Riggs:An hour is perfect.
As I get ready, I start to question everything I’m doing. Before coming to Vegas, why did I make a blouse with a low-cut neckline that reveals just enough cleavage to make me feel sexy? Why did I alter an old pair of jeans to really show off my ass? Why did I mend and resize a lacy bra and matching panties I found on clearance at a discount store? And why am I spending so much time on my hair and makeup? What am I doing? I made him promise we would be just friends.
Friends with benefits? If I’m being honest, hell yeah! Now that I’ve gotten to know him better, things seem like they’ve changed. He’s so much more than I expected. And now that we’re together again, with all those muscles and the way the man smells, I can’t stop thinking about riding him like a raging bull!
I set my hairbrush down and stare at my reflection.Sure, the sex would probably be great, but what happens after? What benefits when he’s gone all the time? Do I want to throw caution to the wind and sink my fingernails into that fine ass while he’s inside me? Fuck yeah I do. But could I and not want more? Could I do it and not want a real relationship? If he bent me over and took me from behind while he made me scream his name, would I be able to walk away without feelings for him? I know the answer, so where would that leave me? Where would it leave us while he’s on the other side of the world?
With a deep breath, my mind is made up. Just friends is the way it has to be. So why am I adjusting my bra to squeeze out a little more cleavage?
I’m ready to go except for my eyelashes. Do I go natural or put on the fake ones I managed to score on sale? They’re sitting on the countertop, begging to be used, but they’re such a pain to put on and they might be too much. No, natural, it is. I curl my lashes then add a little more mascara than usual, but not too much. When I’m done, I actually like the way they look.
When I see him in the lobby I almost spin around, get back on the elevator and go back to my room to put the damn fake lashes on. Dang, he cleans up nice. I haven’t seen him in cowboy boots before—not in any of his videos or the thousands of images I stalked online like a crazy woman. And even from here I can tell those aren’t his usual jeans. No, the ones he’s wearing now are definitely a high-end designer brand. His ass always looked good, but now I could stare for days. What would it be like to grab both ass cheeks and squeeze them while his tongue is in my mouth?
As he turns to face me, I take in his tight-fitting shirt and how it has four buttons at the neckline. Of course, noneof them are buttoned leaving a clear view of the defined line running down the center of his tan chest. The short sleeves stretched tight over his huge arms is a sight to see, but so are those incredible forearms. And he’s still wearing that necklace with the little wood box hanging from it. He’s also wearing the bracelets, some made of paracord, others made of dark leather. Everything about him exudes confidence and in a total turn-on kind of way.
As I walk up, I can smell him—soap and spice. His thick, wavy dark hair is combed back with the tiniest amount of gel and his beard is neatly trimmed. As if all that wasn’t tempting enough, he flashes his white teeth in a smile that could make nuns give up their vows. Suddenly I have only one thought—should I be wearing underwear? It seemed like a good idea when I put them on, but not so much now.
“You look good. I like your eyelashes.”
He noticed? What kind of guy notices something like that? I want to have his babies!
“Thanks. I like the boots.”
“Thanks. I don’t get to wear them very often. They wouldn’t work out on the trail, but they’re comfortable as hell, so I like to wear them when I’m back.” His eyes travel from his boots to my ankles then up my body in a way that makes me want to drag him back to my room. He may be a lot bigger, but right now, I don’t think he could stop me. “Anyway,” he says, meeting my eyes, “there’s this Jamaican place up the Strip I was thinking about. I heard they have great jerk chicken. What do you think? Be honest, because you can get any kind of food you want in Vegas.”
“I love jerk chicken,” I lie. I’ve never had jerk chicken, but who cares? I just want to keep taking in his scent andstare into those blue eyes.
We take his rental car, and on the way, we talk about what we want to do until the show tonight.
“Have you ever played poker?” he asks.
Interesting question. Growing up, knowing how to play was like a family requirement. Mom actually taught Dad how to play, which, looking back, was a mistake. She was so good at it, but she didn’t play that often. She always said she was an appliance player. When the fridge stopped working, she went to the casino and in one night, won enough to buy our high-end fridge. It even has an ice maker. Mom’s poker winnings paid for the washer, dryer, stove, and even the tires on Keegan’s sorry excuse for a truck. Her winnings paid for all kinds of things, but then she stopped one day hoping Dad would too. He always lost more than she could win. Unfortunately, Dad didn’t stop.
When we were little, Mom taught me and my brothers how to play the way she did—when to raise, when to fold, how to tell when someone was bluffing. She had several strategies she could rely on, and over the years, especially when I was in high school, I learned all of them. But Josh and Keegan hated poker. They only wanted to go fishing. Even when they were kids, that’s all they’ve ever wanted to do. I, on the other hand, loved to spend hours with Mom at the kitchen table talking and laughing while we ate cheap snacks and played poker late into the weekend nights. Those are still some of my fondest memories.
“I’ve played Texas Hold’em a few times,” I tell him. First rule Mom taught me was—let them underestimate you because you’re a girl.
“Not to brag,” Riggs says with a hint of cockiness, “but I’m pretty good. Wantto play after lunch?”
“Sure, sounds fun, but I might need your help.”
“No problem. We can go over the rules while we’re eating.”
Turns out I like jerk chicken. It’s so good, I almost tune out Riggs’s ridiculous poker strategies, though I keep nodding like I’m impressed.
When we’re finally seated at the poker table, I’m in the seven-seat, and Riggs is directly across from me in the three-seat. I’m on the button. It’s a one-two, no-limit game with a max buy-in of two hundred dollars. The guy to my right has fourteen hundred and change. Everyone else has short stacks. Looks like the big-stack has been bullying the table. This should be fun.
Three hours later, I count my chips. Sixteen hundred and change. The bully left an hour ago. He had less than three hundred and I’m pretty sure he called me a skank under his breath. Riggs lost his first two hundred, then his second, followed by his third. He’s on his fourth buy-in. I think he’s down about $680 and a lot of his chips are in my stack.
“What do you say we get a bite to eat?” he says to me over the table.
It’s a little after seven, and I was thinking the same thing. It would give us time for dinner before we need to go back to our rooms to get ready for the show tonight. I can’t believe how much fun I’m having. “You read my mind.”
“Okay, Miss Hustler,” Riggs says after we cash out, “you have to show me how you did that.”
“If you really want to know, sure.”
We step out of the pokerroom and start toward the parking garage, at least we think we’re going in the right direction. The endless rows of slot machines form a maze intentionally designed to hide the exits so players will be enticed to stay a little longer.
