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A flash of green and citrine and then I gasp as his thumb presses against my clit, and his free hand finds purchase in the base of my hair. He yanks my head back, presses his lips to my neck, and growls his next question against my throat.
“How did you learn to card count?”
“I didn’t. You already know this, I’m lucky—”
My protest is cut off by a blaze of pleasure igniting in my core. Sweet friction. Holy touch. Raphael’s thumb moves in fast, unrelenting circles, and white spots dance behind my eyelids.
“You’re not lucky, Penelope. Not to me. Ever since you turned up on this Coast I’ve been the unluckiest person in the world. I’m losing everything I’ve worked for, and it’s all because of you.”
Shock overriding my lust, I grip his hair and yank his head back, until his lips brush against mine. I grin against his mouth. “So you do believe in luck. Is that why you hate me?”
He laughs bitterly, and I drink every inch of hot breath like it’s a lifeline. “I’m as superstitious as the day is long, Penelope. Didn’t used to be. Don’t want to be, either. Because nobody trusts a CEO or an underboss who avoids walking under ladders, or raps their knuckles against the nearest wooden surface when any ill-intended thought slips from their mouth. It’s ironic, really. I’ve built my entire fortune on games of chance and statistical probability. I’ve never made a decision based on emotion, and then you fucking come along, and I’m suddenly killing business partners because they look at you wrong. You know, I’m starting to think that fucking gypsy was right.”
“What gypsy—?”
A hot, thick finger slides into my entrance and all thoughts, including those of superstitions and gypsies, leave my head. Christ. He pushes deeper, in and out, in and out, like he’s committing the walls of my pussy to memory. My forehead presses against his, our breath intertwining. His gaze drops to my lips and he groans.
“What, you wanna kiss me or something?” I say, my sarcasm tinged with hope.
“Or something,” he mutters back, flicking my clit for my insolence.
My spine buckles under the electric shock, and I hook my finger over his collar pin to keep me close to him.
“Then why don’t you?”
He laughs. “I’d never give you the satisfaction, Penelope.”
Pride flares up in my chest like a nasty rash. “Yeah, well I wouldn’t kiss you either.”
“No?”
“Nah. I don’t like the taste of whiskey.”
He releases my hair, slides his hand down my back, and pulls me toward him by my ass, so his fingers can reach deeper inside of me. I cry out, squirming at the building pressure. Fuck, is this what foreplay is? Because if it is, how does any girl last until penetration?
“Bet you you’ll kiss me first.”
I laugh, delirium blurring my vision. “Bet you a million dollars my lips would never touch yours first.”
Another flick on my clit. Another step closer to the edge. When he plunges back into my entrance, it’s with two fingers this time. My tunnel burns with my dark satisfaction as it stretches to accommodate him. I’m too close.
“You don’t have a million dollars,” he says, sounding bored.
“Doesn’t matter, because I’m not going to lose.”
His laugh is so soft against my mouth that in my mindless state, I’m tempted to take out a bank loan then and there. Instead, I throw my head back out of the way of temptation and ride his fingers.
Sparks crackle and pop in my lower core, dimming my vision and spreading a heady lust throughout my veins. When Raphael speaks, I barely hear him over the ringing in my ears.
“You’re a bad girl, Penelope.”
“Yes,” I gasp.
“And you know what happens to bad girls?”
I’m so close to an orgasm I can fucking taste it.
But then Raphael snatches it away, his fingers leaving my panties with a light snap of elastic.
Bewildered, my gaze falls from the ceiling to his, just as his damp hand comes to my jaw. He tracks his movement in dark fascination as he spreads my juices over my bottom lip.
“They don’t get to come.”
And then as if we’d sat down for a business meeting, he rises to his feet. Smooths down his slacks and swipes a thumb over his collar pin before strolling into the crowd. He leaves me with a thumping clit, a frustrated heart, and a new hatred for men with large hands and silky voices.
