Chapter Nine — Callum
“How about strip poker?” I suggest once she’s settled.
I glance over Lola’s body and feel annoyed once more by her getup. I feel like she’s deliberately worn it to be as unappealing as possible. I don’t know why I think that. If anything, I have every reason to believe this woman is an idiot.
But it feels calculated because it’s so over the top.
She’s wearing a long-sleeve black turtleneck with a sweater over top of that, and then a vest on top of that, paired with wide-legged corduroy pants and ugly orthopedic shoes (which she thankfully took off at the door).
Oh, and did I mention the stupid red beret?
It’s almost as if she’s taking the piss out of me, which I know doesn’t make any sense. Compared to the lovely feminine sundress she wore last week when we played chess, I’m finding it hard to understand what her angle is here.
Maybe she’s borderline, I think to myself.
But that doesn’t make any sense. I’ve been with borderline women, and having an erratic fashion sense isn’t characteristic of them.
If it weren’t for how she looked last week, I’d chalk it up to defiance or feminism or just a lack of insight into the male psyche.
But I know that she knows how to look feminine.
Despite her ridiculous clothing, though, she’s still beautiful. Her makeup is done impeccably, to the point where most men would think she wasn’t wearing any. I know better, but I’ll admit it looks good.
Her skin glows and her hazel eyes look wide and innocent, like a doe’s. Her lips are plump and slightly dewy. It makes me want to bite them. Her cheeks are slightly flushed, just the way I like them when a girl squirms under my gaze.
Speaking of which…I snap back to the present moment and realize she’s nodding.
“Sure,” she says slowly. “But how does this affect the rules? I mean, I’m wearing more clothes than you.”
I smile. Maybe she’s not as dumb as I gave her credit for.
“Well,” I say, trying to smile charitably, “this will give you an advantage, if anything, because in addition to bargaining with your chips, you can bargain with your clothing, and since you have more of it on than I do, that’ll give you a better chance of winning.”
“And how much is each piece of clothing worth?” she asks.
I’m caught off guard by her sharp question. “Good question.”
I pause, looking at the chips. I’ve given us both a hundred.
I look at her again. She’s wearing pants, a turtleneck, a vest, and a sweater.
That’s four pieces of clothing. Plus socks, a bra, and underwear, I would assume.
That puts her at eight. Oh, and the hat — nine.
And who knows, she might have some other trick up her sleeve, so let’s just say ten.
I glance down at myself. Between my T-shirt, boxers, sweatpants, and socks, I’m at five. Although I won’t be taking off anything besides my T-shirt and maybe my socks during the game, of course. Afterwards is a different story.
So that gives her ten pieces of clothing to my three in terms of what I’m willing to take off. How much of an advantage should I give her here? Seeing as she’s never played poker before and isn’t the sharpest tool in the toolbox, it’s not like I need a huge edge.
“Ten chips,” I say. “Ten chips per piece of clothing.”
“Twenty,” she counters.
Damn, I think to myself. She’s driving a hard bargain here.
I’m slightly impressed.
Twenty chips is too much, though. She’s already at an advantage with her seven extra pieces of clothing. Ten chips per piece of clothing puts her up by seventy chips. But giving her an edge of a hundred and forty? That’s too much.
“How about this,” I say slowly. “For every visible piece of clothing, ten chips, and twenty for the rest.”
“What counts as visible?”
I’m surprised by how diligent she’s being. If I didn’t know better, I’d almost think she’d gone to law school.
“Bra and panties,” I say. “Assuming, of course, you’re wearing them.”
She blushes, and I feel my cock stir. There’s something about a beautiful woman blushing that does me in every time.
“And socks,” she says. “Plus anything else you can’t see right now.”
I pause. Is she trying to pull one over on me? I look at her and she bites her lower lip. My cock strains harder. I’m already losing focus. It’s hard to when there’s a beautiful girl right in front of you who’s deliberately covered herself up like Mother Teresa. Fuck.
“Fine,” I say.
It doesn’t matter anyway. I’m going to crush her. I just want to get it over with so that I can pin her down and punish her for not only losing but also being late and for giving me a hard time with the rules.
That’ll just make it so much better, I think to myself. Punishing a girl is always better when there’s an actual reason for it. It’s so much more fun when a girl’s actually been a brat versus when she’s just putting on a facade.
“Oh, and your watch doesn’t count,” she says, smiling.
A quick flare of anger goes through me. She’s pushing it. But I’ll let her have it. That’ll just make it so much sweeter when I have her under my control, begging for mercy.
“Deal,” I say. “All right, let’s begin.”