Page 57 of Blood & Throttle
Riot’s across from me, legs kicked out, cards shufflingslow between his tattooed fingers like he’s got nowhere to be. Like he’s not watching every move I make from behind that unreadable, smug-as-fuck expression.
My lips curl.
He wants to play cards? Fine.
But I want to play to win.
I take a long pull from the bottle, then glance at him over the rim. “Alright,” I say, setting it down with a soft thunk on the floor. “But let’s make it more… interesting.”
He raises an eyebrow, still shuffling like he’s not even a little surprised. “Oh yeah? What you got in mind, Stray?”
I smirk, leaning back against the wall, stretching my legs out in front of me like I’ve already won. “Strip poker.”
That brow kicks higher. “Strip poker?” he echoes, like he’s just making sure he heard right.
“Unless you’re too much of a coward to find out who walks away with less on and more regrets.”
A beat of silence hangs between us. Heavy. Tense. Thick with possibility.
Then he laughs, low, dark, and dangerous. It curls through me like smoke.
“You’re dangerous,” he says, tongue dragging across his bottom lip as he cuts the deck in half with one hand.
“And you’re predictable.” I flash him a grin, sharp and smug. “Bet you thought I was gonna play nice.”
He deals the cards, movements smooth and cocky. “Nice is boring. You ready to lose, Little Stray?”
I flash my teeth. “You wish.”
“Rules?” he asks, spreading the first hand between us.
“Best out of five,” I say, sitting up straighter. “Lose a hand, lose a layer. First one stripped down loses bragging rights and dignity—if you’ve got any left.”
“And the winner?”
I lean forward, slow, elbows on my knees, voice dropping just a notch. “Gets a wild card. Good for one demand, any time. No questions asked.”
His smile shifts into something darker, hungrier. “Anything?”
“Anything.”
I lean in as I say it, slow and deliberate, elbows on the table, chin tilted up just enough to meet his gaze without flinching. The corner of my mouth curves—not a smile, exactly. A challenge. A dare.
His eyes darken, flicking down my throat, pausing just a little too long at the rise and fall of my chest before snapping back up. He wants me. I can feel it in the weight of his stare, the way his fingers flex around the cards like he’s gripping something he’s not allowed to touch yet.
I’m used to that look. I’ve seen it on more faces than I can count—most of them cruel, careless, like I was something to claim, not choose.
But Riot?
He doesn’t look at me like I’m his to take.
He looks at me like I’m his to earn.
And that? That’s the part that fucks me up.
Because there’s still want in his eyes. Still heat, still hunger but underneath it, there’s something steadier. Solid. Respect. The kind that’s foreign to girls like me.
The kind that makes me wonder what the hell I’m doing playing strip poker with a man who could tear me apart and still somehow make me feel safer than I ever have.
