31. Russ
RUSS
The cottage is too quiet tonight. Nick and Alex left an hour ago to handle business at the Ivory Wolf, leaving me alone with Marla.
She's sitting at her desk near the window, laptop open, fingers hovering over the keyboard without actually typing.
I'm in the kitchen pretending to focus on dinner, but I can't take my eyes off of her.
She is just so damn sexy, even distracted and worried as she is now.
It's all I can do to keep from going over to her and running my hands through that fiery red hair, grasping the strands and pulling her head back so I can ravish those plump lips of hers.
I want to strip her clothes off and cover every inch of that curvy body with my mouth, then plunge into her until we're both gasping from pleasure.
But right now isn't the time. I finish chopping vegetables and toss them into the pan. The sizzle fills the quiet space, but it doesn't help. Marla shifts in her chair, glancing toward the dark windows again. She's done that at least a dozen times since the sun went down.
"You're going to burn the food if you keep staring at it like that," she says without looking at me.
"I'm not staring at the food."
"Then what are you staring at?"
"You." I turn the heat down and lean against the counter.
She's wearing dark fitted jeans and a flannel long-sleeve shirt.
For some reason, the clothes make her look more vulnerable—and sexy.
Her red hair is pulled into a messy knot at the base of her neck, and she's chewing on her bottom lip the way she does when she's anxious.
"You're not writing," I point out.
"You're not cooking."
Fair enough. I abandon the stove entirely and cross the room to stand behind her chair. She tenses slightly when I rest my hands on her shoulders, but she doesn't pull away.
"When's the last time you actually relaxed?" I ask.
"Define relaxed."
"Not looking at the windows every thirty seconds or jumping every time the house creaks."
She lets out a breath that sounds more like a laugh. "That would be never."
I squeeze her shoulders gently, feeling the knots of tension beneath my fingers. "You need a distraction."
"I'm trying to work."
"You're not working. You're pretending to work while you quietly panic."
She twists in her chair to look up at me, and it's all I can do not to laugh at the stubbornness shining in her eyes. "I'm not panicking."
"Bullshit."
Her mouth opens like she's going to argue, but then she closes it again and sighs. "Fine. I'm panicking a little."
"Then let's do something else." I move toward the kitchen and start opening drawers at random until I find what I'm looking for. An old deck of cards, slightly worn at the edges. "You know how to play poker?"
"Poker?"
"Yeah. Cards. Betting. Bluffing. It's a whole thing."
She stares at me like I've lost my mind. "You want to play cards?"
"Unless you've got a better idea."
For a moment, I think she's going to refuse. Then she closes her laptop with a decisive snap and stands. "Fine. But I'm warning you, I'm terrible at poker."
"Good. Then I'll win."
We move to the living room where the fireplace is already burning low. I add another log and watch the flames catch before settling onto the floor with my back against the couch. Marla sits across from me, cross-legged, and I deal the cards between us.
The first few hands are straightforward. She loses consistently, folding early or betting too conservatively. But by the fifth hand, she's starting to get the hang of it. She wins with a pair of queens and grins at me like she's just conquered the world.
"Beginner's luck," I say.
"Or maybe you're just bad at this."
"I'm never bad at anything."
She laughs, and the sound fills the cottage, lightening the strained mood that's been present these last few days. This is what I wanted. To make her forget about the danger outside, even if it's just for an hour.
By the tenth hand, she's accusing me of cheating.
"You're counting cards," she says, pointing at me with a suspicious look.
"I'm not counting cards."
"Then how do you keep winning?"
"Skill. Experience. Natural talent."
"Cheating," she insists.
I lean forward, grinning. "Prove it."
Her eyes narrow, and I can see the exact moment she decides to escalate. "Fine. Let's make this more interesting."
"How interesting?"
"Strip poker."
The suggestion catches me off guard, and I laugh before I can stop myself, even if my dick wakes up and springs to life at the enticing suggestion. "You want to play strip poker?"
"Unless you're scared you'll lose." One side of her mouth quirks up teasingly.
"I'm not scared of anything."
"Then deal."
The atmosphere shifts immediately. The playful teasing takes on a sharper edge, something more dangerous and electric. I deal the next hand, and she loses. She pulls off one sock with exaggerated slowness, tossing it at me.
"That's all you're taking off?" I ask.
"One loss, one sock."
"That's a bullshit rule."
"Deal with it."
I win the next three hands in a row. She loses her other sock, then her sweater, leaving her in a thin tank top that clings to her curves. She's blushing now, but she's also laughing, and that's worth more than anything else.
"You're definitely cheating," she mutters, dealing the next hand.
"You're just bad at bluffing."
"I am not."
"You bite your lip every time you've got a good hand."
Her hand flies to her mouth, and I grin. "See? You're doing it right now."
"That's not fair."
"Life's not fair, sweetheart."
She glares at me, but there's no real heat behind it. The next hand, she wins. I pull off my shirt and toss it aside, and I don't miss the way her gaze lingers on my chest before she forces herself to look back at the cards.
"Distracted?" I ask.
"Shut up and deal."
We keep playing. She loses her tank top, leaving her in a black bra that makes my mouth go dry. I lose my jeans. The pile of discarded clothing grows between us, and the fire crackles in the background, casting flickering shadows across her skin.
She's relaxed now. The tension in her shoulders is gone, replaced by genuine laughter every time one of us loses.
She teases me about my poker face. I tease her about her terrible bluffing.
The woods creak outside, and she glances toward the window, but this time she doesn't freeze.
She just looks back at me and keeps playing.
"You're doing this on purpose," she says after another hand.
"Doing what?"
"Making me laugh. Distracting me."
"Is it working?"
She pauses, considering. "Yeah. It is."
"Good."
We're down to our underwear when headlights flash through the windows. Marla tenses immediately, but I recognize the sound of the engines. "It's just Nick and Alex."
"Oh God." She scrambles for her clothes, but I catch her wrist.
"Leave it. Let them wonder."
"Russ—"
The front door opens before she can finish. Nick walks in first, his gaze sweeping the room and landing on us with zero surprise. Alex follows, and his mouth curves into a smirk the moment he sees the scattered cards and discarded clothing.
"Strip poker?" Alex asks, leaning against the doorframe.
"She accused me of cheating," I say.
"You were cheating," Marla protests.
Nick closes the door behind them and moves toward the fire without a word. He sits on the couch above us, his presence filling the space in that quiet, commanding way he has. Alex joins him, still looking amused.
"Who's winning?" Alex asks.
"I am," I say.
"He is," Marla admits reluctantly.
"Then keep playing," Nick says. "We'll watch."
Marla's face flushes, but she doesn't argue. I deal another hand, and the atmosphere shifts again. The playful teasing takes on a heavier quality with Nick and Alex watching. Marla loses the next hand, and when she reaches for the clasp of her bra, Alex's gaze darkens.
"Wait," he says.
She freezes, looking up at him. "What?"
"Come here."
It's not a request. Marla glances at me, and I nod. She stands slowly and moves toward the couch. Alex pulls her down between him and Nick, his hands sliding over her waist. Nick's fingers trace the line of her shoulder, and I watch the way her breath catches.
The cards are forgotten. I move closer, kneeling in front of her, and the firelight flickers across all of us. Her hands reach for me, and I catch them, pressing them against my chest.
"You're not panicking now," I murmur.
"No," she whispers. "I'm not."
Hours later, we're tangled together on the floor near the dying fire. Marla is asleep between Nick and Alex, her breathing slow and even. I'm lying beside them, staring at the embers, and the realization hits me hard and fast.
I don't want this to end.