Vegas Baby

by Winter Renshaw

  “You play cards?” I ask. “Looks like these have seen better days.”

  Calypso uncaps her drink. “Back in Shiloh, we didn’t have TVs or iPads or whatever. We played games like War and Slap Jack.”

  “Slap Jack?” I shuffle, smirking. “Cute.”

  “I don’t know why I took these when I left.” Her head is cocked sideways. I’d kill to know what she’s thinking about right now. Or even whom. “Guess I packed in a hurry.”

  She takes a drink, then another, much longer drink.

  I deal us each five cards.

  “This isn’t regular poker, this is five card draw. You’re going to cut your teeth on an easy game. It’ll help you learn your hands,” I say. “Jokers are wild.”

  She gathers her cards and slides them toward her, keeping them close.

  “See, if we were playing Hold ‘Em, I’d tell you to first decide if you’re playing to win or playing for fun,” I say.

  Calypso rearranges her cards again and again, her gaze narrowing. I don’t know if she’s listening.

  “Second, when you first see your cards,” I say, “try not to react. Third, keep your bluffing to a minimum. A skilled player, not unlike myself, will pick up on your bluffing habits quickly and easily.”

  Her face washes in a seriousness and our eyes lock.

  “Fourth. Don’t play every hand.” I pull my cards toward me and give them a quick glance. A pair of kings, a seven of hearts, a three of spades, and a six of clubs. “Lastly, observe your opponents. Know their bluffs.”

  “Easy enough.”

  “Since we’re playing five card, it’s just your hand against mine. Those rules don’t really apply here.”

  “Do I tell you what I have now?” she asks.

  “Set them here.” I point to the middle of her coffee table.

  She follows my orders. “Three fives, an ace, and a seven.”

  “Good. You have a three of a kind.” I place my cards flat across from hers. “I have one pair. Your hand beats mine.”

  “I won?” She rises on her knees.

  “You won that hand, yes,” I say. “If you had poker chips, we could discuss the chip in. You’d have won the whole pot.”

  “I might have a bag of quarters somewhere.”

  “Nah, it’s okay. We’re just playing for fun.”

  “Yeah, but we need stakes.” She takes another sip, her eyes honed in on mine.

  A dirty thought floats through my mind, but I know she won’t go for it, so I won’t bother.

  “What were you nodding about?” she asks.

  “I’m not nodding.”

  “Yeah, you just did. A second ago. You were smiling and nodding and staring at me.”

  Busted.

  “It’s nothing,” I say.

  She crawls on her knees toward me, like a weird, sexy, drunk, panther. “You have to tell me.”

  Her hands land on my thighs, inching closer to dangerous territory.

  “You can’t just stare and smile and nod and tell me it’s nothing.”

  I cup her face in my hands and breathe her in. She smells of lavender and peach alcohol now. She deserves to be more than some neighbor chick I played strip poker with one lazy Friday night.

  Plus, if I get her naked, and I will, because poker is my game, and I always fucking win, I don’t know that I’ll be able to control what happens after that.

  “Please?” she pouts her bottom lip.

  An image flashes in my mind. My lips on hers. My hands in her hair.

  It doesn’t happen.

  “Strip poker,” I say. She’s not going to drop it. “We could play strip poker. Whoever loses that hand has to remove one article of clothing.”

  Calypso slinks away and I let my hands fall into my lap. She’s quiet. I shouldn’t have said anything.

  I open my mouth to apologize but she cuts me off.

  “Shuffle.”

  “Excuse me?” I ask.

  “Shuffle. Let’s do this.” She takes another drink, leaving a couple of inches of orange liquid in her bottle. “You’re going to be walking home naked by the time I’m done with you.”

  “That’d be awkward, considering my sister is—”

  “Shuffle, Forrester.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” I flash a smirk and get cracking, I cut the deck in half and do a dovetail shuffle, repeating twice and ending with a riffle shuffle.

  “Aren’t we fancy?” Calypso floats up and heads to the kitchen, coming back with two more bottles.

  I deal out five cards each, and she settles in, cross-legged opposite of me. With her cards fanned and hiding her face, she peeks up and over them at me every so often. Smiling. Frowning. Wiggling her eyebrows.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Trying to throw you off.”

  “That might be helpful if we were playing with chips, but this is just plain old, no frills, five card strip poker. Your hand against mine. Show me what you got.”

  She spreads her cards flat, and I follow suit.

  “Okay. Wow. All right. Your full house beats my flush,” I say.

  Calypso snaps her fingers. “Come on, Crew. Get busy.”

  I work the buttons of my shirt until I’m freed, leaving myself in jeans and a white undershirt.

  “How many layers are you wearing tonight? This is going to take for-ev-er, and you don’t have all night.”

  For a moment, I don’t understand.

  And then I remember.

  I’ve got a kid now.

  Gone are my late nights. No more hedonistic debauchery. No more fucking around.

  I deal us each another hand. From the corner of my eye, I spot Calypso fighting a smile. She plunks her hand down before mine is even sorted.

  “I don’t even know what this is, but I have a feeling it’s going to beat whatever you have,” she says.

  At the table, she’d be considered an aggressive player. She’s playing for fun, and if money were at stake, I have a feeling she’d have little regard for it. Those are the ones to avoid. Playing against them is risky, and you almost always lose because they’re fearless.

  Good thing it’s only strip poker.

  I place my hand across from hers.

  “Your four of a kind beats my straight.” I sigh and yank my undershirt over my head.

  Calypso squeals and pushes her cards back to me.

  “Nobody likes a sore loser,” she teases.

  I shuffle and deal. Shuffle and deal. Shuffle and deal. My belt goes next, and then her top, followed by her skirt and my jeans.

  “I love that you’re not shy about your body,” I say.

  “It’s just a body.” She shrugs. “Growing up, everyone walked around naked whenever they wanted. You’d have thought Shiloh Springs was a nudist colony in the summer.”

  My mind threatens to conjure up all kinds of naughty thoughts, but I refuse to allow it.

  I deal another hand, both of us in nothing but our underwear now. Two losing hands and she’s naked. If I lose this hand, I lose the game.

  I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t distracted by the way her milky soft skin glows under the warm lamplight. My hands want to caress it just as badly as my lips want a taste.

  Five cards.

  A quick peek.

  An exchange of smiles.

  My veins are warm, my inhibition is low, and I’ve been staving off an erection for the last twenty minutes. My heart pulses in my ears and I swallow the dry lump in my throat.

  We spread our hands on the coffee table, and my lips pull wide when I realize I’ve won this hand.

  “All right, Calypso. Bra or panties. Your choice.”

  She gifts me a lopsided grin, courtesy of the fuzzy navels, I’m sure.

  “No,” she says. “You pick.”

  The galloping in my heart makes everything turn black for a moment. When she comes back into focus, all I see is a watchful expression on her face as she patiently awaits my decision.

  I’m going to fuck Ca
lypso tonight.

  It’s going to happen.

  It’s not even a question.

  What I really want to say is, “Fuck this game.” And what I really want to do is rip her panties and carry her to her bed caveman style. I want her long legs wrapped around my hips as I plow myself into her over and over, and I want her nails digging into the flesh of my back as I devour her lips.

  “Crew,” she says with a half-smirk. “Bra or panties?”

  The slide of her fingertip beneath the pale pink strap of a satin bra precedes a quick snap. And then she rises, her hand on the upper curve of her left hip. Her cotton panties are covered in tiny flowers, and they’re sure as hell not the kind of panties a girl wears when she’s planning to get laid tonight.

  But I don’t think Calypso thinks that way.

  “God, you’re so fucking beautiful,” I mutter like some star-struck, half-drunk idiot.

  “What?” she laughs, like she thinks I’m joking.

  Every curve and angle of her body is natural, her flaws perfectly imperfect. I’d almost forgotten what it felt like to see a God-given female body in its unaltered state. I’ve fucked so many plastic girls, I’ve forgotten the way a set of real breasts feel in my palms: soft, malleable, natural.

  “You act like you’ve never seen a naked woman before, and I know that’s not true.” Her fingers slide beneath her waistband. “So what is it? Are you an ass man or—”

  I rise before I realize what I’m doing and step around the coffee table to where she stands. Her smile fades as our eyes lock, and her lips rest half-parted.

  “Take it all off.” My words are a low grumble from the deepest part of my chest.

  We both know where this is going. What’s another hand? Besides, I know for a fact I won’t be able to sit across from her and stare at her perfect, natural tits and keep my hands to myself.

  “And why should I do that? I’m the one who’s winning.”

  “It’s not about winning,” I say. “It never was. And you know it.”

  “Then what was it about?”

  I take her face in my hands and crush her lips with mine. Her velvet tongue carries hints of peach, and she moans into my mouth when my fingers slide behind her head, tangling in her upswept hair.

  Our mouths dance, moving in tandem with our exploring hands. Her palms drag down my bare chest, leaving an electric trail, when I come up for air.

  “Foreplay,” I answer.

  SIXTEEN

  Calypso

  Crew’s fingers in my hair . . .

  I haven’t slept with anyone in years.

  His tongue brushing mine . . .

  He’s going to find out how inexperienced I am.

  The outline of his hardness grazing my hip . . .

  I’m going to let him down.

  My heart fluttering the very same way it used to . . . with Mathias . . .

  Oh, God. What if I fall for him? Really fall for him?

  I focus on the inviting warmth of his skin, the weight of his stare, the graze of his hands as they explore my body and claim every unchartered inch as his own.

  But my thoughts bubble to the surface.

  A kiss.

  A lick.

  A nibble.

  A caress.

  Still, the thoughts grow louder until they reach screaming volume.

  I want this. Or at least my body does. My body wants him so hard. He should be in my hair, on my skin, on my tongue.

  “Calypso,” he breathes my name, and I inhale the remnants of his soapy aftershave as I press my lips against his chest. My eyes lift, seeking refuge in his. The brewing tension of the evening is about to come to a head.

  I knew where this was headed the second he suggested we play strip poker. We both did.

  His fingers work to unfasten my bra, and I let it slip down my shoulders and fall to a delicate crumple at my feet. Determined hands slide down my sides, stop at my hips, and pull me into him.

  My bare chest against his.

  My breath, elusive and evading.

  With closed eyes, I slick a hand up his steel arm and snake it up to the nape of his neck. Gathering his thick, dark hair between my fingers, I focus on the mink-like softness. It’s a nice distraction from the chaos in my head and the fire between my thighs.

  “Calypso, look at me,” he says.

  My eyes part to find him studying me. I find the whole idea of eye contact during sex to be grossly uncomfortable. The only sex I’ve ever had was in the dark, eyes closed tight. You don’t get to share a house with twenty other people and have crazy, adventurous sex.

  “I want you.” His words send a burst of flutters from my stomach to my knees.

  Crew’s hands slide down my thighs and veer toward my ass, cupping it and hoisting me up at the same time. My legs wrap around him and hook at the ankles, my arms resting on his shoulders.

  I’m weightless.

  He carries me down the hall, like he’s been here before. And in a way he has. Our apartment footprints are identical.

  I press my lips against his and make an executive decision to drown in his scent. Maybe if I inhale him enough, it’ll drown out the specks of doubt clouding this deliciously reckless moment.

  The last time I pressed my half-naked body against another man, I daydreamed of wearing his ring around my finger as I nourished his baby in my belly.

  Crew’s kisses are different from Mathias’s. His touch is different. He’s hungrier. Worldlier. More experienced. Making love to Mathias was quiet sex wrapped in a warm blanket. Soft and gentle. Benign really. The earth didn’t move, but I swear my soul did at the time.

  How naïve I was.

  I love his hungry kisses. I want him to kiss me harder and harder. I want grazing teeth and prodding tongues and breathless bites.

  I want him deep inside me, shoving himself as deep as he’ll go, filling the empty parts of me I never knew existed until this moment.

  Crew drops me on the bed and lunges for my panties, ripping them off and tossing them across the room. I don’t care that my bed is unmade and my room is unkempt. I don’t care that the only things adorning my simple room are a needlepoint I found at a secondhand store and a hand-carved Seed of Life made from mango wood. I don’t need much to be happy.

  Besides, the more shit you have, the harder it is to pack up and leave.

  He climbs on top of me, and my stomach somersaults. He’s hard as a rock, and I’m slick and warm. One wrong move, and he’ll slip right inside me, I’m sure of it.

  “You’re so fucking sexy,” he growls into my ear, moving his lips against my cheek. I feel him smile, and he peppers kisses in a trail from my ear to my neck before taking a detour back to my mouth.

  Crew’s left palm circles my swollen nipple, and he gathers a handful before bringing his tongue to circle wet rings that leave my skin damp and my body yearning for more.

  My hips relax, widening for him, for what’s to come.

  And it can’t come soon enough.

  The unexpected sensation of his fingers slicking my seam causes my breath to hitch before I melt back into the sheets. I reach for him, desperate to feel his cock fill my palm.

  I pump his hardness and watch the veins in his neck flex and strain as our eyes meet.

  “Do you have a condom?” he asks. “Fuck, Calypso. I didn’t bring one. I didn’t think this . . .”

  I shake my head.

  Of course I don’t have a condom.

  He groans, burying his forehead against my shoulder.

  “I can’t have kids.” I blurt the words that have echoed hard in my ears the last few years. I cup his face in my hands and bring his mouth to mine. I want him to kiss me hard, like he did a minute ago. I want to forget. I want him to keep going.

  “Calypso . . .”

  My lips burn into his, and I squeeze my eyes so tight they hurt. I’d rather feel pain than let them cry another tear over my cruel fate.

  “Just keep going, keep going,” I whisper. �
�Don’t stop. I want this. I want you so bad.”

  I reach for his cock, pointing it between my thighs and grinding my hips back and forth.

  “Please, Crew . . .”

  He couldn’t possibly understand what it feels like to be cast aside because you’re not woman enough to be with the man you love more than anything in the world. I would’ve killed for Mathias. And in the end, not being able to give him a baby was the wind to our flame.

  Crew kisses me, though his body hovers above mine just enough to tell me we’re still stuck in neutral.

  Maybe he doesn’t believe me. I’m sure plenty of girls have used the old “I can’t get pregnant” line to . . . get pregnant. He has every right to doubt me.

  Hot tears sting my eyes, and I’m grateful for the dark flooding my bedroom. I twist my head to the side, letting the tears roll into my pillow before he has a chance to notice.

  “If you don’t want to . . .” I whisper, daring myself to meet his gaze.

  He’s frozen. Concentrating. Unreadable.

  “If you don’t believe me . . .” I can’t finish my thought because I don’t know where it’s going. I want him to say something. Anything.

  “I believe you, Calypso.” He brings his hand to my cheek and catches a rogue tear.

  My chin trembles. I hate feeling so vulnerable, so exposed. My teeth sink into the inside of my lip until I taste blood, and the overwhelming urge to cry evaporates for a moment.

  Before I have a chance to let another thought rise to the surface, I’m impaled. One slick thrust, and Crew’s cock is buried deep inside me. I release a breath I didn’t know I was harboring and tuck myself under the canopy of his arms.

  His mouth lowers to mine, and he presses his lips hard against me as his hips roll and push. For a sliver of a second, I think of his old nickname—The Jackhammer.

  This is not Jackhammer sex.

  Crew pulls my legs high against his sides and enters me deeper this time. A rush of pleasure drowns a quick jolt of pain. Over and over. Slow and intentional. My arousal crests and falls, ebbs and flows.

  I focus on his steady breathing in my ear, the rise and fall of his chest against mine. With each impalement, I feel like me again. Like a woman worthy of this.