My Husband Gave Me a Hall Pass for Vegas (And Demanded Details) II

"LEO: Agent N, excellent work! … Mission is a GO. Repeat, GO GO GO. Full sensory report expected. And Nina? Have fun. Seriously. Enjoy the… research."

Vegas Bar Seduction | Husband’s Green Light | Building Anticipation | Hotwife First Steps

---

Escaping the conference, Nina and the intriguing Julian find a quiet bar. As genuine conversation flows, a text from her husband, Leo, gives the enthusiastic green light for her “research.” With newfound boldness, Nina accepts Julian’s invitation to continue their discussion in a more private setting, the anticipation palpable.

---

My Husband Gave Me a Hall Pass for Vegas (And Demanded Details) - Full Story

---

“Very interested,” I said, like I was calmly agreeing to try a new brand of artisanal mustard, not potentially agreeing to a liaison with a handsome stranger whose last name I didn’t even know. My internal organs, however, were performing a spirited Irish jig. Julian — Julian! His name even sounded nice, didn’t it? Not too try-hard, not too boring. Just… Julian.

“Excellent,” he said, that lopsided smile making another welcome appearance. “I think a strategic retreat is in order before someone tries to ‘circle back’ on ‘actionable deliverables’.” He actually did air quotes around “circle back” and “actionable deliverables,” and I swear, I might have fallen a little bit in love. Or at least in strong, lustful like. Okay, Nina, reel it in. He’s just a guy. A guy with great eyes and a shared disdain for corporate buzzwords. And a guy your husband sort of, kind of, wants you to… well, you know.

We made our escape from the soul-sucking vortex of Room 204B. Walking next to him through the labyrinthine corridors of the Venetian felt… strange. Like I was in a movie, and I was the slightly bewildered protagonist who’s just been swept off her feet by the charming rogue. Except the charming rogue was probably just a normal guy who also hated marketing jargon, and I was mostly just bewildered. He didn’t walk too fast, didn’t crowd me. He just… walked. There was a subtle scent of him again, that sandalwood and bergamot, mixed now with the faint, almost imperceptible aroma of the hotel’s air conditioning — that weird, cool, slightly metallic smell that all big hotels seem to have. It wasn’t unpleasant. It was just… a new layer to the Julian Experience.

We passed a bank of slot machines, their relentless, cacophonous symphony of dings and jingles and sad, synthesized melodies washing over us. I always found those noises profoundly depressing. Like the sound of a thousand tiny hopes dying, one quarter at a time. Julian glanced at them, a flicker of something unreadable in his eyes, then looked at me and gave a tiny, almost imperceptible headshake, as if to say, “Can you believe this circus?” I found myself smiling back. We were coconspirators in sanity, apparently.

The bar he led me to wasn’t one of the giant, flashy casino bars. It was tucked away down a quieter corridor, a place called “The Crimson Quill.” Dimly lit, lots of dark wood, plush velvet chairs, and the low hum of actual conversation, not just people shouting over slot machines. It smelled of old books, good whiskey, and a faint hint of something floral — maybe lilies? It was the kind of place where you could imagine secret agents exchanging microfilm, or writers nursing a single malt while wrestling with their muse. Or, you know, two conference attendees escaping a particularly brutal PowerPoint.

A waitress with impossibly red lipstick and a knowing smile showed us to a small, secluded booth. The velvet on the seat was cool and smooth under my suddenly slightly damp palms.

“What’s your pleasure?” Julian asked, settling opposite me. The low lighting cast interesting shadows on his face, making those kind eyes seem even deeper.

“Oh, um…” My mind went completely blank. What was my pleasure? Other than escaping Bob and his Q4 projections? “A gin and tonic?” I finally managed. Safe. Classic. Can’t go wrong with a G&T. Unless they use that awful tonic water that tastes like regret and flat soda.

Julian ordered a bourbon, neat. No ice. Which, for some reason, I found incredibly attractive. It seemed… decisive. Like a man who knew what he wanted. Unlike me, who currently wanted about seventeen different things, most of them contradictory and probably requiring a therapist to unpack. He didn’t specify a brand of bourbon, just “bourbon, neat.” Interesting. Not a bourbon snob, then. Or maybe he trusted the bartender. I mentally filed that away under “Julian: Potentially Unpretentious Bourbon Drinker.” My internal filing system was getting quite elaborate.