Audra glances between us, then quips without missing a deal, "Should I deal the next hand or wait until after the assassination planning session?"
Grigori laughs so hard he nearly chokes on his cigar. He slides two black chips across the felt to her.
"For that mouth." He winks, almost proud.
She pockets them with a small, professional nod, but her eyes flick to me, dark, heated, excited. My restraint is hanging by a thread.
The tournament narrows. Massimo, Alessio, and Damiano cash out. It comes down to the final two: Grigori and some slick Silicon Valley internet guru who's been sweating through his designer shirt for the last hour. Audra deals the last hand likea goddamn queen. The river card falls. Grigori flips over quads. The tech bro stares at the table in disbelief.
Grigori leans back, cigar clamped between his teeth, looking bored and victorious at the same time. "Good game."
Audra stacks the chips with elegant efficiency, then offers the Russian a genuine smile. "Congratulations, Mr. Arsenyev."
He tips her heavily—another stack of blacks—then rises, nodding to me. "Until next time, D'Amato."
The room clears. I'm already moving, guiding Audra out with a hand pressed possessively to the small of her back. The second we're in the private bar overlooking the casino floor, I pull her close.
"You were incredible," I murmur against her ear.
She opens her clutch and tilts it toward me. It's stuffed with black and red chips. "I can't believe I got tipped all this money."
"You earned every fucking chip, baby." My voice is rough. "Sit."
She slides onto the leather stool, legs crossing, black silk riding high on her thigh. I flag the bartender.
"What are you drinking?"
Audra surprises me again. No fruity cocktail. No hesitation.
"Tequila. Straight."
I raise an eyebrow, while heat curls low in my gut. "Bottle," I tell the bartender.
He sets it down with two shot glasses. She pours her own first, throws it back like water, and doesn't even flinch.
I chuckle, pouring mine. "Careful, sweetheart."
She smiles, slow and dangerous, licking a drop from her lower lip. "I don't get drunk. Ever. No matter how much I drink. I'm immune."
The challenge in her voice goes straight to my cock. I lean in, brushing my knuckles down her bare arm.
"Is that so?" I murmur in a low voice because I have no breath left. "Then we'll just have to test that theory."
Her breath catches. Guilt flickers in her eyes for half a second—Pete's ghost—but the heat wins. She pours us both another shot and clinks her glass against mine.
"To immunity," she whispers.
I drink, never taking my eyes off her. The bottle stays. And so does the fire between us, burning hotter with every shot, every heated look, every brush of her knee against mine under the bar.
We stay far longer than we should. Shot after shot disappears between us, and with every glass she throws back, Audra becomes more dangerous. Her laugh is low and husky. Her eyes gleam with tequila and courage. My hand rests high on her thigh under the bar, my thumb strokes slow, possessive circles over the cool silk. Every time she shifts, the dress rides higher, and I have to fight the urge to drag her onto my lap.
"You really don't get drunk?" I murmur.
She shakes her head, smiling even as she balance checks. "I'm immune. Or… I used to be." She pours us both another. "Guess I'm a little rusty."
A low chuckle rolls out of me. "I like you rusty."
The heat between us is suffocating now. Thick. Electric. Her guilt is still there—I see it flicker behind her eyes every few minutes—but the tequila keeps drowning it, and every time she leans in closer, I feel her losing the fight. I want her to lose.
