“I’m going to grab a drink,” Donald doesn’t seem at all deterred by the lack of response from me or Bruno.
I don’t watch him walk away, but when Bruno meets my gaze, I can’t help but smirk. His face remains stoic, but I don’t give a fuck. The man must know the kind of man his friend is.
Over the next few hands, I test the water now that Bruno is sitting at the table. Another player always changes the dynamic and where the cards land.
As the minutes pass, I wonder if I made a mistake coming here. Sure, my concerns were valid; the last person I would hate to walk in here without anyone watching her back is Quincy. Still, the longer I sit in this room, the more convinced I become that this is the last place she’ll end up at tonight.
There are so many more options for her. Why the fuck would she accept Donald’s invitation to an underground game? It’s almost laughable.
I’m organizing my chips from raking in the last pot and contemplating heading back to my room on the clubhouse floor of Elysium when the door opens. I don’t react or look over to see who has walked in. Then Bruno grunts and a sensation I’ve only had a few times in my life washes over me—a knowing.
My head snaps up far too fast and I’m met with the sight of Quincy Wells surveying the room like she owns the fucking place. I watch her closely as she looks around, only mildly surprised when her mask stays firmly in place. Then her eyes sweep over and lock with mine.
She’s not quick enough to stop the flare of surprise in her eyes and that little crack feels like a fucking triumphant victory. My chest puffs up with pride, but then Donald is rushing toward her and her shoulders tense slightly like she’s bracing for impact.
I desperately want to stand between her and anything that might be coming her way.
Wait.
What?
Have I ever had that kind of reaction to a woman before? I search my mind, but I come up with nothing.
Women have been fun and I’ve certainly appreciated any woman willing to give me some of her time while allowing me to indulge in her body. But that’s all it has ever been. I’ve been more than okay with it.
Thinking about more than that usually makes me feel itchy and like my skin is too tight.
But that’s not what I’m feeling right now.
“Quincy Wells,” Donald’s voice booms and the smile that graces my woman’s lips is forced as fuck.
Wait.
What?
My woman?
My heart starts to pound in my chest like my body is already very aware of something my mind has barely begun to grasp. Mine? She can’t be mine.
It’s ridiculous.
What would a woman like her want with me anyway? She’s not some patch chaser. Sure, maybe she’d want a roll in the sheets with a bad boy, but it couldn’t be more than that. Right?
“Well,” Quincy shrugs one of her shoulders, the motion casual, “you invited me to your game, and I figured getting a few hands in before tomorrow wouldn’t hurt.”
Her voice is polite, practiced and careful. I don’t like it.
I desperately want to hear what she would sound like moaning my name. Or how it would shake with a plea for more. Or the breathy sound of her falling apart underneath me.
Bruno mutters, “I can’t believe she actually showed.” I swear I hear a hint of disappointment in his voice and when he catches my gaze, he grunts under his breath.
If he’s thinking he’ll never hear the end of it now, he’s probably right. Poor guy. But you are your friends, so there’s that.
“Of course,” Donald’s arms become a flourish of movement as he leads Quincy in my direction.
To the middle table in the room. And the only seat still open because I made sure it was. Just in case.
Seems my plan has worked out for me. This time. It doesn’t always.
