Sin City Slow Burn
Copyright© 2026 by Dilbert Jazz
Chapter 7
Romance Sex Story: Chapter 7 - 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
Saturday Night: Achingly
Saturday felt like borrowed time, the last full day before the plane would carry them back to separate realities.
The conference had ended at noon with handshakes and LinkedIn QR codes exchanged like currency nobody really wanted.
Most of the team had already fled—early flights, hangovers, the urgent need to escape the desert’s relentless glare.
Claire and Maren stayed behind.
No early check-out.
No red-eye.
Just twenty-four hours that belonged only to them.
They spent the afternoon like lovers who had forgotten how to be strangers.
A late lunch at a quiet Italian place off the Strip—dim lights, red-checkered tablecloths, the rich scent of garlic and fresh basil rising from plates of handmade tagliatelle slick with brown butter and sage.
They shared burrata that wept cream when cut, the milky sweetness coating Claire’s tongue, and tiramisu so dense it clung to the spoon.
Maren fed Claire the last bite of dessert with her fingers, thumb brushing Claire’s lower lip until Claire caught it between her teeth, tongue flicking once, tasting salt and cocoa and Maren’s skin.
After lunch, they wandered the Bellagio Conservatory & Botanical Gardens.
The seasonal display was all white orchids and silver lights, hanging gardens suspended like frozen waterfalls, the air incredible and scented with damp moss and faint vanilla from the blooms.
Maren slipped her hand into Claire’s as they walked beneath the arching vines.
No one looked twice.
In Las Vegas, hand-holding barely registers as scandal.
Claire felt the press of Maren’s palm against hers—warm, steady, calloused slightly from years of holding cameras and briefcases and now, her—while the soft rustle of leaves overhead matched the rhythm of their breathing.
They returned to the hotel just after sunset.
The suite smelled faintly of sex and jasmine body oil from the night before, sheets still rumpled, the air heavy with the memory of sweat and surrender.
Neither bothered to turn on more than the bedside lamp.
The room glowed soft gold, city lights bleeding through the half-open curtains in shifting pulses of pink, gold, and electric blue.
Maren closed the door softly, as if sudden noise might shatter something fragile.
She turned to Claire, eyes dark and steady in the low light.
“I don’t want to rush tonight,” she said, voice low and rough.
“I want to feel every second of it.”
Claire’s throat tightened.
She nodded once, the silk of her robe whispering against her bare shoulders.
They undressed each other with agonizing patience.
Buttons slipped through holes one at a time, each release accompanied by a soft exhale, the faint click of a cufflink hitting the carpet.
Zippers drawn down tooth by tooth, fabric dragged slowly over skin like unwrapping something sacred, silk sliding over nipples already peaked, over hips, over thighs, leaving goosebumps in its wake.
Maren’s tuxedo jacket hit the floor first, then Claire’s midnight dress—sliding down her body in a calm whisper of silk, pooling at her feet like spilled night.
When they were both bare, Maren guided Claire to the bed and lay her down on her stomach.
The sheets were cool against heated skin, the faint scent of laundry starch mingling with the musk of their bodies.
For long minutes, Maren touched.
Fingertips tracing the line of Claire’s spine from nape to tailbone, slow enough to raise goosebumps in their wake, the touch so light it felt like breath.
Palm flattening over the small of her back, warm and steady, grounding, the heat seeping into Claire’s muscles until she melted into the mattress.
Lips following the same path—open-mouthed kisses that left faint wet marks, cooling in the air-conditioned hush, the soft suction making Claire’s breath hitch.
Claire felt every freckle being cataloged.
Every scar.
The constellation of moles across her left shoulder blade.
Maren kissed them all like landmarks on a map only she was allowed to read, tongue flicking once against each one.
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