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God, I hope he loses tonight,is all I can think as I shift on the lounge, rubbing my thighs delicately together, stretching like a cat on the velvet surface, running my tongue over lips that taste like the sharp bite of lemon alcohol. Not only does Matveinotspark desire in me, just the sight of him makes me feel the exact opposite. He’s the kind of man I’d go out of my way to avoid. If it weren’t for the fact that Nikolai asked me as a favor, I’d likely back out of any night with this man, regardless of how well he might tip.
The rest of the men at the table don’t do anything for me, either. They’re all handsome enough, even one who I’m sure I’ve never seen before. I’m almost certain he must be one of those guests Nikolai occasionally lets in—he has a sort of nervousness about him that suggests he knows he’s out of place here. How he bought into the game, I have no idea, but I’d be willing to guess he cleared out a significant amount of savings for it. I almost feel sorry for the man. I can tell just by looking at him that he’s not going to win, that he’s probably bet money he didn’t really have to spend on the possibility of a night with me.
I roll over on the lounge, onto my hands and knees, arching my back as I lean slowly downward, giving the players an excellent view from behind. My thighs are still pressed together, hiding the secret there, but even without looking, I can feel eyes on me, distracted players who will lose sooner rather than later.
When I roll onto my back again, Matvei hasn’t even glanced at me. I let out a small huff from between pursed lips—not because I particularly want him looking at me, but because the fact that he’s not even slightly distracted means there’s a solid chance he might manage to stay that way long enough to win the game.
Which is exactly the opposite of what I want.
Slowly, I slide my hands down my body, worrying at my lower lip with my teeth as I curve my fingers around my breasts, brushing over my nipples in the sheer lace, toying with the ribbons of the corset. It’s a slow tease, one that I let build as I fluidly get to my feet and sway to the edge of the stage as if I want to get a better look at the players, letting a flirtatious smile spread across my lips for the ones who are looking at me instead of the cards in their hands.
The one who I’m sure is a guest can’t keep his eyes off of me. But he has a good hand, from what I can tell, and he stays in through the first round.
A cocktail waitress is circulating before the second hand, passing out drinks, and as the table is momentarily distracted from me, I glance over to the bar.
That’s when I see him.
There’s a man sitting there, another one I don’t recognize. I certainly don’t knoweveryman with a membership here, but I’ve seen most of them, at least in passing, and I feel confident I’d remember this one if I’d seen him before. Except I’m certain I haven’t, because there’s something about him that tells me this is his first night here, too, just like the nervous one sitting at the table.
In fact, if I were the one placing bets tonight, I’d bet that this man came here with the one who bought into the game.
Notwithhim, not like that—a friend, not a partner here to spice things up. The way this man’s eyes light on me tells me his taste is for women. But he’s definitely new to this. It shows in the way he talks to Jason as he orders another drink, casually, as if he and Jason are the same type of man, living the same type of life. There’s no arrogance in him, no entitlement.
It’s refreshing. Attractive. Just like him.
He turns to look at me with his glass in hand, and for a second, I forget that I’m meant to be going back to the lounge, turning up the heat on the tease. He’s not my usual type—at least, I don’t think so. But the truth is, I think I’ve forgotten what my usual type is.
This man has red hair with just a tinge of brown, styled messily in a way that only highlights the chiseled lines of his face, and a strong jaw dusted with brownish-red stubble. I can’t see what color his eyes are from this distance, but I can see the interest in them as he looks at me, his gaze sliding over my lingerie in a way that tells me he’s thinking of what I would look like with it off.
The difference between him and every other man here is that there’s something else in his face, too—like he almost feels bad that he’s thinking it. Like he’s not sure if he’s allowed to want that. It sparks something in me, the part of me that thrills to having the power and control in these kinds of situations. I could make this man beg for me, I’m sure of it.
Something tightens low in my stomach, warmth blooming through me in a way that I haven’t felt in a long time, and my breath catches in my throat. The man is still looking at me, and I suddenly remember what I’m meant to be doing, the show that I’m supposed to be putting on.
I turn fluidly but sharply on my heel, swaying back towards the lounge, and I can feel his eyes on me the entire way there.
I try to focus on the poker table as I go through the motions of the show. I slide my hands over my breasts, letting out a low moan that mingles with the soft beat of the music and the hum of conversation, arching and twisting on the lounge as if I’m full of a slowly building desire that’s gradually taking me over, turning me into a panting, needy mess of sexual pleading. That’s what the men at the table will want to believe, and it’s exactly what I’m usuallynothere. It’s what I haven’t been in a long time.
But suddenly, I’m feeling a hint of it. Arealhint of actual arousal, real desire, blooming through my veins and over my skin, and it feels good. It makes me want more.
It builds as I go, doing my best to keep my eyes off of the bar. I manage not to look that way for long enough that I don’t even know if he’s still there, but in my imagination, he is, watching as I gracefully push myself up off of the lounge and make my way to the front of the stage again, swaying to the edge and then smoothly turning away from the men. My fingers slowly undo the clasp of my bra, sliding the soft velvet straps down my arms, keeping my hands pressed over the full curves of my breasts until I slowly turn, revealing them to the hungry eyes scattered throughout the club, pushed up by the corset just beneath them.
Matvei still hasn’t looked at me. I sway to the beat of the music, touching and teasing my breasts, running my hands over the corset and down my thighs, my fingers sliding up between them, a hint of what’s to come. I still don’t look towards the bar. If he’s gone, I’ll be disappointed. If he’s there—
If he’s there, I’m half-afraid I’ll forget the routine I’m meant to play out. No one has lingered in my mind like that for a long time. It unsettles me as much as it turns me on.
I like to be the one in power, and someone who clings to my senses like that takes away some of that power.
When I’m stretched out on the lounge again, raising my arms over my head to show off my breasts, arching my back, preparing for the moment when instead of taking off my panties, I’ll spread my thighs and show the entranced guests the pretty picture of my pussy framed in silver lace, my head turns inadvertently, and I look towards the bar.
I tell myself that I’m looking for Nikolai, to make sure he didn’t notice my distraction earlier, that he’s not upset with me. But deep down, I know I’m looking for the red-haired man.
He’s still there.
He’s still looking at me.
My breath catches again as my gaze meets his. My hand slides over the brocade and velvet of my corset, down to the edge of the panties, my fingers hovering just above the apex of my thighs. The poker table has thinned down by now, a few of the players already having folded. I don’t know where they are now—probably with a variety of the girls here tonight to help take the sting out of losing.
The only man here I can seem to think about is the one sitting there with a glass of whiskey in his hand, eyes intent on me as I slowly,veryslowly, part my legs.
