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I shivered. The command in his voice sent a jolt of desire straight through me, all the way to my belly, and through to my tightened pussy. Part of me suddenly wished I had a bad hand. What if I lost? What would he do to me? But the other part wanted, fiercely, to win. To see this sexy, handsome, hunk of a man kneeling before me, at my beck and call. I could make him do whatever I wanted. Make him kneel in front of me and lick me until I came again and again, then make him fuck me right here on top of the table, knocking the cards off around us on the floor… I could make him take me to the shower and wash for me, perform for me, slowly run his hands all over his muscled body, touch himself wherever I wanted him to touch himself… I could drive him mad, the way he’d been slowly driving me mad this whole weekend.
“Deal,” I said, and I hoped my voice didn’t give away my winning hand, the quiver of excitement almost too much to disguise.
Zayne grinned. “So, you accept this raise in stakes?”
“I do,” I replied.
“Good,” he answered. “Consider us both all in, then.” Then it came time for us to reveal our hands. I spread mine on the table with a smirk. His eyes widened, his lips parting for a moment. I resisted the urge to laugh. He really didn’t know what I had up my sleeve.
“You’re getting better at this,” he muttered, a begrudgingly appreciative tone in his voice. But then he lowered his hand and spread his cards in response, grinning.
Royal flush.
Shit.
“You’re impossible,” I groaned.
He laughed. “Admit it, you love it. Now, I believe my hour starts now…” His gaze swept over me.
“Unfair,” I added with a pout.
He lifted an eyebrow, suddenly stern. “Did I say you could speak?”
I snapped my mouth shut, though I continued to glare at him.
He laughed. “Mm, the sore loser look doesn’t suit you. Stand up, Clove.”
I rose from the table, pushing the chair back as I did. His gaze swept down again, over the casual T-shirt and pair of his boxer shorts I’d donned for dinner. We didn’t stand on ceremony that weekend, not with all the stripping we’d been doing whenever possible. His gaze lingered on my top.
“Take off your shirt.”
I stripped it off without a word and dropped it beside the table. I had no bra on, having already lost that in a prior round, so my breasts were immediately exposed, my nipples hardening in the chilly evening air.
He stood up and raised a hand, and I tensed in anticipation of his warm touch. But he didn’t quite touch me, not yet. He let his hand hover an inch from my chest, tracing circles through the air just inches from me.
“Touch your breasts,” he said.
I lifted my hands to cup my breasts from beneath, and squeezed them, massaging them lightly, pressing them together between my palms.
“Harder.”
I clenched my fists around my skin, watched the way my nipples hardened even further at the sensation.
“Now run your hands down your body, slowly.”
I trailed my hands down my sides, as slow as I could, tracing my ribcage, my waist, my hips. I hesitated at the boxer waistband, looked up at Zayne.
“Take those off too,” he said, his voice gone low and dark with lust. I could tell from the hard bulge in his pants that he was enjoying this every bit as much as I was.
I pushed the boxers down slowly, letting them snag on my hipbones before they finally fell to reveal my mound. They dropped to my knees, then my ankles, and I stepped out of them easily.
“Spread your legs,” Zayne said.
I swallowed hard, but obeyed him, standing with my feet shoulder-width apart.
“Arms out, too” he added.
I spread them wide to either side of me, feeling like I was on display.
