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“I’ll throw in a hand job.”
It’s low stakes, but it is only the opening bet.
A smirk comes across Lock’s face that only looks sexier through the haze of smoke between us. He’s plotting something.
He flips over three cards.
A two of hearts.
No good.
A jack of clubs.
Still does shit to help me.
A queen of clubs.
And another useless card.
The bright side is that Lock doesn’t look all that happy with the cards himself.
But then why is he smirking like the Devil owes him a favor?
He brings his hand up from under the table and lifts the cigarette from his lips.
There’s a click in the back of my mind, and now I know why he’s smirking.
My cunt is dripping wet, knowing that he’s been hands on with himself while we play. My panties are doing nothing to hold it back. I feel myself dripping down my thigh and onto the seat.
Fuck this. No more games.
“I’m all in. And if you win. I’ll let you titty-fuck me.”
He leans across the felt table—through the haze of smoke—and I see the muscles of his arms bulging through his shirt. I’m almost convinced the fabric is going to rip from the strain.
Lock looks me dead in the eyes, and I bite down on my lower lip. I do everything I can to fight back the urge to just have him fuck me right now on the table in front of everyone.
But now he knows I’m bluffing.
Fuck it. I don’t care anymore.
I want—I need—to have his cock again. I need to feel it in my hands, in my mouth, between my tits, and—most importantly—in my soaking, aching, throbbing cunt
He tosses over the last two cards on the table.
Ace of spades and a king of hearts.
Both of which are fucking useless for me. But I had no chance of winning anyway.
“Show me what you’ve got.” His voice sounds as smooth as thirty-year-old scotch.
And I know he tastes just as good, too.
He doesn’t even offer a counter bet. He doesn’t need to. Lock knows he is going to have me.
And it’s going to be fucking glorious.
He flips over his cards.
