CHAPTER 29
EDEN
By the time we stepped off the private elevator into Jagger’s penthouse, the noise of the casino felt like a different world. Downstairs had been all laughter and chips clacking and Lawson loudly insisting he was “due” for a win. Up here, everything was . . . more.
The soft click of the elevator sealing shut behind us had my pulse kicking up hard, a frantic little rhythm that echoed in my ears, my throat, and between my legs. We were finally alone now, and there was no one to interrupt whatever happened next.
I felt his eyes trace the line of my spine through the thin fabric of the dress. It felt like a weight as it slid down to the small of my back and then lower, lingering on the curve of my ass.
“Your friends are really nice,” I spit out nervously as I slipped off my heels. “They’re ridiculous and over the top . . . and intense . . . but you can tell how much you all care for each other.”
“They liked you,” he murmured as he stepped up behind me and softly touched my waist. The touch was light, almost gentle, but the way his thumb stroked over the silk made my knees weaken.
“Did they?” I whispered.
He made a humming sound as his lips brushed the shell of my ear. I couldn’t help but shiver. “Why are you shaking, Eden?” he asked as he slowly licked along my skin.
I swallowed, trying to find my voice. “Because we’re going to . . . I mean, you’re probably wanting—”
He pulled back just enough to turn me around. “You think I’m probably wanting what?” he asked. “To drag you straight to the bedroom? To rip that dress off and fuck you against the nearest wall?”
My cheeks burned. “Something like that.”
He smiled wickedly. “I could. I want to. Badly.” His gaze dropped to my mouth, then lower, tracing the neckline of the dress like he was already picturing it on the floor. “But I’m not going to.”
I blinked. “You’re . . . not?”
He shook his head, his thumb still stroking maddening circles on my hip. “Not yet.”
I stared at him, confused and aching and embarrassingly wet between my thighs. “Then . . . what?”
He leaned in, and his lips brushed mine in a barely there kiss that was just enough to make me chase him when he pulled back.
“We’re going to finish the game we were playing,” he said.
My brain short-circuited. “The . . . game?”
“The poker game,” he said lightly, seeming to enjoy the fact that I was malfunctioning because of him. “You were winning downstairs. I thought we should see how far that streak goes.”
I stood there staring at him because I was pretty sure he’d lost his mind. “You’re serious?”
“Dead serious.”
He held my gaze for one more charged second, then straightened and jerked his chin toward the hallway. “Come with me.”
My heart kicked again, but I followed him anyway. “Where are we going?” I asked.
“You’ll see.”
Jagger led me down a hallway he hadn’t shown me before and stopped in front of double doors at the end.
He pushed them open, revealing a private poker room that made the one downstairs look like a dress rehearsal.
A professional table sat in the center beneath soft recessed lighting, and floor-to-ceiling windows framed the Strip in an insane rich-person backdrop.
“This seems to be a serious room for someone who only plays occasionally,” I murmured, walking toward the table.
“Did I say I play occasionally?” he asked as he moved past me to a built-in cabinet along the wall and slid open a drawer.
From inside, he pulled out a fresh deck of cards, still sealed in cellophane.
He peeled it off with unhurried precision, cracked the deck open, and then—without looking at his hands—began shuffling.
Not the clumsy, overhand shuffle I’d been doing downstairs.
He riffled the cards in the air, split the deck cleanly in two, and bridged them together with a soft snap that sounded almost like applause.
The cards arced and settled with practiced ease, fluid and controlled.
I leaned against the table, watching his hands. “You were not doing that downstairs.”
“No,” he agreed as he shuffled again, this time letting the cards cascade from one hand to the other in a smooth ribbon. The way he said it sent a flicker of awareness through me.
“You’re hiding something,” I said.
He stepped around the table and pulled out my chair, waiting until I sat before moving to his own. “Maybe I was just being polite downstairs.”
“‘Polite,’” I repeated.
“With my friends,” he clarified.
“And now?”
He rested his forearms on the table, the deck poised between his fingers. “Now,” he said softly, “it’s just us.”
A thrill of danger moved through me, like I’d just realized I’d been playing in the shallow end and hadn’t noticed the deep water behind me. I tried to ignore how the chair felt cool against my overheated skin . . . how every shift of my thighs rubbed the lace of my thong against my swollen clit.
He shuffled the deck slowly, his eyes never leaving mine. “Last chance to back out,” he said softly.
I lifted my chin. “Deal,” I said.
Jagger dealt the cards with a lazy precision, the deck whispering across the felt. I picked up my two cards—an ace and king of the same suit—and felt a small flicker of confidence. I’d been winning downstairs. Maybe my streak wasn’t over.
He laid three cards face up in the middle of the table. One of them matched mine.
That was promising.
I tapped the table instead of betting right away, pretending I wasn’t pleased. He placed a small stack of chips in the center, and I matched it.
Jagger turned over another card.
My hand was still solid. Not unbeatable, but strong enough to keep me steady. This time I bet first, pushing a few chips forward like I was testing how far he’d follow me. He called immediately, no hesitation.
Then he revealed the final card.
I looked down at my cards again, then back up at him. “You’re bluffing,” I said, trying to sound confident instead of hopeful.
His expression didn’t change. “Am I?”
I studied him carefully, searching for something—any flicker of a twitch, a smirk, a tell I could latch on to. There was nothing. Downstairs he’d been easier to read . . . Up here, though, it was like he was carved from stone.
I exhaled slowly and pushed the rest of my chips forward. “Fine. I’m in.”
For a beat, he just looked at me. Then he leaned back slightly and turned his cards over.
A pair. That was it.
“That’s . . . that’s all you have?” I asked.
“That’s all I have.”
A surprised laugh bubbled out of me. I stared at my own hand, then placed it face up on the table. “Oh no,” I said sweetly, leaning back in my chair. “Did I just beat you again?”
He glanced at my cards, then back at me, unreadable. “Looks like it.”
I folded my arms smugly. “Maybe you’re just not very good.”
A corner of his mouth lifted. “Maybe.”
He held my gaze for a long second, then leaned back in his chair, studying me like I was the one laid out on the table. “All right,” he said casually. “Let’s up the stakes.”
My pulse jumped, but I kept my expression calm. “To what?”
His eyes dragged slowly over me. “Strip poker.”
The words hung between us, and I swallowed before I could stop myself. “That’s a shocking suggestion for someone who just lost.”
“Perhaps,” he said, that infuriatingly calm smirk back on his lips.
“And what happens when you lose again?” I asked.
He leaned forward slightly and shrugged. “Then I take something off.”
The image hit me before I could block it.
Him standing slowly, fingers hooking the hem of his black Henley, dragging it up and over his head in one smooth, unhurried motion.
The fabric peeling away to reveal the ink crawling across his chest and abs.
Every hard line of muscle flexing under his tanned skin.
I shifted in my seat, feeling that same electric thrill I’d experienced a few minutes ago—the sense of stepping closer to the deep end on purpose.
“Fine,” I said softly. “Deal.”
His eyes darkened in a way that made my stomach flip.