Moral.
As his right hand roams every inch of my body, stroking and twisting and flicking, I feel closer to the brink of heaven than I’ve ever felt before. His touch isn’t sullied or tainted or drenchedin hate and aggression, it’s covered in something far scarier, far more irreversible.
The back of my head rests against his chest, my eyes closed and sated and safe. He fills me so good, so deep, stretching me open with every thrust, opening my heart with every fucking whisper of encouragement, every goddamn moan of his impending release.
And when his wandering fingers find my sensitive clit, it all comes crashing down, and we both cry out in climax.
Quin’s head hangs low, his lips brushing against the slope of my neck, his breath shaky against my skin.
“What am I to you?” he whispers so quietly that I barely hear it over the trickling of the shower. “What…” He sighs, and his voice strains. It almost kills me. “What am I to you, Emery?”
I swallow, tensing in his arms. I think I know what he wants to hear. It’s the same thing Damon so desperately craved. Confirmation. Reassurance. A label. But I can only label one man. I can't tear the label in half, no matter how torn I am myself.
“Important,” I breathe out, turning around in his embrace. With a hammering in my chest, I lift myself on my tiptoes and place a lingering, tender kiss on his forehead. “You’re important to me.”
They both are.
THE GAMBLER
QUINTON
The Player'sRoom is a battlefield tonight. Cards shuffle. Glasses clink. Music plays. And I stare at the bright green felt of the poker table, readying myself for war.
From a young age, my father instilled the idea of competition in William and me. He’d give us challenges, missions, ways to outsmart one another. I outgrew William rather quickly. I became taller, stronger, and more clever. By the time I was fifteen, we were in different weight classes.
But tonight, my father has sanctioned a fair fight. He found me a worthy adversary—Damon. Tonight we do not fight with fists, but with cards.
A poker match.
Since the Cavanaughs came into our lives many years ago, my father’s tried to pit me against Damon. Perhaps because Father could never win against Jonathan, so he made me fight against his son. My father thinks we’re at war in business. But he’s wrong. The stakes are much higher.
I sit at one end of the table, with Emery beside me. On my right, Sophie twists a martini around as Father sips on a scotch. Damon grins at me, arrogant as always, from the other side of the felt, Maya cozy on his arm.
As the cards are dealt and the game begins, I steal a glance at Emery.Important. She said I’m important. I clutch onto that word like it’s a fucking life vest. The only thing keeping me afloat.
My father breaks the uncomfortable silence as he checks the flop. "I take it you’ve both received the invitation to Vincent Wentz’s funeral?" he asks, addressing Damon and me. “Will you be attending?”
Damon leans back in his chair, oozing smugness as he checks as well. "Vincent and I were never close." His eyes lock onto Emery, and he gives her a greasy smirk. “I never did appreciate hisunethicalpractices.”
Bastard.
"It’s a shame you two weren’t friends. You’d have so much in common.” I meet his gaze as I throw three black chips into the pot. My father grumbles and tosses away his cards. “Unfortunately, Damon only associates with those who serve his own agenda. Vincent’s industry was never appealing to him. Perhaps because he was scared of the competition.”
Damon snorts, peeking at his two cards. With a flat expression, he calls and raises. “I don’t mind competition, Quinton. But I prefer an opponent that poses a significant challenge. There’s no joy in beating the weak.”
Emery looks between Damon and me, attempting to decipher the meaning in our words. I can tell she has something to say about our not-so-covert metaphors, but she chooses to change the subject, a wise move for a supposed neutral party.
“Vincent Wentz? The Diazenix guy?” she asks. “You knew him?”
"Quinton did. Very well, actually,” Damon says with a wolfish grin. “I believe if you Google their names, you’ll discover just how close they truly were.”
My shoulders tense. “There are no friends in business, Cavanaugh.Yourfather taught me that.”
Damon’s teeth clench. I’ve struck a nerve. But it’s the truth. Jonathan was never one for small talk. Every time we’d be forced to attend a dinner party, he talked shop all the time. If it weren’t for him, I’d probably have never secured my current position. He might’ve never had friends. But he had allies in high places.
Sophie sighs, clearly feeling uncomfortable being a part of this conversation. She chirps in, her voice calm yet laced with veiled contempt. "Can we please focus on the game?” She double-taps her cards and slides them forward. “Fold.” With a sip of her drink, she leans back into her seat and says, “Heads up. This should be fun.”
Emery nervously fidgets with her straw as she stares at a quarter of a million dollars in the pot. My gaze flits across the four cards on the felt: the queen of hearts, the eight of clubs, the jack of spades, and the six of diamonds. Damon and I exchange one last sharp glance, a mutual understanding passing through us.
