Page 16 of Burned By Sin
“Rhys,” she breathes my name, looking at the black and silver striped chips in her hand. “That’s seven-thousand dollars.” I nod, deciding not to remind her how much she has resting at her hip if this is freaking her out. Closing her hand in mine, I hold the focus of her sea-green eyes while guiding her to release them randomly over the table’s grid. Our blind guess has landed us on red eighteen, the croupier spinning the wheel before waving his hands to signal no more bets.
There are loads of chips on the table, many smaller amounts spread across multiple numbers around our tall stack near the centre. The crowd starts to buzz excitedly as the ball bounces across the wheel, slowing to drop into black thirty-one. A man at the other end whoneeds to lay off fast food hollers, his dismal pile of chips being doubled. Aware that lightning doesn’t strike in the same place twice, I urge Harper to cash in some more chips and place on black thirty-one.
Her confused expression flicks to me, but she complies, grinding her ass against me deliciously as she reaches over the table. I slide my thumb under her hem, dragging it against the heat between her thighs. She gasps and shoves my hand away, but not before Clayton notices and gruffs harshly. The wheel is spun again, red seven taking the win and I blow out a low chuckle.
“You’re trying to lose, aren’t you?” Harper turns her head to me, her back to my front and my hand splayed across her hip.
“Am I though? If my father is losing, technically I’m winning.” The grin that splits across my face aces with its smugness. Turning fully, Harper raises her eyebrow and my cock twitches with her sassiness.
“You could donate the money to charity, you know. There’s so many kids that could use?—"
“Ugh,” I groan loudly, gaining the attention of those around us. “Why’d you have to spoil my fun like that?” Cock well and truly sunk, I take Harper’s hand and lead her back towards the bar.
I don’t care when others disapprove of my lifestyle choices, but something about Harper doing it makes me crave for a strong drink. Like the casino, the bar’s surface is polished and black. Bottles ranging from fermented piss to high society champagne and everything in between line the shelves behind several bartenders, all dressed in fully black uniforms. A guy about our age is the only one who steps forward to serve me.
“Single-barrel Jack Daniels on the rocks and a strawberry rosé spritzer,” I demand with a rough edge to my voice. Harper’s hand trails the length of my back and eases the tension from between my shoulders.
“Make that two whiskies,” she adds before the waiter leaves, pointing to Clayton who has taken a seat further down the bar. For now at least, Harper remains at my side, concern in her gaze. I soften,kissing her shoulder and inhaling the floral scent of the hotel’s shampoo in her hair.
“What’s wrong?” she asks as our drinks are placed before us. I down mine, immediately clicking my fingers for another.
“Nothing,” I murmur weakly. There’s no point trying to hide it when she can see through me, but I try anyway. Flicking her clutch open, I pull out one of the ten-thousand-dollar chips hidden in there and hand it to the bartender as he returns with my second drink. His face pales amongst the mess of brown curls framing it, stuttering his appreciation and something about paying off tuition as I turn to face Harper.
“Keep the rest of those,” I jerk my chin at the still open bag. “Cash them in and donate to whoever you want.”
“Rhys, I didn’t mean to spoil your fun.” She pouts, thawing out any parts of me that were disappointed. Chuckling softly, I pull her into the stool beside me and tug it so close, she’s practically on my lap.
“It’s fine. You’re right, as per usual.” The bar top gleams under the soft amber lights, Harper’s hand resting on the polished wood next to mine. A few stools down, Clayton watches us over the rim of his glass. He’s like a sentry, waiting for the moment the switch flips in my head and I lash out. Tracing the hair trailing over Harper’s shoulder, I have an intense urge to sink my teeth into her neck and drink her blood, just to see what he’d do. Following my eyeline, Harper peers over to our not-so-welcome guest and tilts her head.
“Hey Rhys,” she leans into me, her scent washing through my senses. “Are there any private rooms around here?” My lip ring tugs as I smirk, my brow raised and eager. Now we’re talking.
“What are you thinking?” I nudge her jaw with my nose, gaining me access to the patch behind her ear. My lips press over the implant hidden beneath her skin and she shudders against me.
“Perhaps we could gamble with something other than chips.” Harper’s lashes lower, her mouth curving. Heat floods my system,making a beeline for my cock. Harper knows how to reduce me to nothing but a horny dog and I have my bone ready for her.
“You mean…we could bet with our clothes?” I wriggle my brows, seconds away from panting. Harper’s laugh cuts through the bar, her palm pushing against my shoulder to put some space between us.
“No, you idiot. We can bet with our secrets.” Harper smiles sweetly and my head slams forward on the bar. I’m certain this girl hates me.
Chapter Ten
“This is a stupid idea,” Rhys grumbles, even though he’s gone to the trouble of hiring out a private room. I disagree, this is a brilliant idea. Better than throwing me over the balcony by far. Air out our bullshit, see if there’s anything worth saving underneath.
As annoyed and shaken as I am for the stunt earlier this evening, there is something magnetic about the way Rhys moves like he owns every building he steps into. The cut of his suit, the confidence in his strides. His palm finds my lower back without thinking, keeping me close by at all times. That might have something to do with Clayton following close behind, his presence on high alert. Even without peering back, I can sense the rigidness to his spine in the shirt and jacket Rhys gifted him. All of this is playing havoc with the rub of my thighs beneath the tiny dress.
My heels click against the polished marble, cutting through the electronic buzz of slot machines and the low hum of chatter filtering through Rhys’ mic. The pink liquid in my cocktail glass ripples as I carry it towards a closed door on the far side. A bald security guard stands beside it, his hands crossed in front of him, a black coil leading to his earpiece. Rhys hands him his ID, confirming the name that gains him access to these luxuries, and the three of us are escorted inside.
Once inside, the noise cuts off as if someone hit a mute button. The room is dim and cool, lit by strips of LED lights tracing the ceiling. A green felt table sits at the center, the surface pristine and waiting. A vent hums quietly overhead, directly above a pack of cigarettes, a lighter, and a bottle of whiskey set neatly in front of the first chair. Apparently, Rhys made specific requests when briefly meeting with the casino’s owner, whilst I shimmied closer to Clayton at the bar and convinced him to humor me. For tonight at least.
Next to it, a chilled bottle of rosé sweats in an ice bucket, condensation dripping down the glass. By the last seat, a small army of beer bottles waits for Clayton. It seems none of us are getting through a night in each other’s company without being shitfaced. In the middle of the table, a fresh deck of cards.
“Classy,” I murmur, sliding into my chair. The leather creaks softly under me. I cross my legs and take a slow sip of my drink, letting my eyes travel between the two of them. Rhys leans back in his seat, fingers drumming once against the whiskey bottle before pouring himself a heavy shot. Meanwhile, Clayton stays standing for a beat longer, eyes sweeping the corners of the room before he finally sits. Tension hangs heavy over us all, the chill in the air raising goosebumps all over my arms. Okay, this might not have been the brilliant idea I thought.
“So how’s this going to work?” Clay asks, his voice laced with that familiar edge of suspicion. It’s the most he’s said in hours. Back in the hotel room, after he’d brushed my hair free of tangles and pushed me from his lap, he’d muttered, “What the fuck am I doing here, Harper?” And I didn’t have an answer for him. Hopefully I can conjure up the answers now.
“Blackjack,” I say, reaching for the newly sealed deck. Unwrapping the plastic, I shuffle the way I would whilst trying to fill the time in my aunt’s attic. “The dealer acts as the house. The winner of each round takes a drink whilst choosing one of the losers to reveal a truth.”
“I can’t believe we’ve come all this way for you to trick me into a therapycircle.” Rhys tips his head back with a groan. I smile sweetly, despite not being overly confident on how this little experiment will go, and deal out the first round of cards.
