by Jenna Kelly
He shook his head and looked down at the table. Ignore her. Get control of his thoughts again. She wouldn't risk all her chips with a bluff—calling Seidel told her he had a hand. If she had Ace-King he'd be a 6-5 favourite but from what he knew of her internet play, she'd be unlikely to make the move with Big Slick.
That meant Aces or Kings. Possibly Queens. All three hands beat him.
He threw his cards in and despite being pot committed Seidel surprised him by doing the same. That was a no brainer. David turned his attention back to the blonde. "Can't quite decide if you had Aces or Kings?"
She slowly raised her sunglasses, just enough to let him see her brown eyes. "Fishing, are we?" she smiled before instantly dropping them back.
Seidel went the next hand, his pocket two's staying ahead until the river.
Five minutes before the next break, the Londoner looked down to see the Ace of diamonds. He casually flicked up the corner of his second hole card. The second Ace was black. It was an opportunity to double up, if he could entice someone into the pot. Easy does it!
Brunson, under the gun, was first to play. His pause told David he had some sort of hand. That was good. Make it a big raise, he silently pleaded. Give me the opportunity to come over the top. His prayers were answered, but not in the way he expected.
"All-in," Brunson eventually announced.
The loud hum running around the galleries sent a shiver through David. He glanced at the hordes watching, then at the TV cameras. God, he really was in the big time! He didn't need to think, but with Jessica and Moneymaker behind him, he hesitated. Let them think he was weaker than he was. You never knew, he might tease someone else into the pot.
He hoped his eventual "Call," sounded reluctant. He was putting his tournament on the line and it appeared he was uncomfortable doing so.
Moneymaker folded immediately as expected. Jessica didn't—she was up for action right now. The additional buzz that spread around the room after her "Call," charged the air with electricity. With Texas Dollie dominating their chip stacks, both their tourneys were on the line.
David felt his stomach do somersaults. He preferred to be heads up with pocket rockets, but the opportunity to triple up was just too good to ignore.
Brunson turned over his hole cards first. Pocket Kings. David's internal cheer threatened to burst his eardrums. Do the same, Jessica, he pleaded. Turn over Kings and you're both drawing dead.
When she flipped over Aces, the roar around the room drowned out his groan. Damn, what were the odds? Now he'd be sharing the pot. With only two Kings left in the pack, he and his blonde opponent were overwhelming favourites to significantly increase their stacks. Doyle would be fatally wounded.
The King on the flop killed him. Amid the cheers and whistles that rang out around the gallery, he heard only silence. His body felt numb. Texas Dollie had hit one of his two outs and the turn and river were irrelevant.
He glanced across at Jessica, who was removing her shades. Her face looked as crestfallen as his. They were shaking hands with Brunson and Moneymaker, wishing them good luck even as the dealer turned over the final, pointless cards.
***
As she strutted her stuff, Reagan disguised a sigh. Her heart just wasn't in it. Where the hell was Charles? It was over twenty-four hours since she'd heard from her boyfriend, and that could only mean one thing. He was gambling again, too focused on losing his—her—money to find time to call her.
She shook her head a little more wildly than normal when the music shifted up a beat. Blow out those cobwebs and concentrate on her dance. Big Jack had been watching her for ten minutes, ever since the spiky brunette had left his side. He always had one woman or another in tow.
Better make sure she put on a show. The temperamental club owner had fired dancers for less than satisfactory performances.
She looked sexy enough, that was for sure. The skimpy black bra, thong and stockings were her favourite outfit. She wondered what the Englishman would make of the way she looked? She swayed her hips a little faster at the thought. She'd blow his mind! Either he was too shy to come to the club, or he was still playing in his tournament. She so hoped he'd win the thing!
On reflection, Midnight Hot was probably not the best venue for their next meeting. She'd find him again.
Okay, let's go, she told herself as the music bursting out over the sophisticated sound system changed to Donna Summers Hot Stuff. Let's show Jack and all tonight's punters what she was capable of. With any luck she'd end up fucking a good-looking one. She and Charles needed the money, and if she closed her eyes she could imagine it was David.
A group of older guys began to whoop and holler to her left. Geez, who let the pensioner's out? With the false smile that now came so easily to her, he swayed and gyrated in their direction, swinging away when a couple of the more adventurous men tried to reach out and touch her. Get those bills out, her body language told them. The higher value the better.
Suddenly, the corner of her eye caught someone on stage with her. How the hell had the bouncers allowed one of the old guys to get up there? As the figure danced across her, she realised it wasn't one of the men. It was the spiky haired woman she'd seen with Big Jack not more than fifteen minutes ago.
"Hi, I'm Carrie," the woman smiled, swaying in front of Reagan. "Jack's just hired me and told us to give the geriatrics a show! You up for it, girl?"
It was a rhetorical question. They both knew if that's what Big Jack wanted, that's what he'd get. Carrie didn't give her time to think, gyrating around her body. That spiky haired girl could move in a way that most other dancers at the club couldn't. And she looked hot! The red bra was at least a size to small and her tits threatened to spill out of them with each gyration. And that thong! It covered far less than hers, and Reagan was in a skimpy enough outfit!
As for the snake that appeared from the back of her thong and ran up to the top of her ass, Reagan had never seen a tattoo so intoxicating.
One of Carrie's hands reached around Reagan's neck. The other ran sensuously through her spiky hair as she swung around and ground her body in front of the now salivating older men. "Think we've got their attention?" she teased, "Why don't you show me what you're made of, girl!"
Reagan gritted her teeth. Spiky' was a cut above the normal dancers they employed, where the hell did she learn some of those moves? She was behind her now, holding Reagan close with a hand on either hip as she gyrated her voluptuous body up and down the back of the redhead's.
Reagan wasn't into women, but if she ever changed her mind, she'd go looking for Carrie. The way those big tits were rubbing themselves into her back was definitely producing a tingle where it shouldn't.
But she wasn't going to be outshone by the brunette, not with Big Jack watching so keenly. She matched her step for step, sway for sway. When the song finished, the whole club burst into spontaneous applause and it took some time to collect the bills from the stage.
Then they were into the next song, and Carrie was reaching for her ponytail. The spiky haired woman pulled it free, releasing the long, flowing tresses so that the redhead could bounce them around her head. Reagan obliged.
She tossed her head forward, then back, her hands on her hips as she whirled and twirled around her new dancing companion. If she weren't careful, her freckled tits would be bouncing free from the skimpy bra. God knows what was containing Carrie's. That would be something! Topless dancing!
Then the woman was behind her again, leaning into the redhead. Her hands ran around Reagan's flat stomach and then—oh, fuck—were actually cupping her tits. Her hands instinctively rose up to pull them away, but the spiky haired woman was spinning away even as the music changed.
Then she was back again, from nowhere, linking Reagan's body, teasing and twisting as they bounced to the beat. Her eyes were on the redhead, as if they were dancing for each other rather than their cheering audience. Carrie's head slipped next to hers. "Bet I can make you cum," she provocatively whi
spered.
With a wild laugh at the look on Reagan's face, she let go of the girl and began to flex and gyrate in front of her. The movements were almost lewd, her breasts shaking, her hips undulating. Fuck, she looked wild. Wild and hot!
The suggestion, and the sight of the woman undulating in front of Reagan, was almost too much for the redhead. She bit her lip as her body trembled. She realised an orgasm was bubbling deep inside her and with each gyration of her own, she was getting closer. Oh, fuck!
She was actually going to cum on the stage!
Back off, she told herself, closing her eyes. Calm down! Slow your movements! Deep breathes. Let the moment pass. Get control of yourself, girl… get control! Yes, that was it, much better!
Then Carrie was all over her again. Legs intertwined, the spiky haired woman rubbed herself against the redhead, shoulders and hips ostensibly moving in time to the rhythm but designed to maximise the redhead's ever growing arousal.
"Carrie—" Reagan gasped, feeling the surge of arousal threaten to overtake her.
The woman's hands went to her tits again. This time Reagan had no intention of removing them. She couldn't if she tried, her body was telling her it was about to surrender. "Cum—" Carrie whispered, grinding her hip against the redhead's pussy one final time. "Cum now!!!"
The music drowned out Reagan's groans. Carrie hands held her trembling body as the redhead came— and came hard. Fuck, it was just as well that the Englishman hadn't taken up her offer to visit the club!
***
None other than Norman Chase was waiting as Jessica and David emerged from the interview room. The diminutive Chase, along with Lon McEachern, co-hosted the television WSOP broadcasts. Norm was known as the 'colour man' and Lon the analyst. Chase's humorous comments on player behaviour, and his ability to find some type of common ground to which the average television fan could relate, made him a favourite among many poker aficionados.
"Hey guys," the poker commentator greeted them in that squeaky voice. "I just had to congratulate you on that performance. Are you sure this is your first tournament? Doesn't seem possible."
David grinned, shaking the warm, hairy hand offered him. "Mr. Chase! I'm a big fan of yours," he told him. "I've watched so many events on British TV, I just love your commentaries!"
"Well, that makes us a fan of each other," the diminutive commentator smiled. "And you too, Jessica," he added, turning to the blonde woman and kissing her hand. "I'm a fan of yours, too. Are you married?"
She laughed as she pulled her hand away. "Norm I've watched your commentaries, too."
"Darn," he joked. "So you know how many times I've been married?"
"No," she told him, and just as he was about to take advantage, added, "I've lost count."
"Oh boy," he groaned, "a woman with a sense of humour. I'm in trouble. But listen, I'm assuming both you guys are playing in the Main Event?"
They nodded. "Qualified in the same tournament," David explained. "Three qualifiers, and we were two of them. How's that for a story?"
"Pretty good," grinned Chase. "So you know each other well?"
"Not until today," Jessica smiled, pushing back a strand of loose hair. "Pretty neat, eh?"
"Neat?" The commentator's high tone squeaked higher. "That's quite a story. Look, I've got to get back to the coverage, but if you guys stay in the Main Event long enough, I'll make sure we do a feature on the two of you."
"Thanks," David answered, shaking Chase's hand.
"Mm-Kaitlyn," Jessica responded, attracting two pairs of eyes as she straightened her blouse. "But there's no 'if,' Norm. Expect us at the final table.
Chase laughed, kissing her hand again. "Do that and dinner's on me! I'll be following you guys. Good luck!"
"Well," the blonde murmured, turning to the crinkly haired young man beside her. "I don't know about dinner, but I could do with a drink right now. Coming?"
***
"A star is born!" Samson Smith's deep voice rumbled. "The music business is a hard, cutthroat industry. But you were wonderful tonight. Lindsay said you would be, but I didn't expect what I saw and heard. The very highest quality, Natalie!"
The brunette's heart began to beat faster again. The club owner had deliberately allowed her to take the plaudits before following her back to the dressing room. She knew he'd be impressed. How could he fail to be with such an audience reaction? But just hearing the words was so important! "Samson. Thanks, I—"
His upraised hand stopped her mid sentence. Keep her in her place, the last thing he needed was success going to the British woman's head. "Natalie, it's a long time since anyone dominated the stage the way you did. You're going to be quite a draw. Of course," he hesitated, "it's not just talent alone."
The brunette nodded. She felt her body tingle and her sex begin to moisten. Time to reinforce her commitment. "Anything Samson, I'll do anything."
The African American smiled. They both knew what was coming. Her eyes told him she was up for it, too. If he wasn't mistaken, she was fantasizing about it.
He unzipped himself and dragged out his dark, thick cock, leaning back against the table. "Better hurry, then. Your sister is waiting for you in the bar. Or perhaps I should ask her to join us?" The singer's eyes shot wide, her face alarmed yet curiously alive at the thought. Samson laughed. "Another time, perhaps! On your knees, Natalie."
With a growl, she responded—he was already iron hard. Her small hand wrapped as far as it could around the black shaft. Adjusting position, she slid him into her mouth for the second time that day.
Yesssss! Life was good. When his son, Joshua, returned to Vegas, he'd make sure he introduced him to Natalie. This woman was too good to keep to himself—
***
David knew he should have made an effort to get to Samson Smith's, but the lateness of the hour suggested he'd already have missed Natalie's performance.
The bar was busy enough, but their corner was sufficiently away from the hubbub and loud background music to allow him to have a half civilised conversation with Jessica. "Cheers," she said, clinking her Coors against his Bud.
A beer-drinking woman—just his type!
With her dark sunglasses precariously perched on top of her blonde tresses, he could see her expressive brown eyes. She really was a stunner. His eyes drifted down into her healthy cleavage, spilling forward through the low-buttoned top.
"Impressed?" he heard her ask.
"We've finished playing poker," he shot out, trying to cover his embarrassment as his eyes met hers. "You don't need to use that tactic at the moment."
"Maybe," she smirked over the top of her bottle, as she took a long drink. "But you seem to enjoy looking—"
David laughed, suggesting, "I think every man in the bar's looking. No wonder you do well at poker. That's quite a weapon."
"Two weapons, actually," she laughed, her brown eyes sparkling into his. "And with it being my first time in a tourney, I thought I'd take use advantage."
"Some advantage!" he smiled, swallowing a mouthful of Bud.
Jessica grinned. "Maybe, but I've been successful enough over the Internet, so my game must consist of something more than a pair of tits?"
David allowed his eyes to flicker to her weapons again. His laugh was gentle, almost a chuckle. "True," he slowly nodded, "So… you're Hitwoman, eh? Well, well."
The thirty-two year old held up her bottle. "And you're Desperado! Well, well."
This time they shared the laughter. "Touché," he smiled, clinking bottles for a second time. "You're here with, er, your boyfriend? Husband?"
He laugh was as sexy as she was. "Nope, unattached. Just how I like it. You?"
David sighed. This was a rerun of last night's conversation with Reagan. The thought of the redhead brought back the image of his cock in her mouth. The sight of the blonde poker player's pouting lips changed the image from Reagan to Jessica. What the hell was it about Vegas?
She listened intently as he repeated his story, her eyes
remaining fixed on his, as if ensuring what she saw in them matched his words. Her tongue flicked across her inviting lips, displaying perfect white teeth. "Sounds like your relationship with Natalie is on its last legs—"
The mouthful of beer David was taking burst out of his mouth, drowning his clothes and the table. What was it about the way he spoke that led women to doubt him and Natalie? He hadn't said—
"Don't ask," Jessica told him, when she eventually stopped laughing, wiping away the beer on the table with one of the beer mats. "Women can tell these things."
The weary shake of his head indicated his frustration. He and Natalie could make it work again. Couldn't they? He should have been at the club right now, instead of having a beer with this woman.
