8. Neomi
I tear through the collection of clothes I travel with. Silk and denim end up draped over the chair, black lace tossed across the bed, gold chains tangled together. Shoes are scattered on the floor—evidence of a woman who usually arrives prepared, focused, unshaken.
Right now, I feel none of those things.
I try on three tops in quick succession, tugging each one on, then off again, until frustration wins and I throw them all onto the bed. I stand there in my bra, breathing hard, staring at my reflection
I need to get my shit together.
This is poker night. My night, my profession and income. My kingdom.
And yet here I am, thinking about a man instead of the damn cards.
I swear under my breath and take the clip out of my hair, letting it fall in waves down my back. I need to pull off the appearance of a woman who plays everything close to the chest—including the dirty thoughts of a man I let into my hotel room to ruin my sheets and, apparently, my sanity.
“Focus, Neomi,” I mutter at my reflection.
I play high stakes because I play to make money.
I don’t like to play small—I read, I dissect, I calculate.
Focus is everything. And I need it back tonight, because fifty-grand pots don’t care if I spent the night underneath a man with a gorgeous dick and a mouth that dismantled every rational thought I’ve had since.
I pull on black tailored trousers. Clean lines with the flow of expensive fabric. A silhouette that says I’m here to take your money, not flirt with you. Then a simple light pink top with a plunging neckline.
I secure my holster around my waist and grab my gun. I won’t need it at the table, but Austin is becoming unpredictable. I carry cash and I refuse to be at the losing end of any fight.
I smooth my top over my chest, inhale, and lock eyes with myself in the mirror.
“Cards first. Men second.”
The room is already alive when I slide into my seat. The overhead lights are dim, the felt of every table is worn smooth by greed and ego, and the air smells of whiskey, bravado, and desperation.
Cards shuffle as chips clack and men posture. I’m in my zone. Or…I should be.
Because the second the door opens, there’s a ripple in the room, and I know it’s him.
I don’t acknowledge him when he appears, instead, I focus on finishing organizing my stacks. I make myself maintain the calm, collected posture of a woman who isn’t currently fighting the urge to cross her damn legs.
Lars walks in like he owns the place. Like he owns the air.
He doesn’t look as casual as he did the last time I saw him.
Tonight, he’s in charcoal grey pants and a red dress shirt, buttons open just enough to tease the skin of his chest. With perfectly styled brown hair, his blue eyes, like sharpened ice, sweeps the room once before landing directly on me.
I have to sit back for a second to collect myself. Because the memory of his mouth between my thighs slams into me with the subtlety of a freight train.
My pulse kicks. My breathing staggers and I can’t stop my thighs from pressing together.
He walks toward the table I’m seated at, and every step feels like he’s sending a message. A silent I’m here, Bella. Even if he doesn’t say a word.
I try to look unaffected. I really do. But when he reaches the table and takes the empty seat to my right, his gaze hooks into mine.
“Evening,” he says, voice low and sinful.
Damn it all to hell.
My mouth goes dry. My body reacts before my brain does—heat blooming between my legs, a pulse deep and insistent. It’s embarrassing how fast he reduces me to this, how fast my body remembers every stroke of his tongue and every press of his hips.
“You’re here early,” I manage.
He sits, calm as ever. “I didn’t have any afternoon meetings. Thought I’d come watch you play for a while.”
The dealer clears his throat. “Blinds?”
Lars has the button, so I pitch in my small blind.
“I told you I’d see you Friday,” he says softly as we watch the dealer distribute cards around the table.
I peek at my cards to hide the way my breath stutters. “Well, don’t be a seat warmer. Some of us have money that needs to be made.”
His mouth curves, “I’m sure you do, but I assure you, Bella, I won’t be the one losing tonight.”
The heat between us turns molten. I swallow, slide a chip forward to call a bet after the flop, and force myself to focus.
Poker first. The man next to me later.