Free Cruising the Strip by Radclyffe, Karin Kallmaker Page B

Barrett led the way. “This suite is ridiculously large.”
    Finding her voice, Farrah strove to match the bantering tone. “As are most things in Vegas. I feel like I should car pool just to get from one end of the hotel to the other. I feel lost in suites like these, so I usually opt for a small setup.”
    Barrett turned from the door to the second bedroom. “Racie and I usually find a way to make use of the space.” Her gaze flicked to the centerpiece round sofa in the main room as she gestured an “after you” to Farrah.
    It was almost impossible to shake the image of Barrett and Racie entwined in various positions on the furniture. She knew nothing about them, not really, but her imagination supplied accoutrements for Barrett and a leather bustier for Racie while her ears were filled with a full-scale orgy soundtrack.
    “Do you have everything you need?” Barrett lounged in the doorway, the vest pulled tight across her chest.
    “Yes, thank you,” Farrah said automatically. She clamped her mouth shut before she added, “But not everything I want.” Instead she made a show of shooing Barrett out of the doorway. “Away with you. I have to get ready.”
    Barrett didn’t move. “Ready for what?” Her eyes were openly suggestive.
    Farrah didn’t know where her answer came from. “Anything you’ve got.” She planted both hands on the rock hard shoulders and shoved.
    Barrett faltered back a step and Farrah closed the door in her surprised face.

    *

    There was no point to false modesty. Farrah looked at herself in the mirror, assessing the fit and drape of the scarlet dress she’d bought to please Racie. The off-the-shoulder bodice swept forward to cup her breasts. A technological marvel of a bra lifted her bust to create cleavage where gravity had long since won. The bra had been so gorgeous she’d gotten the matching thong, not that she was going to let Racie photograph it. Tapering in at her waist, the heavy fabric flared at her hips and fell to the floor. Once she had on her shoes, it would just brush the ground. With every step, the twin slits would expose her bare legs from ankle to four or five inches above her knees.
    It wasn’t her usual look, but Racie’s eye for style had been perfect. The dress was sizzling hot. She fought down a blush thinking of what it would do to Barrett’s composure. Surely Racie, of all people, would see the crackle of chemistry between them—all fine and good for the sake of the photo shoot, but when that was over Racie might have second thoughts.
    She answered a knock at the door, but it was only the makeup artist. Within five minutes she even had powder on her cleavage. Her eyes went from a sweet honey brown to a smoky, sultry topaz. Twenty minutes with a hair sadist transformed her shoulder-length blond hair into a high class French knot. Alone again, Farrah looked at herself in the mirror as she clasped a strand of pearls with a deep blue pendant around her neck. Matching drop earrings completed the outfit. Well, she still had to put on the shoes. She wasn’t sure she could walk in them, so she’d wait.
    The stilettos dangling from her fingertips, she took a deep breath and opened the door.
    One of the groupies whistled.
    Someone said, “Damn.” Then Farrah realized it was Barrett. A scarlet bow tie had been artfully tied around her bare neck, and all Farrah could think about for a moment was undoing that tie with her teeth.
    “Will I do?” She tried for the happy, virginal smile that graced the back of every paperback romance she’d ever sold.
    “You’ll do.” Barrett sounded hoarse. “Did you need help with those shoes?”
    “No, I was waiting—it’s not—oh…” Before Farrah knew it, she was seated on the round sofa with Barrett kneeling at her feet.
    The Ferragamo satin and patent stilettos were in Barrett’s hands. She slipped the left on first, one warm, strong hand cupped behind Farrah’s calf.
    Her voice pitched low, she said, “You’re