Red Lace Christmas: A Taste Of Sin

AZALEA POV Two days. Two measly days until I officially become Mrs. Sage Callahan-a name that tastes like sandpaper in my mouth. Am I thrilled? No. Will I still show up at the altar? Well... unfortunately, yes. If I had my way, I'd be marrying someone I actually cared about. Someone who wasn't an arrogant, over-polished, over-groomed corporate deity with the personality of an overripe tomato. But the world of business mergers and dynasty-building doesn't care about my preferences. A beautiful daughter is simply a bargaining chip; a tool; a shiny ribbon on a billion-dollar deal. Lucky me. But honestly? I've learned not to mind. At least this "arrangement" will give me freedom-financial freedom specifically. If Sage wants to pretend he's won a prize, I'll happily spend his money until his accountant faints. A knock sounds at my hotel room door. Before I can respond, the door swings open and my best friend, my maid of honor, my other half, my partner in crime-steps in. Rosa is a vision in a red-and-white coat dusted with melting snowflakes. With the hood trimmed in faux fur and her cheeks flushed from the cold, she looks like Mother Christmas on a mission. I grin. "Oh my God, it's snowing. Wait-" I squint dramatically. "I thought you bailed, you little shit!" She scoffs, stomping snow off her boots. "Oh shut up. As if I'd miss the chance to save you from your tragic life choices." "My tragic life choices? I'm not the one who once dated a guy just because he had dimples." "Excuse me," she says with a hand on her hip, "those dimples could water crops." We lock eyes and then burst into laughter. Her expression shifts suddenly, softening as she tosses her coat over the bed. "Look," she says, crossing her arms, "I know you're not happy about your 'forever' with Sage. "But," she points a stern finger at me-"please don't run off tonight with some man I have never met. I'm your maid of honor, not your accomplice in an international scandal." "Yes, Mum," I reply, grinning ear to ear. She throws a pillow at me. "I'm serious!" "So am I," I say. "I'm ready for a fun night. Like... irresponsibly fun." "Good," she says, satisfied. "Now put on your coat, you dummy, and let's go. We don't want to miss our flight." "Flight?" I echo dramatically. "Wherever could we be going?" Her eyes sparkle wickedly. "A magical land of sin." "Vegas." "Vegas," she confirms with a smirk. A city filled with booze, horny men, and enough poor decisions to fuel a season of reality TV. A perfect one-day holiday of debauchery... right before I chain myself into matrimony. For the first time in twenty-four years, I'm about to do something without my parents' knowledge and the thrill of rebellion tastes sweeter than any champagne. The flight to Vegas is long and cramped, but excitement pumps through my veins like caffeine. I barely sit still. I keep bouncing my leg until Rosa snaps at me. "If you don't stop vibrating like a defective phone," she warns, "I'm sedating you with complimentary peanuts." "Try me," I challenge. She gives me the look and I immediately face forward. When we land, a blast of warm dry air hits my face, so different from New York's icy bite. We grab a taxi to our hotel-a sleek, shimmering tower coated in neon lights and crash for a few hours. When I wake up, it feels like Christmas morning. If Christmas morning included the promise of half-naked men. "Get up!" Rosa shouts, ripping the blanket off me. "We have strippers to see!" "Jesus, Rosa. Buy me dinner first." She rolls her eyes. "For what you're planning tonight, sweetheart, you should buy them dinner." By the time we step out of the taxi in front of the club, the entire street pulses with bass. Neon lights splash over us in pinks, blues, and electric greens. The sign above the entrance glows: SIN HAVEN. My stomach flips. Inside, the air is thick with perfume, cologne, and excitement. Music thunders through the floor; lights flash; women scream; bodies move everywhere. I cling to Rosa. "Oh my God." "Oh my God indeed," she says, eyes sparkling. "Welcome to paradise." We dance for a while, letting loose in ways we never have before. I down two shots of something I can't pronounce but tastes like battery acid. My head swims, but in a good way. I play some casino games and nearly pass out laughing when Rosa convinces a drunk lady that I'm a lost British princess. But eventually, Rosa grips my wrist. "Come on! The private show starts in ten minutes!" "The what?" "You heard me," she says smugly. "I paid for the VIP experience." "You WHAT?!?" Before I can process her betrayal, she drags me down a hallway dripping in red velvet and gold accents. We step into the private room and... "What the f-" My jaw crashes to the floor. Shirtless men. Everywhere. Not just shirtless-sculpted, glossy, pant-only men. And not even normal pants. Tiny, tight, snug pieces of fabric that leave absolutely nothing to the imagination. I grab Rosa's arm. "Men wear thongs? That's unfair. That's dangerous. There should be a warning!" "You're welcome," she replies. One of the men passes us with a tray of drinks and I swear something inside me short-circuits. My knees wobble. My face heats. I even feel my pant dampen. My body reacts in ways it has absolutely no business reacting. I swallow hard. "Ro... I think I just-" "Yeah," she laughs. "I noticed." Before I can fully recover, a staff member approaches us with a tablet. "Names?" We confirm, and he leads us to a velvet booth up close to the stage. The lights go out. The room screams. Blue spotlights flare as the curtains open. Three men step onto the stage, wearing nothing but low-slung jeans and neckties. Their bodies look sculpted by sin itself. They move like they're made of water-twisting, gliding, flexing. "Oh..." I whisper. "Oh YES," Rosa whispers back. The first dancer unbuttons his jeans slowly, teasing the crowd, rolling his hips. The other two follow, sliding denim down toned legs until- They're in thongs. Tiny. Stretchy. Obscenely perfect thongs. The crowd goes feral. I grip Rosa's hand. "I'm going to die." "If you die," she says, "I'm putting 'death by stripper' on your gravestone." One by one, the dancers leave the stage and move through the crowd, picking women at random. My heart pounds. My palms sweat. Every time a dancer approaches our row, I hold my breath-but they walk past. Until the last one. He's taller than the others. Dark hair. A tattoo curling over his collarbone. Eyes like midnight. His smile is slow and wicked, like he already knows the effect he's having on me. He stops in front of me. I freeze. He leans down, his breath warm against my ear. "Would you mind being my girl tonight?" Shivers ripple through me so violently Rosa actually squeals. My brain short-circuits into pure chaos. My stomach flips. My pulse jumps. I've never felt anything remotely like this-not even with Brian, my high school boyfriend who I was sure I would get married to, not even close. "Yes," I whisper, then louder, "YES!" I don't know what tonight holds. But I know one thing I'm ready. For sin. For freedom. For whatever happens next. And God help me... I don't want to stop.