointed I haven't made my appearance, several of them taking off with the bodyguards changing over their shifts.
    All I need is one.
    One pussy to take the edge off.
    One pussy to remind me I can make a woman sing like nobody else.
    One hot, sweet pussy to claim for the night, have my way with, and never see again.
    “Silas!” A voice rings out behind me. The only one that's ever gotten away with calling me that name, without putting Prince or Your Highness in front.
    The last fucking voice I want to hear tonight.
    I stop dead in my tracks, halfway to the bar. That's all the time she needs to jump me, throw her arms around me, and spin herself around until we're face-to-face.
    “Get out of here, Serena. I'm not in the mood,” I growl. Inwardly, I cringe.
    I don't have to wonder what this woman's eyes look like when they're rolling back in her head. There's no mystery here. Last winter, I fucked my press secretary, a two week tryst in the mountains north of Bearington City. I was home for a couple weeks on leave from the Marines, and I was desperate for the only pussy still in season.
    I remember exactly how she screams. How she twitches and calls out my name, over and over when I'm between her legs, bringing her off for the fifth time in one night.
    I remember that I'm one and done , and the fact that I fucked this girl more than once, violating my own cardinal rule, is the reason I'm standing here looking into her desperate, hurt face.
    “Jesus. You're drunk again, aren't you?” she says with a sigh, slowly taking her hands off me.
    I start walking again, without saying anything. Already know it isn't going to stop her from trotting after me. Her heels scrape the floor, catching up after about ten seconds.
    “Silas, you don't have to do this to yourself. You can drop the lonely, broody act when I'm around. Talk to me!”
    I don't slow down or say anything until I'm at the bar. At least out here, she'll have to talk business, keeping up the pretense that she's never been anything more than my damned press secretary.
    “You've got business for me that can't wait until morning, or what? I don't recall scheduling an appointment at this ungodly hour.” I reach out for the fresh glass of scotch the bartender has laid out for me without asking. We have a special understanding between us, one that lets him read my mind when it comes to spirits.
    “Actually, yes,” she says, flipping her light blonde hair back.
    I turn and stare at her. If she's trying to be flirty, she's out of her fucking mind.
    And business? She can't be serious. That's the last thing I want in the middle of the night, when I can't decide if my cock is throbbing worse than my head.
    I was simmering before, but now I'm pissed.
    She's staring at me like a puppy waiting to throw her a bone.
    “I wasn't serious. You think I'm really going to sit here and talk about my goddamned image at two o'clock in the morning, half blasted out of my mind?” I snap, draining my shot in one pull, and then putting down my glass for a new one.
    “I think you will, yes, because I want you to consider something new. New idea, all mine. Strictly off the record,