My hands hover uselessly at my sides for half a heartbeat before instinct takes over; one palm lands on the curve of her waist, fingers digging in to anchor her, to stop the torturous little wiggles she’s making to “get comfortable.”
My mind is a riot of conflicting signals.
Get her off me.
Now.
Before anyone notices.
Don’t you dare move her.
Not when she feels this fucking perfect.
I can smell her, and my mouth waters. My cock throbs again, a heavy, insistent pulse that demands more contact. I’m hyperaware of every inch where we touch, her thighs spread over mine, the hem of her dress riding higher with each tiny shift, the way her spine arches slightly so her breasts push forward. If she rocks just a fraction more, the head of my dick will be nestled right against the cleft of her ass.
Then she slowly crosses her legs.
The motion drags the silk another dangerous inch up her thighs, and the new angle presses her bare cheek directly against the rigid line of my erection. No fabric between us now except my slacks. I feel the heat of her skin, the soft give of flesh, and my brain short-circuits. A low, involuntary sound catches in my throat, half growl, half groan, and I pray no one else hears it.
Then the truth slams into me.
She’s not wearing panties.
The realization detonates behind my eyes. I slide my hand lower, pretending to steady her, but really to confirm.My fingers brush the underside of her thigh, then higher, until the pads of my fingertips meet nothing but smooth, bare skin where underwear should be. No lace. No silk. Just her. Wet heat radiating against my palm as I stop a breath away from her pussy.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
I want to sink two fingers into her pussy right here, right now, feel how soaked she is for me, how her walls flutter and clench the second I breach her. I want to pump them in and out, slow at first, then faster, curling to stroke that spot to make her gasp my name. I want her juices coating my knuckles, dripping down my wrist, marking me as thoroughly as I’m marking her.
My palm itches to slide higher, to push that hem up the last two inches and cup her bare pussy in front of them all. I want to part her lips with my thumb, circle her clit until her hips jerk, until she’s riding my hand shamelessly while I deal the next hand with the other. I want to feel her come on my fingers, her thighs trembling around my wrist, her breath hitching against my neck as she tries to stay quiet and fails. I want to pull my fingers free, slick and shining, and lick them clean while Dmitri and Alexei watch, jaws clenched, knowing they’ll never taste what’s mine.
Then I want to stand her up, spin her around, and drop to my knees behind her. Spread her open with both hands and bury my tongue in her until she’s sobbing, until her knees buckle and she’s braced on the table, chips crunching under her palms.
Fuck, I’m going insane.
My fingers flex against her thigh, a fraction from where I need them. One shift, one slide, and I could have her. One flick of my wrist and she’d be open to me, wet and ready.
The restraint is agony, a white-hot wire pulled taut across my spine. My cock jerks again, trapped, aching, begging for the slick heat I can feel radiating against my palm. I’m one breath away from losing it completely. Every drop of blood in my body is now in my cock, which is leaking precum into my boxers, the damp spot growing with every heartbeat.
But we’re surrounded by five of the most dangerous men in the city, and every single one of them is watching her like she’s the pot they plan to win tonight.
I force my hand to still, fingers splayed possessively over the tops of her thighs, shielding her from view. My voice, when it comes, is rough and firm.
"Liana," I say quietly, urgently, my voice strained. "Get up. Now."
"But there's nowhere else to sit!" She shifts slightly, getting comfortable, and the movement sends a jolt of sensation straight through my body. "This is fine, right? We're engaged. Everyone knows we're together. It's not weird."
She settles in more comfortably, one arm draping around my neck with casual intimacy. Like we do this all the time. Like sitting in my lap during a high-stakes poker game is perfectly normal behavior.
"So!" She looks down at my cards with obvious curiosity. "What are we playing? Texas Hold'em? I've watched it on TV."
"We're not playing anything. I'm playing. You're just sitting here."
"Right, right. What cards do you have?" She leans forward to see the cards better, and the movement presses her more firmly against me, her back against my chest.
"That's a good hand!" she announces to the entire table. "You should bet more money!"
"Stop looking at my cards," I say.
