Page 37 of Restless Hawke
Barely a challenge.
The next few players to his left place their bets, and the dealer draws the turn card.
Another opportunity to scan the players, to watch for any reactions to what the next-to-last card gave them. To make a decision on how much to wager before the river appears.
Every single person at this table is a true professional with years of experience. If they have a tell, they’re good at concealing it. And everyone is doing a very good job today.
At this point, all I have to go on is the cards in my hand and those on the felt.
By the time the next round of bets moves to me, the heat of Coen’s thigh permeates my own bare one, even though his dress pants, and he’s done nothing to pull away, to put any sort of space between us.
Bad move.
He’s playing with fire, and he has to know he’s going to get burned.
But maybe that’s what he wants.
Maybe he thrives on the pain.
If that’s the case, I am more than willing to make him hurt.
He tosses in his chips, calling, as do two more players to his left.
The dealer pulls the river, and I catch Mason Farewell to my far right, flinching slightly as the card appears. Whatever he has, he doesn’t like it. Probably a flush or straight that only needed one more card that didn’t appear.
Coen remains stoic.
Giving nothing away.
For all I know, he could have a royal flush or a pair of twos.
Time to see if he has a new tell…
I slip my free hand, already resting on my thigh under the table, over to his, which immediately tenses under my palm. Coen’s body twitches at the contact, but then he sits absolutely stock-still.
He doesn’t look at me, even out of the corner of those shimmering blue eyes.
He doesn’t turn.
He doesn’t raise the alarm bells with the tournament host or the dealer.
And he won’t.
Coen Hawke willneverpublicly announce that anyone has rattled him or that it’s possible to get under this seemingly thick skin. Admitting that kind of weakness would be tantamount to opening the floodgates—anyone with any sense would start looking to crack him the same way.
He’s the type to suffer in silence.
To try to work through the discomfort and pretend it doesn’t affect him when I can feel his flesh trembling and tense under my hand.
Now that all the community cards are on the table, players start dropping like flies, including Giorgio next to me, who tosses his cards face-up onto the table.
I place my bet, raising $5,000, and Coen stares at the cards for a moment, and I give his thigh a squeeze, letting my fingertips dip to the left, brushing against his already semi-hard cock.
A challenge.
One I know he can’t refuse.
He leans forward and pushes his chips in, calling.
