Sin City Slow Burn
Copyright© 2026 by Dilbert Jazz
Chapter 6
Romance Sex Story: Chapter 6 - 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
Friday Night: Against the Glass
Friday night descended on the Strip like a fever dream turned lethal.
The final keynote ended at 4:17 p.m. with applause that sounded more like relief than enthusiasm, the ballroom air thick with recycled oxygen and the faint, stale scent of too many colognes.
The gala dinner at 7:30 was the last mandatory event—black tie optional, networking required, egos mandatory.
Claire had saved the dress for this night.
Midnight blue silk, off-the-shoulder, fitted through the bodice then flowing into a thigh-high slit that parted with every step like a dark invitation.
The fabric was cool against her skin when she slipped it on, but warmed quickly to her body heat, clinging to every curve, the deep neckline dipping just low enough to reveal the faint constellation of freckles across her collarbone and the subtle shadow between her breasts.
She’d bought it months ago in Chicago during a moment of reckless longing, telling herself it was for “some future occasion.”
Standing in front of the suite mirror at 7:10, she smoothed the silk over her hips, felt the truth sink into her bones: she had packed it for Maren.
When she stepped into the hallway, Maren was already waiting—leaning against the wall outside 1914 in a tailored black tuxedo, satin lapels gleaming under the corridor sconces, white shirt open at the collar, no tie.
Her hair was down, dark waves spilling over one shoulder, catching the warm light like spilled ink.
She looked lethal. Elegant. Devastating.
Maren’s eyes dragged down Claire’s body—slow, thorough, predatory—taking in the midnight silk, the bare shoulders, the way the dress shifted against her thighs with every breath, the slit parting just enough to tease the long line of leg.
She exhaled once, low and rough, the sound almost a growl.
“Jesus fucking Christ, Claire.”
Claire’s pulse jumped at the sound of her name—raw, hungry, reverent.
“You clean up nicely yourself, Voss.”
Maren pushed off the wall and closed the distance in two strides.
She didn’t touch.
She just stood close enough that Claire could feel the heat radiating from her body, smell the faint cedar of her cologne, mixed with bourbon, and warm skin, and see the rapid pulse at the base of her throat beneath the open collar.
“I’m going to spend the next three hours pretending to be civilized,” Maren murmured, voice pitched for Claire alone, “while thinking about how this dress is going to look torn off you and pooled on my floor.”
Claire’s thighs pressed together involuntarily, the silk whispering against itself, already damp between her legs.
“Promises.”
They walked to the elevators shoulder to shoulder, silk brushing wool with every step.
In the mirrored car descending to the ballroom level, their reflections showed two women who looked composed—until you noticed Maren’s knuckles white around the brass rail, or the way Claire’s breath fogged the glass when she exhaled too sharply.
The gala was beautiful and interminable.
Crystal chandeliers dripping light like liquid diamonds.
Five-course plates of truffle risotto and filet mignon, the rich scent of butter, herbs, and seared meat thick in the air.
Speeches droned on about “synergies” and “disruptive innovation.”
They sat at the same round table with the rest of the executive team, forced smiles and polite small talk, while under the heavy white tablecloth, Maren’s hand rested high on Claire’s thigh—thumb stroking slow, deliberate circles just inside the slit of the dress, fingers inching higher with every passing minute, the heat of her palm searing through silk.
Claire kept her wineglass pressed to her lips more often than necessary, trying to hide the flush climbing her chest, the way her nipples had hardened into tight peaks against the thin fabric, the slow, insistent throb building between her legs with every pass of Maren’s thumb.
By the time the band shifted to slow jazz after dessert, Claire was soaked, thighs trembling, pulse hammering in her ears.
Maren leaned in under the pretense of reaching for the water pitcher.
Her lips brushed the shell of Claire’s ear, breath hot and bourbon-sweet.
“Elevators. Ten minutes. I’m done pretending.”
Claire excused herself first—powder room, she said, voice steady through sheer force of will.
Maren followed three minutes later, claiming she had to take a call.
They didn’t speak in the elevator.
They didn’t need to.
The doors opened on 19.
Maren’s hand closed around Claire’s wrist—firm, possessive—and yanked her toward the suite.
Inside, the door had barely latched before Maren had Claire slammed against the nearest wall, mouth on hers, hands sliding up under the dress to grip bare hips hard enough to bruise.
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