Authors: Marni Mann
“Fuck yourself faster.”
My eyes closed, and my breath got caught in my throat. “This feels…
“Add a third finger.”
He would be this thick,
“Then don’t.” His breath was heavier now. “Press your palm against your clit, and put a third finger inside you. Do it like I would…push them in deep, and pull out slow.”
I was gasping.
“Work through that tightness, so you know how my cock will feel when it’s filling you.”
“That’s what I want…”
“Then that’s what you’ll get. First, my tongue, in gradual long sweeps…”
My fingers slid out and pumped right back in.
“Licking that fucking clit, so I can swap every bit of your wetness with my spit.”
“Oh God.” The moaning and grunting completely took over then.
“That’s it, Brea. Show me how much you want my cock.”
I forgot that I was on the phone. That he was listening. That I was on my bed, and it was my hand doing all the work. In my mind, he was here. It was his rough long fingers rubbing, plunging, swiveling inside me. His mouth tearing at my flesh. His hips pounding against me as I thrust upward to seal the gap between us.
“Now, let me hear how sexy it sounds when you come.”
I tried to hold it off, to allow the pleasure to spread a little more before it fully took over my body. But hearing what he wanted made it erupt even faster.
“Come for me, Brea.”
I took a breath, my hips grinding against the bed, matching the speed of my strokes. “Oh God…Trapper!” It came to a shuddering peak and rippled through me.
I screamed once, twice, three times.
Then I lay still, catching my breath, as the quivers subsided.
There was silence on the phone, nothing but the sound of my breathing…and his. His breathing was actually matching mine.
Had he come, too? Was he keeping that as much of a mystery as the rest of him?
“That sounded so fucking good,” he said.
I pulled my fingers out, my slick, glossy hand falling flat against the bed. I closed my eyes, no longer having the energy to keep them open. “How many more nights before you’re back?”
He laughed, and I trembled at the sound. “Two more if you count tonight. Then you’re mine.”
I sighed. “If you let me go to sleep, it’ll only be one more when I wake up.”
“Good night then, Brea. Sleep…tight.”
We hung up at the same time, but I held the phone as I drifted off. A picture of his hand was in there now. Until he returned, it was all I had of him.
I knew it was too soon, but I didn’t want to let go of it yet.
And I wanted it to be the first thing I saw when I woke up.
Hundreds had entered the tournament. Over the last few days, I’d single-handedly knocked out several tables’ worth—outplayed, outsmarted, and just plain outlasted.
Now, it was down to the final two, and Baylor was sitting across from me, the motherfucker who had bought his way here, the same one Roman had schooled me on before I’d left for this tournament. Baylor must have thought his sunglasses were dark enough to hide his eyes, but the tint was just light enough that I could see through. They darted from my cards to my face—back and forth, again and again—and not in a smooth pattern. This was erratic, spastic even. It was freezing in here, yet there were beads of sweat running across his hairline.
He was nervous.
I wasn’t, especially not with the pair of red kings I was holding in my hand.
Baylor’s eyes moved up my face and stayed there while he slowly pushed out a short stack of chips. It totaled less than ten thousand. If I were sitting on a shitty hand, his bet would have been high enough to make me fold. But I wasn’t sitting on shit; I had the cards to back up a solid bet.
I pushed a double stack of chips into the middle of the table and listened to the dealer count them. Baylor was ten thousand short; he matched my bet. The dealer laid down the flop, and now, there were two clubs on the felt.
If Baylor were holding two clubs in his hand, he was on a flush draw where my kings were fucking bleeding.
He wiped his forehead. “Check.”
Either he was testing me, or he was hoping for a free card. The highest card showing was a jack, and only one pair could beat me. His eyes told me he didn’t have pocket aces. Jacks maybe, but I didn’t think he had it, and I definitely didn’t think he had the flush draw.
“Twenty thousand,” I said. I pushed two more stacks toward the middle and waited for him to react. Leaving the cards on the table, I dropped my hands onto my lap and twisted the leather straps around my wrist. It wasn’t because of nerves; it was out of boredom.
The waiting was the worst part of poker. Analyze, calculate, analyze—same shit every hand. At least with online poker, there was a time limit. This asshole could sit here and drip sweat as long as he wanted.
His eyes followed my arms to the edge of the table even though he wasn’t able to see what I was doing underneath it. What he could see was my shoulders shifting as I circled the straps around and around. Bluffers often fidgeted—or at least, the weak ones did. Baylor’s grin told me what he was thinking. And it was exactly what I wanted him to think.
I had him.
He was going to start playing cocky because he thought he had me.
“I’ll raise another twenty.” He pushed his stacks next to mine.
Twenty? I laughed in my head, but the expression on my face showed defeat and weakness.
I sighed for effect. “I’ll call.”
The dealer dropped the turn card. It was the king of clubs. I now had three of a kind, but if Baylor were holding two clubs, he would have a flush. He stood his cards upright on the table and tapped them against the felt. It wasn’t a check. His hands were shaking like hell, and he was doing a shitty job of trying to hide it. He was going to try to out bet me. Scare me. Make me think he had the higher flush.
But there was a reason I didn’t have to buy my way into tournaments and I always made it to the final table. When Baylor was twelve, he was probably hanging with his buddies, playing a neighborhood game of flashlight tag or lost in some video game. When I was twelve, I was hanging out at Aced, studying eyes, learning expressions, mastering the ability to read opponents.
I read him perfectly.
“One hundred,” he said, pushing the bulk of his chips toward the middle.
He wouldn’t back down at this point. He was pot-committed, so whatever I bet, he would call. Since he only had about thirty thousand left, I wouldn’t re-raise him. I wanted him to think he had the winning hand and that he was going to double up. And then I wanted the satisfaction of seeing his face when I flipped over my cards and he realized who the real winner was.
The dealer set down the river card. A red deuce. It didn’t help either of us.
Analyze, calculate, analyze—there was none of that coming from him. Just sweat and more cockiness. His hands stopped shaking as he placed his sunglasses on the table. “All in,” he said.
My favorite fucking words.
“I’ll call,” I said.
“Flip ’em over, boys,” the dealer said.
Baylor threw his cards down. They skipped across the felt and halted in front of the dealer. It was a nice trick…asshole. Pockets twos. He’d caught the three of a kind on the river. He just didn’t have the higher one.
He stood and moved behind his chair, holding the back of it and smiling at me. So fucking smug. It was going to make this win feel even better.
I didn’t smile. I didn’t wipe the look of defeat off my face. I wanted him to think he’d won for a few more seconds. I even let him celebrate a little with the friends who had gathered behind him, groupies who probably thought they’d be upgraded to first-class flights on their way home now that Baylor’s winnings would be over a million. It would be the highest payout of his career, and the win would score him a seat in the next tournament.
Second place didn’t sound as good.
But that was his title.
I dropped my cards on the table. They landed flat. They didn’t slide, didn’t do anything flashy or showy. They didn’t need to.
“Three kings,” the dealer said, moving them next to Baylor’s hand. “Kings beat twos. Trapper Montgomery is the winner.”
“What the…” Baylor’s voice faded off. His face became a mixture of shock and anger.
His friends stopped cheering.
“Oh, damn,” I said.
My gaze locked on the sexy spread on the table. Three beautiful kings. Tonight couldn’t have gone better if I had planned it.
Cheers erupted behind me. None of my friends had flown to Vegas to watch the tournament. I always traveled alone, mostly because I didn’t want the distraction. The people who were cheering for me here were fans. And women. Tournaments were usually packed with any flavor pussy you could want. I’d tasted some in the past. I liked celebrations that didn’t give me a hangover.
But there wouldn’t be any pussy tonight. Or tomorrow morning.
Brea was the only celebration I wanted right now.
I shook the dealer’s hand and walked up to Baylor’s camp. His friends parted, giving me a path directly to him.
“Good game,” I said, extending my hand for him to shake.
“Yeah.” He gripped it harder than he needed to. He might have been stronger than me, but I was the one with the brains, and that was what poker was all about. “Lucky break—that’s all it was.”
I expected that. He was a twenty-two-year-old punk who had just gotten schooled. The calluses he felt on my hand weren’t from clicking a mouse. They were from years of shuffling cards, rubbing my fingers across their edges, playing with stacks of chips while I read my opponent. I put in the fucking time to study my craft.
Instead of giving him the satisfaction of a response, I turned and walked over to the table where Jameson was waiting for me.
“Congrats, Trapper,” he said. “Hell of a lay-down, my man. Can’t say I was surprised though. We all knew you were holding a monster.”
“You ready to talk contracts?” He led me away from the table and toward the back of the casino where we’d take the elevator up to the administrative offices. That was where Garin and his team of assistants would be waiting to discuss the details of the payout.
“Contracts?” I shook hands with one of the announcers as we passed him. “I think we should discuss a raise first.”
He laughed. “I had a feeling that was coming.”
“Good. Then you’ve had plenty of time to think about what number you’re going to offer me. I’m thinking it should have another zero at the end of it.”
He knew my worth; he knew the exposure he got when his logo was on my body. And I knew asking for another zero was outrageous. We’d settle somewhere in between, and we’d both be happy.
“It’s hard to fight with a winner,” he said.
I fucking loved winning, but it wasn’t always about that.
I turned around, taking a final glance at the table. Dealers were cleaning up the chips, and security guards were waiting to haul them into the vault. The crowd was thinning. I’d be back at Aced in less than twenty-four hours, but I already missed the scrape of the felt, the click of the chips, the scent of the cards. It didn’t matter where I lived. The poker room would always be my real home.
“How about I buy dinner? You free?”
I knew contract talk wasn’t the only reason he wanted to have dinner. He also wanted to discuss the compound. He was eager. I didn’t blame him for that.
“Yeah, buddy. I’m free.”
“One more night,” I said when Brea answered the phone. I snapped the leather bracelets around my wrist and slid my shirt over my head.
“I know. I’m nervous.”
“Nervous? I’ve heard you come. I’ve seen pictures of your wetness. There’s no reason to be nervous.”
“I feel like we’re taking off our masks and seeing each other for the first time.”
“Well, that makes me nervous.”
Her sweetness was refreshing, different from the girls I was used to.
“Are you worried about what I look like? Because my feelings aren’t going to change when I see you without your mask.” I was already craving the smell of her skin, the way her tongue curved around mine, how good her body felt as my hands ran over it. The way she softly moaned and her voice rising to a scream right before she came.