Page 39 of Van Cort
“Fine.” I reach for the tumbler and take a long draw of the dry liquid, as if it might help me forget I just lost a lot of fucking money. But it’s not panic rushing through my veins; it’s excitement.
“Again,” he whispers against my ear, and I’m distracted from my next move.
“Then let me think.” I block him out the best I can, then look at the bets and the numbers and calculate the sums in my head before moving the small pile of three chips from his collection to play.
We win. Several bets all build, and I get into a fun rhythm, not risking too much, but with each win, I grow a little braver.
Win. Win.
Another drink. Another win.
He takes my hand, and I gather up the chips as he pulls me back over to where we started.
“All of it. One bet. Win or lose.” He holds my gaze.
“I’d never recommend that.” I shake my head and stare right back at him, firm against his advice, even with a couple of drinks down.
“Well, I’m growing impatient to fuck you like you deserve for wearing that dress.” My breath hitches.
Swallowing any sense I have, I answer him, “And what do I deserve?” I can be risky with my words, right?
“Hard, brutal, punishing sex.” He tugs the end of my hair, tipping my neckback to him. “Make the goddamn bet,” he all but growls. “Patience is not a virtue of mine.”
So I do, with my hands trembling and my heart pounding. Every fibre of my body seems to have awoken at his dirty mouth, and now I’m just as desperate as him.
The stack of chips sits on red, and I keep my eyes on the white ball, about to be rolled into the wheel.
“Appropriate. Betting on the colour of your dress. Maybe it’ll be lucky for you after all.” He skirts his hand down lower to the hem and brushes the exposed skin at the top of my thigh. “I could run my finger up the side of your underwear and see how wet you are from the thrill of this. Prove my point right now.”
My breathing spikes, but I don’t move, I don’t turn around and mortifyingly, I don’t object.
The white ball spins around the golden wheel, and I can feel the slow creep of Everett’s hand as he slides it up my thigh under my stupidly, or not so stupidly, short dress.
“Black eighteen.”
“Shit!” I sigh, my nerves and my breath leaving at the same time.
“You just lost all of my money.”
My chest squeezes, and my stomach churns, but he’s got a smirk on his face as I turn to him.
“Upstairs. Now.”
I balk for a moment, but then start walking, straight through the casino floor and out into the lobby to the elevator and our floor. With each step, my pulse quickens and my stomach knots with anticipation. He doesn’t touch me, guide me or speak to me the entire way back, and I don’t know if it’s because he was expecting me to win and he’s pissed, or if he’s just thinking of what to do with me in the room.
The door slams behind me and I mentally brace for his attack, but it doesn’t come, and disappointment worries my nerves. But as I turn to Everett, my worries scatter. His eyes are burning with heat, predatory in their gaze, as he follows me, stepping back into the room.
“Shoes off. Panties off. The dress stays on.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
WEST
Getting up with little thought to how she feels, I head to the shower. I’m hungry, which isn’t a great place for me. Rhett always could go hours without eating, but not me. I hunger and yearn for things he barely even reacts to or needs. He called it control. I call it denial. Still, I never got the obsessive, jealous streak he has either, so I guess that’s two for two and we’re even on that score.
The shower revives me from post-fucking slumber, and I walk back out to find her sprawled out like a wanton hussy in need of more. I would, but I’m bored. Hearing her say his name repeatedly is also riding my nerves. But whilst I’d like her to say mine – to hear her beg and moan for it – I’m enjoying the game.In fact, I think I’ll call him and let him know about her moaning out his name. He’ll like that.
“Andie?”
