Page 58 of Wild Card
“I don’t think you can account for socks separately” is what I say instead.
Her eyes light up as she slides the wineglass across the table carefully. “I can see the merit in that,” she says, nodding.
Then, with one casual flick, her other sock comes off. Her innocent eyes land back on me. “Next round?”
We play again, and I try to keep my eyes from straying to her feet, her heels pressed against the chair leg, the graceful curve of her arch on full display.
She loses again.
She seems unperturbed again.
And I find myself both eagerly awaiting her next move and dreading the implications of her removing another piece of clothing.
Gwen, though? She seems unfazed. With a bubbly laugh and a saucy wink, she yanks off her sweatshirt and sits before me wearing a white sports bra with small black polka dots all over it.
My mouth goes dry.
Obviously, being attracted to her is nothing new, but seeing her body on display is the cruelest temptation.
“Hang on,” she says, pushing to stand. “I need more wine before the next round. I’m not teaching tomorrow, so I can enjoy myself.”
I sit woodenly, watching her curved hips sway, the roundness of her ass on full display through skintight leggings, her tits propped up high.
She makes me fucking insane. That’s the only reason I could possibly be sitting here playing strip poker with the one woman in the world I shouldn’t want.
When she returns, her eyes scan me carefully. “You doing okay over there? Sobering up a bit?”
“That’s one way to put it,” I grumble, shifting in my chair and rearranging myself in my pants without being overly obvious.
She just laughs. Sheknows. And all it does is egg me on because I am a glutton for punishment.
As she deals out the next hand, I rationalize that I’m only looking, not touching, and that’s fine.
Gwen wins the next round, and I’m relieved that I have some more time before I have to endure watching her take off her pants.
I ditch my socks.
But then Gwen wins again.
I tug off my T-shirt and pretend I can’t feel her gaze skating over my torso as we play another round. My upper body is still built and heavy from hard labor, but it’s not toned like it once was. Like Tripp’s would be.
“Oh, dang. Would you look at that?”
I blink out of my train of thought and stare down at her cards.
I blink again and flip my own cards. Absolutely obliterated by her royal flush. Hearts across the board.
Gwen is all giggles and coy winks. I thought for sure she had no hand. All her tells were?—
“Gwen, are you a fucking card shark? Did you play me?”
She lays a dainty hand across her cleavage in fake indignation. “Me? I would never. But also, playing poker is the only way I could get my dad to pay attention to me. So I got rather good at it.”
I make a mental note to cuff her dad upside the head if I ever meet him.
“But I thought?—”
“Youassumed. And you know what they say about assuming.”
