“Aha!” I aim a stern finger at him.
He laughs. “Fortunately, your massive consumption of Scotch saved me the trouble. You’re not playing your best, Ms. Fairchild.”
I raise my brows. “Have you considered that I’m just setting you up?”
“Are you? Well, that’s interesting information.” He nods at the cards I hold in my hands. “Let’s see what you’ve got.”
I lay my cards down, feeling smug. “A pair of kings, ace high.”
“Not bad,” he says. “Too bad I have the other three aces.”
“You do not,” I say, but he lays the cards down and, sure enough, two red and one back ace wink up at me.
“Off with it,” he says.
I reach for the clasp at the front of my bra.
“Oh, no,” he says, then makes a twirling motion with his finger. “The skirt. I’ll get the zipper for you.”
I scowl, but comply, turning around to give him access. He presses his palm against my skin, his hand curved to cup my waist. With the other hand, he slowly tugs down the zipper. “Up,” he says, and I rise to my knees, then close my eyes and try not to tremble as his slowly eases the skirt down, his fingers grazing oh so softly on each bit of bare skin that he reveals during the process. “There you go,” he says, as I twist around to sit back down, pulling my legs free from the skirt as I do.
I’m dressed now only in the tiny bra and even tinier panties. It’s cool in the room—we’ve opened the door to the private patio—but my skin is burning. “Deal,” I say, trying to control my breathing, because with each breath my breasts rise and fall, and with each motion my nipples brush the lace. The sensation is driving me crazy. It’s rough and teasing and I can’t help but imagine the light nip of Damien’s teeth, the soft pressure of his mouth as he suckles me, the warmth of his hands as he cups my breasts. And the insistent press of his cock as he presses his body full against mine.
“Nikki.”
“What?” I jerk my head up, reality returning. Considering the way Damien is looking at me, I think he knows exactly what I was thinking.
“Your cards.”
I glance down and realize he’s already dealt. “Oh. Right.” I see the corner of his mouth twitch. “What?” I demand.
“I didn’t say a thing,” he says. “But if I had, I probably would have told you to move.”
I tilt my head. “To move?” I’m sitting on my heels, my knees and thighs together.
“On your bottom,” he says. “Your legs crossed.”
“I—why?”
“Because I want to see you,” he says.
I raise my brows. “Is that part of the game, Mr. Stark?”
“It is now. I want to see how wet you are. I want to know how much it turns you on sitting here across from me, slowly losing bits of your clothing, becoming more and more open to me. And all the while knowing that soon—very soon—I’m going to bury myself in you.”
“Oh.” My heart stutters in my chest, and I’m certain he can see the beat of my pulse in my neck.
“Now, Nikki,” he says. “You know the rules.”
“Is that a command, Mr. Stark?” My sex feels swollen and I am desperately wet. He must know it, but soon he will also see it.
“It most definitely is.”
“So if I don’t, I’ll be punished?”
His lips twitch. “I don’t think you’ll like the punishment I’d render tonight.”
“No? Why? What would you do?” I can imagine the sting of his hand upon my ass. The thrill of a cat-o’-nine-tails upon my sex. I try to imagine what naughty treat he could have in mind, but my mind isn’t working particularly well at the moment. I am needy and hot, and not just because of the Scotch or because I’m half naked. It’s because of Damien. Because he does this to me. Because I want him right now. “What would you do?” I repeat.
“It’s what I wouldn’t do,” he says, and that’s when I get it. Disobey, and he won’t touch me at all.
“That punishes us both,” I say.
“Rules are rules,” he says. “And I can be very strong when I want to. But if you think I’m bluffing . . . ” he adds, glancing at the cards as if in illustration.
I get the message. I’ve been losing at poker all night. Do I really want to lose at this, too?
I don’t. I shift my position so that my legs are in front of me. Slowly, I draw in my feet and spread my legs until I’m sitting cross-legged in front of him, my sex wide open. I can hide nothing now, and the truth is that I don’t want to.
I follow the line of Damien’s gaze to the damp spot on my thong. The telltale sign of just how wet—just how incredibly soaked with desire—that I am for him. Slowly, I lift my eyes to his. I see the heat, and feel a corresponding power. He may be the one making the rules, but I’m the one making him a little crazy.
I arch back a bit, my hands behind me for support.
“I like the view,” Damien says. “I like seeing how much you want me. How wet you are for me.”
“Am I?” I say innocently. I shift my weight to one arm, then lift my other hand. I trail my fingers up my own thigh, then trace it lightly over the silk of the thong.
“Jesus, Nikki,” Damien says, his voice ragged. But I show no pity. I run my fingertip along the side of the thong. I tilt my head up and meet Damien’s eyes. And then, slowly and deliberately, I slide my finger under the scrap of material and into my very wet, very swollen cunt. I gasp from the rush of pleasure as a shudder runs through my body, as if it’s a preview of an explosion to come.
And then, with Damien’s eyes still on me, I draw my finger up to my mouth and taste my own arousal. “Yes,” I murmur. “You’re right. I’m very, very wet for you.”
“Fuck poker,” Damien growls, sweeping his arm over the bedclothes and knocking the cards to the ground even as he grabs my thighs and tugs me toward him. The motion counterbalances me, and I fall backward so that I end up flat on my back, my legs spread, and Damien between them.
“Are you conceding the game, Mr. Stark?” I ask, my voice full of laughter.
“I am,” he says.
I raise myself upon my elbows. “I guess that means you lose.”
“No,” he says as he eases himself up over my body, then uses two fingers to flip open the clasp of my bra. “I assure you it means that I win.”