Page 7 of Pucking Curves

My stomach quivers, and I stumble in my heels.

He catches me, sliding an arm around my waist. “Easy, baby.”

“Sorry.” I laugh up at him. “Heels and vodka don’t mix.”

“Clearly not. You sure you’re up for this?”

“Um, yes. Where are the penny slots?”

“Penny slots?” A broad smile stretches across his face, full of amusement. “Fuck no, Wren. If you’re going to gamble, you’re going to do it right.”

“I thought playing the slots was doing it right.”

“Not even close.”

“Then why are they everywhere in Vegas?” I question as he cuts across the casino floor, heading…somewhere. “Even my terminal in the airport had slot machines. There was a game room full of them, too.”

“Because tourists love that shit, baby.” He weaves through the casino like a man on a mission. It’s interesting. In the restaurant, everyone kept looking at our table and whispering. They recognized my brother, Archer, and the rest of the guys. But out here? Everyone is too engrossed in the shiny machines in front of them to pay any attention to the sports star in their midst. They don’t even notice him.

Those who do look in our direction simply look through us or past us. Some smile politely, but there is no recognition on their faces. Here, he’s just another guy in a casino.

Micah told me once that he loves the anonymity of Vegas, but I never really understood what that meant until just now. It has to be freeing to simply be a face in the crowd for once instead of the face in the crowd everyone is watching.

“Here. Sit.” Archer stops in front of a complicated looking machine set off by itself and places his hand on the small of my back. He leans in close….too close. I smell his aftershave and have to fight back a whimper. “This will do for now.”

I drop heavily onto the chair situated in front of the machine, staring at it blankly for a long moment before what I’m seeing registers. I gape at him over my shoulder. “We’re playing poker?”

“Video poker,” he confirms, feeding money into the machine.

“Uh, I don’t know how to play poker, Archer,” I murmur, uneasily. The only time I’ve even seen anyone play poker was at a frat party. And the stakes were items of clothing. My roommate ended up losing her dress on the very first hand.

“I’ll teach you.”

“You should have taken Micah’s money,” I groan. “I am going to suck so hard.”

Archer chuckles, tipping my head back until my gaze tangles with his. “Two rules, little bird. One, fake it until you make it.”

“Yay, poker!” I say, deadpan.

His lips curve into a grin. “Smartass.”

“What’s the other rule?” I ask when he doesn’t give it to me and doesn’t release my chin either. He just holds it, staring down at me with this soft look in his eyes that has my stomach doing somersaults.

“Don’t talk about sucking,” he growls, his gaze dropping to my lips.

I whimper quietly, unable to stop the sound.

“Fuck,” he groans, his nostrils flaring as his eyes darken.

I sway in my seat, leaning toward him. A few more inches and his lips will be against mine. I’ll know what he tastes like. I’ll know what sound he makes when he’s kissing me. I’ll know if he’s the storm.

“Drinks?” a woman chirps from behind him.

We spring apart like someone just set us on fire.

“Screwdriver!” I squeak.

“Bourbon,” he growls at the same time.

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