Pushing Limits in Vegas With StepDaddy
T. A. BEAU
Pushing Limits in Vegas
T. A. BEAU
A short pseudoincest, short erotica story with public fun and restraints.
Copyright © 2024 T. A. BEAU
All rights reserved.
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the writer and the publisher.
WORD COUNT: 6,000 words
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I roll out my neck when we finally get to the hotel. It’s been a long flight from the East Coast, but we’re finally in Vegas, and we can finally let our hair down and enjoy a city built on sin and shameless fun.
“Holy shit, Thea! This place is huge!” my best friend says as she adjusts her ‘bride’ crown. Jamie is so excited to get married, and her copper skin glows under the shining sun and from the excitement of her last weekend as a ‘fiancée’ rather than ‘wife.’ “When you said your dad owned a hotel, I thought it was going to be a little motel or something.”
“Step-dad... ex-step-dad,” I correct.
Jamie rolls her eyes and bumps my hip. I laugh lightly as the other girls hurry out of the limo. The valets are already rushing forward to take care of our baggage. I force my strawberry blonde hair up in a pony to beat the heat and fan myself.
“So what’s the plan for this weekend?” Jamie asks.
“Other than drinking and male strippers?” Marlie demands with a loud laugh.
“Well, we know who’s already gotten into the drinking,” I giggle.
Jamie smirks and hands me a tiny bottle of flavored tequila. “And you’re going to get into drinking too.”
“Oh no. I’m the maid of honor, that means I’m the one who stays sober.”
“Not today!” she yells. “Come on, Thea. Have fun!”
Rolling my eyes, I force myself to down the drink, which doesn’t take much—it’s barely two swallows. The tequila burns hotter than the blazing sun, but I point at the entrance. “In.”
“What, we already have rooms?”
“A suite,” I answer, then swallow again. “Barry was kind enough to reserve us the presidential suite.”
She gapes at me, then narrows her eyes. “Which of your mom’s exes is this again? The sexy one? The balding one? Please don’t tell me he’s the one with the gold tooth and questionable tattoos.”
I wince at the memory of Emile. “No. This is Barry. He’s attractive, was a solid five years younger than mom, successful, actually a good guy.”