Her smile fills all the broken and jagged spaces in my heart. One by one she drops her cards to the table in wicked satisfaction. I expect a flush, maybe a full house, but what I don’t see coming is the trash hand after she’s won so many rounds. Her deep laughter bounces around the room.
“I won.” A twinge of disappointment rushes through my mind. Then shock and jubilation fill my chest as my eyes dart from her cards to mine. I can’t believe my eyes. “I won!”
“You did.” She bites her lower lip, and her gaze roves my body. “I guess you get to keep your undies. Pity.”
Wait, what? Is that disappointment I see in her eyes. “Oh, I could be persuaded.”
“What should I take off?” She completely ignores my comment.
I try for another tactic, loving the blaze in her eyes when I challenge her. “Don’t be a chicken shit, Rachel. No more shoes. Go big.”
“Oh?”
“Shirt or pants. Come on. I dare you.”
“Hmm,” she presses her lips together as if she’s actually considering. But this temptress has a mean poker face. I can’t tell if she’s toying with me. “Since you’ve already seen me with no pants . . .” She tilts her head, a sultry smile tugging at her lips. The chair legs groan against the floor as she stands.
Fuck. This is happening. Really happening. I’m finally going to get a glimpse of the perfect, full breasts I’ve been fantasizing about every night this week. I know she doesn’t always wear a bra. I’ve seen her nipples pressed against her shirts. Fuck me. Thank you, universe. Thank you, strip poker. All the losses tonight will have been worth this one moment.
Her fingers grip the hem of her blouse. They tease the fabric, and I’m certain if I looked, I’d find a playful glint in her stare, but my gaze is glued to that hemline. Waiting. Wanting. Practically salivating for a glimpse of smooth tan skin.
Her shirt lifts—painfully slow—or is that hard? Fuck, it’s my dick. I adjust myself again, attempting in vain to tuck my semi-hard state in the confines of my boxer briefs. Then my attention is stolen. Completely captured, because Rachel’s shirt is moving. One inch. Two. Three. My eyes drink up her perfect skin as the fabric lifts closer and closer to what I want most.
Ding dong.
Walter bounds from his spot in the corner. Yapping and barking as if he’s a two-hundred-pound guard dog and not a ten-pound Chihuahua mutt.
“Expecting more company?” Rachel asks, her shirt back in place, abdomen covered by the offending fabric.
“No,” I grit out, still not able to move from my spot at the table. My dreams dashed, in one bloody moment. My losing streak back to bite me in the ass. And I never even got to see the promised land.
“Did you need me to . . ?” Her question trails off as her gaze takes in my mostly naked form, then to the door. Maybe if her eyes were full of something other than restrained humor, I’d appreciate this moment, but instead it only further increases my frustration.
She thinks this is funny.
She doesn’t want to see my dick.
The universe is having a good laugh. “I’ve got it.” I cover my crotch and stand, almost knocking the chair to its back in the process, then stomp toward the door.
Walter races forward, his yaps increasing the closer we get to the door. He goes apeshit when the bell rings again.
“Coming. Damn it,” I grumble to no one other than myself. I don’t know who could be at the door at this hour, but it better be fucking important.
I yank open the door to find one of the building’s night security guards waiting. “Mr. Lawrence. So sorry.”
I glance down the hall, then back at him.
“We tried phoning you, and I wouldn’t have disturbed you given the late hour, but . . .”
“Good God, what is it?”
“There’s a man downstairs demanding to see you. He’s causing a scene, and we’d call the police to take care of it, it’s just—” He clears his throat and shifts his weight to his other foot. “He claims he’s your father.”
My stomach dips with disappointment. Dread. Understanding as I remember today’s date. Damn it. I should have expected this. Seen it coming. Fuck. I can’t believe I forgot. I’ve never forgotten, not since— My eyes clench tight with pain. “Right. Yes. I’ll be down. Just give me a second to—”Put on pants. Get dressed. Did I really answer the door in my boxers? Thank God it’s just the security team, but what if it were a client. Worse, a journalist.
“Of course, Mr. Lawrence. I’ll meet you downstairs.”
I don’t bother with formalities and close the door to retrieve my clothes.
