Sin City Slow Burn
Copyright© 2026 by Dilbert Jazz
Chapter 2
Romance Sex Story: Chapter 2 - Two guarded women collide during a high-stakes Las Vegas conference: Claire, the perfectionist who’s spent years hiding her heart, and Maren, the controlled VP terrified of needing anyone. From stolen glances and whispered touches to raw, trembling nights against city lights, one week ignites everything they’ve denied. Back in Chicago, they face the real test: choosing love over armor, vulnerability over safety, forever over fear. A slow-burn lesbian romance of desire, tears, and surrender.
Caution: This Romance Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Fa/Fa Consensual Romantic Lesbian Exhibitionism Oral Sex Sex Toys Slow
Monday Night: The First Drink
Monday had been designed to break people.
A 7:30 a.m. breakfast keynote in a ballroom that reeked of overcooked eggs, burnt coffee, and the faint desperation of hundreds of marketing executives pretending they still believed in “disruptive innovation.”
Back-to-back panels in rooms too small for the egos, fluorescent lights that drilled into Claire’s temples, and a moderator script that forced her to smile through every buzzword.
By 6:45 p.m., the rooftop terrace cocktail hour was the only thing standing between the attendees and open revolt.
The terrace overlooked the Bellagio fountains, now lit in shifting purples and silvers against the deepening desert dusk.
The air was warm but already carried the dry bite of December nights—chlorine from the pools below, cigarette smoke drifting from the edges, night-blooming jasmine climbing the trellises in heavy, heady waves.
A slow jazz saxophone drifted from hidden speakers, wrapping the crowd in velvet smoke.
Claire had changed into the emerald halter-neck dress she’d almost left at home.
Thin straps tied behind her neck, leaving her shoulders and most of her back bare.
The silk draped softly over her breasts, skimming her ribs before flaring at the hips.
A long slit rose high on the left thigh, parting with every step.
She’d chosen it that morning in a moment of reckless impulse, heart hammering, telling herself it was just for confidence.
Now, standing near the high railing with a glass of chilled pinot grigio sweating in her hand, every inch of exposed skin felt lit from within—back bare to the warm breeze, collarbones catching the string lights, the halter tie resting against the nape of her neck like a single point of vulnerability.
Then Maren appeared.
Black tailored trousers that followed every line of her long legs, sleeveless black turtleneck that left her arms bare from shoulder to wrist, the thin gold chain still resting against the hollow of her throat like a single point of light.
Her hair was down tonight, dark waves falling loose over one shoulder, catching the rooftop lights in liquid shifts.
She moved through the crowd with that same unhurried authority, accepting a bourbon neat from a passing server without breaking stride.
Their eyes met across the terrace.
Maren paused mid-step.
Her gaze dragged down Claire’s body—slow, deliberate, unapologetic—taking in the emerald silk, the bare shoulders and back, the halter tie at the neck, the way the dress shifted against her thighs with every breath.
When her eyes lifted again, something dark flickered in them.
Hunger.
Restraint.
Both at once.
Claire’s pulse slammed into her throat.
She lifted her glass in a small, almost mocking salute.
Maren’s mouth curved—just the corner, just enough.
They ended up at the same high-top table with three very drunk account directors from Chicago who were already deep into a loud argument about Super Bowl odds.
The conversation was forgettable noise.
What Claire would remember for the rest of her life:
The exact moment Maren’s knee brushed hers under the table.
Not accidental.
Sustained pressure—warm through fabric, steady, claiming.
Seven full minutes before either of them moved.
Claire felt the heat radiate up her thigh, settle low in her belly, pulse in time with the jazz bass thrumming through the decking.
The way Maren swirled her bourbon.
Slow, hypnotic circles with her wrist, amber liquid catching the string lights overhead, ice clinking softly like a private code.
Every time she lifted the glass, Claire caught the faint scent of oak and caramel rising from it, mingling with Maren’s own perfume—amber, smoke, bourbon on warm skin.
The moment Maren leaned in over the music, close enough that her breath brushed Claire’s ear.
Warm.
Slightly bourbon-sweet.
“You smell like rain and something expensive,” she murmured, voice pitched so low only Claire could hear.
“It’s distracting.”
Claire’s entire body clenched.
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