Playboy

  For a minute, I think they are until Cullen says, “Do I have time to go to the room?”

  “You do.” He checks me out.

  “Mike, meet Wynn.” Cullen narrows his eyes suspiciously then adds, “She’s with me.” As if he needs to make a claim. “See to it that she doesn’t want for anything.”

  Mike pulls out a black-and-silver card. “Had this made up for you, Miss . . .”

  “Wynn. Call me Wynn.”

  Cullen grimaces as if he would’ve preferred something less casual. “Mike’s in player development. If you need something, ask for him.”

  “Day or night,” Mike adds.

  Well. Isn’t that helpful.

  “Whatever she wants.” Cullen is firmer this time.

  “Understood.” Mike is serious and I’m amused.

  A bellman approaches. “Mr. Carmichael. I saw your driver outside. I’ll take care of your bags.”

  “Thanks,” he says, sliding a rolled bill into his palm.

  He and Mike discuss an upcoming tournament then we turn to go. As we’re walking, he says, “Whatever you want—food, salon appointments, anything—use the card.”

  “I have my own money.”

  “Your money is no good here.” He seems offended but then his face softens. “I’m owed a lot of comps. Please use them.”

  “What are comps?”

  “Freebies in exchange for player loyalty.”

  “Aw, so that’s how a gambler keeps his lights on. After he loses all his money, the casino shows mercy and sends the wife at home a check made out to the electric company.”

  “Ha.” He doesn’t laugh. “It’s more like a percentage of your play and can be used here for rooms, shopping, massages, whatever you want.”

  “Good to know.” I wait a beat. “I’ll call the front desk for a room if you piss me off.”

  “Won’t happen, Red.”

  “If it does,” I say, eyeing a shopping window to the right as we walk to the elevators, “I know where to turn.” I’m only half attentive now as I eye a skimpy white dress in a boutique window. I wonder how many comps that will set him back.

  As if he reads my mind, he says, “Don’t worry. You won’t even come close to using what’s available.”

  Before the doors close, Mike catches us and hands off a pair of tickets. “Forgot to give you these.”

  “Thanks, Mike.” He waves the tickets as the doors close.

  God, this guy.

  He’s cool without trying, utterly sexy.

  “Everybody just dotes on you,” I comment as Cullen hands them off to me.

  “Mike earns a percentage of my play.” He shrugs as if it doesn’t matter. “He makes my life simple and that’s that. Plus I’m a good tipper.”

  The elevator is empty and we ride up in silence, watching the numbers climb as we do. I don’t know why the silence between us starts to feel awkward.

  This guy is really hard to read and really magnetic. It feels like an eternity before I feel his hand on the small of my back, the touch causing me to lift my face up to find him looking down at me.

  He leans down suddenly and places a kiss on my lips. I didn’t see it coming. He’s so tall that I have to rise on my tiptoes to meet his mouth, but he doesn’t seem to mind that at all.

  It’s a brief peck, but I pull back because my stomach tangles up with excitement and I want to be sure I’m able to keep my wits about me when I’m around this guy. I drop back down.

  “Can we go?” I use the moment to my advantage.

  “Where?” He stares at my mouth like he might deliver a bruising kiss then pulls back, holding my gaze in his.

  I stick the tickets between our faces. “I know these bands.”

  “Then we’ll go.”

  “Yes!”

  He smiles down at me.

  Suddenly I need that kiss again, the one I broke for fear of wanting it too much. I’m standing on my toes when Cullen moves to claim it.

  He swoops down and starts slow, moving to a hotter, more searing kiss that keeps intensifying with every nip and taste of his mouth. My hands are suddenly in his hair. His hands are on my waist. The world tilts sideways and I can’t help myself from relishing this guy’s kiss.

  I don’t know why I’m responding, except that he tastes nice, and it really does feel as if Vegas is its own bubble. As if I could get away with kissing Cullen right here, right now, and then leave it right here, in this elevator, in this hotel, and in this city, with any regrets I might have too.

  “So you just kissed me because you wanted to.” I speak on a breath.

  “Very good. You’re perceptive. Intuitive.”

  I realize he’s teasing me in that low, terribly rumbly voice and I wish he would smile at me.

  He takes my hand and fingers my palm with his thumb as he leads me to our suite.

  I’m sizzling where he touches me, nervously prying my hand free when he leads me into the biggest, most spectacular two-bedroom penthouse suite I’ve ever seen. Not that I’d seen one before in person, only movies.

  There’s a kitchen area, and windows from floor to ceiling. A living room, a pool table, gold brass chandeliers, a brown-and-beige-patterned carpet, dark woods, Italian leathers. Gorgeous! I could move in here.

  Now I see the appeal but won’t admit as much.

  Thinking of our bet, I pay attention to the art on the walls. It’s expensive. I can tell by the numbered print and the signature. Painters with indecipherable and artistic signatures are often the artists to watch. It’s like they know from the moment they paint their first work that they’re on to something big, something that will distinguish their work from all others.

  I wish Cullen loved art as much as I do. Maybe I could drag him away from the tables to a local gallery.

  “Wow. I could just live he—” I spin around and bump into his big warm body, and he bends his head and kisses my words right out of me.

  Kisses me stupid. Kisses my toes curled. Kisses my brain blank. Kisses my heart crazy.

  Easing back, leaving my mouth burning from his, his eyes catch mine. He unbuttons my shirt dress slowly, with each button, glancing into my eyes to gauge my reaction.

  “Only the top ones,” I rasp out.

  I don’t know why I seem to think that keeping some sort of barrier from him will protect me, at least my emotions, from getting too involved, but there you have it. I feel safe enough with only my tits getting exposed, safe enough to lean up and start kissing his lips as he fondles and touches my breasts.

  His hand fits just right over my breast, and I’m surprised by how gently he caresses the swell. How slow and sinuous the pad of his thumb feels as he circles it toward my nipple—and then remains there. Stroking my nipple into the hardest, most painful little peak. All while his tongue and mine swirl. He tastes like bubblegum, and his body heat feels delicious.

  “We should probably be friends only,” I say, suddenly stopping his hand with mine.

  “Is that what you want?”

  “I think it’s what we both need.”

  “I’m not sure I agree on that.”

  “You’re thinking with your cock right now.”

  “Hearing you say the word cock is not helping matters for me one bit.”

  I feel a blush the color of my hair creep up my face. “Cullen.”

  He eyes me for a moment, and an unprecedented warmth appears in his gaze as he watches me nervously fiddle with my hair. “Think about it. In the meantime, let’s get you in that black dress. Did you pack it?” he asks.

  “I have another one that’s pretty sweet—”

  “Nope. The black dress.”

  He tosses my suitcase up on the dining table and unzips it.

  “What are you doing?”

  He fishes out the black dress he met me in, then brings it over.

  He looks intently into my eyes. “Getting you ready.”

  I feel dazed and a little hypnotized as he comes close again. I feel his fingers seiz
e the rest of the buttons of my pink dress. Briskly he pops each open until the dress falls at my ankles.

  I’m standing there, getting undressed by freaking Cullen Carmichael.

  “The black dress is stretchy cotton so I can just pop my head in and—”

  “Arms,” he says.

  I lift them instantly and slip my arms into the sleeves, then pop my head into the neck hole. He tugs it down my body, until it falls to my knees.

  He brings my shoes next. Unbuckles my sandals, takes them off.

  He takes one of my bare feet in his hands.

  I feel him study my toes, caress his thumb along my arch. Gulping, I breathlessly watch him slip my heels on, one at a time. He dresses me methodically, almost ritualistically. He heads back to my suitcase, opens my jewelry roll. “Ah.” He finds my earrings among a set of six, brings them.

  He eases my hair back and hooks one on. Then the other.

  I can’t say that watching him work methodically, concentrating as he puts each article on me, doesn’t affect me. I really can’t say it’s something common or normal, because NO man in my entire life has dressed me. Or undressed me like this. With such gentle but businesslike hands. With such expert precision. I’ve also never really been seen the way his jeweled eyes drink me in. He paces around me. One time. Twice. Thumb scraping his chin, as if he’s making sure I am that girl—that girl he met at the clandestine poker game.

  “Nothing missing?” One eyebrow cocks thoughtfully.

  “Nope. You’ve been very thorough.” I’m almost laughing, he seems so serious.

  “Good.”

  My smile fades when he heads to his own suitcase and withdraws a black button shirt. It fades because he removes one shirt, and he slides into another one.

  And . . . I really wish he hadn’t removed his shirt in front of me. But okay.

  Deep breath, Wynn.

  He’s gorgeous.

  So what? You knew that.

  I didn’t know his chest was so ripped and muscly but . . . I’ll get over it.

  He buttons up swiftly, runs a hand through his hair, then heads to the safe in his room. I hear buttons click, instructions on his phone, and when Cullen is back, he looks like he’s open for business. Badass business.

  “Are we playing?” I feel a shot of adrenaline rush through me at the prospect.

  “We’re playing.”

  He doesn’t laugh, walks around me, inspecting me again one more time, scraping his thumb along his chin. He stops at my back and eases my hair to one side of my shoulder, inhaling me as he strokes his finger along my nape. “Perfect,” he says.

  “I’ve never been dressed by a man before. Just undressed.”

  “It’s a first for me too. Dressing a woman.” He sets my hair straight behind my back again, walking around me to face me.

  “You do it rather expertly.”

  “Not too different from undressing one.” He eyes me one more time, then takes my hand. “Let’s go. I’m feeling very, very lucky tonight.”

  * * *

  We take the elevator to the casino.

  I don’t know what to do.

  He just stripped me naked.

  Did it affect him? I glance at him in the elevator, and he looks cool and collected. Hand in his pocket, watching the elevator numbers descend. How disappointing.

  I wonder if we should discuss it some more. The friends part.

  I may be sending strange signals, and I don’t want him to think I’m a tease.

  I don’t know why it matters so much, what he thinks of me. But it does.

  “Do you have any questions about—”

  “Plenty. But I know when to ask, and when to let you tell me.” He doesn’t look at me as he speaks, only keeps watching the numbers descending.

  The elevator opens on the casino floor, and I exhale a ragged breath. Whew. So we’re good then. Friends. I step out, and he grabs me by the wrist. His hold is warm, firm, as he tugs me to face him.

  “But you will tell me,” he says.

  His tone is soft but commanding. It might even be a little arrogant, but the truth is, I want to tell him.

  He should know, because I’m realizing by the second that I desperately want him.

  And it’s important that he knows. Because even though he’s looking at me with the hottest eyes a man has ever looked at me with, things could change. What I tell him could change things.

  The casino is alive with action. It’s easy to see the appeal. The air is cool and electric and rapidly pulses with energy and excitement. Multicolored lights, songs and bells, squeals and laughter.

  As we pass gaming tables, I hear someone say, “Coming out!” And I scan the casino, half expecting to see the paparazzi and a rock star with his entourage.

  “Dice table,” Cullen tells me in explanation, apparently reading my mind. “Looks like fun, right?” He leans closer to my ear and gives it a little nibble. “That’s because it is.”

  A handsome dealer wearing a white-sleeved shirt and sharp royal-blue vest twirls a long stick like a baton. “Cullen, my man. Good to see you!”

  “You too, Leroy.” He shoots a look in my direction. “Take care of my girl when she’s at your table.”

  Leroy looks stunned but rebounds fast enough to say, “Send her my way.”

  “When hell freezes over,” Cullen says to me once we’re a few strides away from Leroy’s table.

  I laugh softly, amused by his uncharacteristic enthusiasm here in the casino as well as his adorable show of possessiveness. It’s endearing. And so very sexy. I feel something clutch hard in my stomach. I wonder what else he’s passionate about.

  I’m about to find out.

  We walk through the main poker room to a door with black lettering. He slips his keycard in the reader. Double golden doors with a beveled glass part reveal the VIP suite.

  He holds out his arm. “After you.”

  The room has five tables with players around two. It’s a high roller poker game with a tournament set to start. Buy in is steep. A host gives Cullen the particulars but he’s distracted. He’s watching me as if he expects me to say something but there are no words. I’m impressed with this life and he hasn’t even started betting yet.

  He’s quite the popular guy. Silently, he slips his hand over mine and drags me closer to a table, and a group of young males, one with a cowboy hat, the others in jeans, spot us. Their gazes track Cullen as if he’s a man come back from the dead.

  One whistles. “Playboy’s back.”

  Cullen releases my hand to greet them all.

  “Didn’t expect you so soon. Making up your losses in Atlanta or Chicago?”

  “Bet’s on Albany,” someone else says, tossing a black chip at the first man who spoke.

  The player nods at the bet, studies Cullen, then looks at the other gambler, “You’re on. I’ve got Chicago.”

  “You’ve got the win. Now get ready to lose,” Cullen tells him plainly, no smile to indicate he’s joking.

  The four men laugh, and yet their laughs are as merry as their own funerals could be. In fact, one of them looks damn worried and is clenching his jaw hard enough to warrant a visit to the dentist.

  “You haven’t introduced us,” one guy says, nodding in my direction.

  As if wanting them to stop looking at me, Cullen draws me around to a set of chairs to the side of the tables.

  “Isn’t it rude for you not to introduce me?” I ask him.

  “Rude would be for them to jinx my streak.”

  I realize he’s not the kind of man to get drawn into any taunts except the ones he wants, and I smile admiringly.

  “Do you really feel lucky?” I ask.

  “Do you doubt this?” He lets his eyes slide to the tray of chips they’re bringing from the casino cage. He signs a paper and the chips are set in front of him.

  “Good luck,” the credit manager says.

  “Wow. Okay. I need to sit down,” I reply when Cullen turns his attention back
to me.

  He watches me lower myself to the chair with a light of approval in his eye. “Let’s do this.” He bends and kisses my mouth.

  “Cullen, we said maybe we should be—”

  “Shh. Be a good girl and watch.” He grabs the back of my hair to direct my gaze to his. “And by watch, I mean watch me. Don’t twirl your hair.”

  “Oh, that’s right,” I tease. “Because it’s hot.”

  “Damn fucking hot.” His words are slow and thick as if they catch in his throat.

  Releasing me, he heads to the table to take his seat, folding the sleeves of his shirt to his elbows.

  I watch silently, trying not to fidget or get kicked out of the room. I wish there were others there to observe and mimic, maybe another player’s girlfriend.

  Oh, I did not just go there.

  Fuck.

  I’m in deep and drowning. Cullen is a different kind of danger, a precipice of uncertainty that promises to leave me awakened and alive.

  I am so fucking screwed!

  His face is in shadows, half in darkness, half in light, and I simply watch, mesmerized, as he plays. He doesn’t clench his jaw, doesn’t twitch a finger, doesn’t do anything to reveal his hand. I’ve never seen someone so unreadable in my life.

  Only when he lifts his eyes does a little gleam of proprietariness show. But it’s there so fleetingly that when it’s gone I wonder if I made it up.

  Whimsically, I roll my eyes at myself. Really, Wynn. We need to get you off men. If you want anything from him, make it sex. But . . . I’m starting to like him, which can complicate things. He’s more multifaceted than I’m used to, which means if I start peeling back his layers, I’ll be surprised by what I find.

  My heart is out of order. Which is a good thing.

  If it stays that way.

  I’m here because I want to be. Cullen was persuasive, sure, but I made the decision to lock up my apartment, slip away from my life, and take a trip on a private plane with a man who knows how to get what he wants.

  He wants me.

  And I shiver a little. Because I want him too.

  Still, it might be better to try to detox from it all. And focus on the bet. Wynn, you have a nice bet going on, and you can blow him as his prize. Or yours. Yep. It’s win/win as far as I see. My ego demands I win because gambling is not better than art.