CHAPTER 30
JAGGER
My poker room had always been one of my favorite areas in my penthouse and one of the reasons I’d bought it in the first place . . . but it was about to take the top spot after tonight.
Eden was still in the blue dress from the boutique, the one that clung to her curves like it had been sewn directly onto her skin. The neckline dipped low enough to make my fingers itch, the slit up one thigh high enough to tease every time she shifted.
She looked like she’d walked straight out of my fantasies and into my apartment . . . and she had no idea how much danger she was in.
Eden picked up her cards, bit her lip, and glanced at me through her lashes. “Let’s go, Thatcher.”
I smiled, thinking it was cute how she was trying to act so brave. “I’m ready.”
The whole time we’d played downstairs, the guys had kept shooting me confused looks—side-eye after side-eye, brows furrowed, unable to figure out why the best poker player in the room was suddenly playing like a drunk tourist.
Cruz had even leaned over at one point and muttered, “This is not going to get you laid, Jags,” while Maddox just stared at me as if I’d grown a second head.
They knew I could read a table blindfolded.
They knew I never folded winners. And yet there I was, folding premium hands, calling with trash, letting pots slip away.
I’d wanted Eden to win. I wanted her confident, bold . . . a little smug.
It was going to make this game so much better.
I dealt the flop, the cards gliding across the felt in smooth, controlled arcs.
Eden tapped the table, feigning indifference.
I did the same, keeping the pace unhurried.
The next card turned over, and this time she straightened slightly, something sharpening in her eyes.
She placed a tidy stack of chips into the center confidently, her fingers steady, her expression carefully neutral.
I called without breaking eye contact.
The final card turned over, and her pupils widened just slightly. She had something. Not huge, but enough to make her feel good.
She pushed more chips forward confidently.
“You’re comfortable,” I observed.
“You’re predictable,” she shot back.
“Am I?”
“Yes. When you’ve got a strong hand, you get quiet.”
I almost laughed at that. I’d been quiet all night.
I met her bet and then raised it—enough to make her have to prove whether she believed in herself.
She didn’t hesitate. “All in,” she said, sliding the rest of her chips forward with a lift of her chin.
There it was. The boldness I’d been building.
I leaned back, studying her. “You sure?”
“Very.”
I turned my cards over first this time. Three of a kind.
Her eyes dropped to the table, then slowly to her own hand. She flipped them over, revealing two high cards but no pair.
She blinked and let out a disbelieving huff. “You’re kidding.”
“I’m not.”
She looked back up at me, accusation flickering there. “You were baiting me.”
“Maybe.”
She leaned back in her chair, crossing her arms, the fabric of her dress shifting just enough to remind me what was about to happen.
“Strip,” I rasped.
Eden exhaled through her nose, cheeks pinking, but she didn’t argue.
She stood slowly, her fingers fumbling for the zipper at her back.
The quiet brush of it sliding down filled the room, and her dress slipped off her shoulders, down her arms .
. . over her hips. The dress pooled at her feet in a soft, blue puddle.
And there it was—the black lace lingerie I’d caught her in at the boutique, the one I’d assumed she’d taken off in the dressing room.
All the blood in my body rushed straight to my cock.
I had to shift in my chair to keep from groaning out loud.
My mouth went dry. My vision narrowed until all I could see was her—her flushed cheeks, the way her nipples tightened further under my stare, the soft quiver in her thighs as she tried to press them together like that could hide how wet she was.
She flushed deeper and tried to pretend she had some dignity left, crossing her arms briefly over her breasts before dropping them again, her chin lifting as she tried to refuse to be shy. Her eyes betrayed her, though, glittering with the same heat I felt scorching through my veins.
Eden tilted her head, a teasing little smile suddenly tugging at her lips. “You going to be able to play like this?” she asked mischievously. “Or should we stop before you embarrass yourself?”
I grinned, letting her see every ounce of hunger I wasn’t bothering to hide anymore. “Oh, I can play, baby. The question is, will you be able to win even one more time when I’m not holding back?”
Her smile faltered for half a second before she forced a grin. “Let’s go, Thatcher.”
We did . . . and she lost again. Her garters were the next victim.
She stood, her hands clearly shaking as she reached for the lace garter circling her thigh. It wasn’t attached to anything—just a delicate band of black lace hugging her skin. She slid her fingers beneath it and eased it down, inch by inch, the fabric dragging lightly over her leg.
When she finally let it fall to the ground, she met my eyes, and I adjusted myself openly, palming my cock through my jeans and making sure she couldn’t miss the way they were straining to hold me in.
“I’m dying thinking about your wet pussy gushing all over my leather chair,” I growled, nodding my head at the dark spot blooming across the front of her black lace thong.
The thin fabric had turned sheer where her arousal soaked through, clinging transparently to her swollen folds, outlining the shape of her lips and the little hood of her clit pressing against it.
Slick glistened along the edges, a thin trail already threatening to drip down the inside of her thigh.
She followed my gaze, her cheeks flaming crimson as she realized what I was seeing. She swallowed, attempting composure, but her blush only deepened—spilling down her throat and across her chest.
Eden sat down, and I dealt the next hand.
Of course she lost again . . .
This time she didn’t even look surprised. She just stared at the table for a long second, then lifted her eyes to mine slowly, accusation simmering beneath the heat.
“You’ve been playing me,” she said.
I leaned back in my chair, folding my arms loosely. “Of course I have.”
Her brows drew together. “You let me win downstairs.”
“I did.”
“So I’d feel confident.”
“Yes.”
“So I’d push.”
“Yes.”
She huffed out a breath, shaking her head. “That is . . . insanely manipulative.”
I gave her an unapologetic smile. “It’s poker, Eden.”
“No.” She pointed a finger at me. “It’s you. This doesn’t feel ethical.”
I let out a low chuckle and leaned forward.
“‘Ethical,’” I repeated, like I’d never heard the word. “I think it would be accurate to say that ethical is the antithesis of who I am.”
She stared at me for half a beat, thinking I was joking—I was not, of course . . . and laughed.
Eden was still laughing as she stood up again and pushed her thong down her hips, slow enough that I was literally gripping the table until my knuckles whitened. The thong slid over her thighs and calves and then pooled at her feet.
My dick felt like it might split straight through my jeans as she sat back down, leaned back in the chair, and gave me a look at exactly what she knew I wanted.
And I did look . . . at every fucking inch.
The swell of her breasts was framed fucking perfectly by the lace bra, and her nipples were straining visibly against the sheer cups. She was flushed everywhere: her cheeks, her chest, the tops of her thighs.
Fuck.
Eden took a deep breath . . . caught between nerves and, hopefully, excitement. “Deal the cards, Thatcher. Let’s finish this.”
“Gladly,” I growled.
The next hand played out slow and tense. She looked down at her two cards, and I could tell she liked what she saw. When I laid the first three cards face up in the center of the table, they were all low numbers. Not great for her.
She bet anyway, and I raised.
Eden hesitated, her eyes lifting to my face, searching for something—any crack in my expression that might tell her whether I was strong or just pushing her around.
She called.
I turned over the fourth card, and she tapped the table, choosing not to bet first. I pushed a larger stack of chips into the middle, and her jaw tightened.
After a second, she called again, biting her lip as she tried to decide whether she trusted her instincts . . . or me. Finally, she pushed all her chips forward—going all in.
I called and flipped my cards. A straight flush.
Eden stared at her jacks—still just a pair—and let out a soft, defeated laugh that was somehow the sexiest sound I’d ever heard.
“Last piece,” I said quietly.
She stood, keeping her eyes locked with mine as she reached behind her back. The clasp of her bra gave with a soft click, and the straps slipped off her shoulders. She held the cups in place for a heartbeat, teasing me because she knew I was fucking losing my mind . . . then let the bra fall.
I groaned low in my throat, the sound rough and involuntary as my eyes raked over her naked body—every curve flushed and trembling, her breasts rising and falling with shallow breaths, nipples tight and begging, the slick shine between her thighs impossible to ignore.
She stood there, bare and exposed, trying to hold herself together, but the way her thighs pressed together only made the wetness glisten more, a dark invitation that had my cock throbbing painfully against my zipper.
I let the silence stretch between us, watching the way it made her shift, small, restless movements that betrayed her. Her cheeks burned brighter, her breathing quickened, and she bit her lip like she was fighting not to beg.
Then I crooked one finger. “Crawl to me.”
Her eyes widened, her pupils blowing out in a rush of shock and disbelief. “What?”
“You heard me.” My voice dropped lower, rougher, the edge of a command wrapped in velvet. “Crawl, Eden. I dare you.”