Page 133 of Don’t Say Mafia

She followed my gaze, her cheeks flaming crimson as she realized what I was seeing. She swallowed, attempting composure, but her blush only deepened—spilling down her throat and across her chest.

Eden sat down, and I dealt the next hand.

Of course she lost again . . .

This time she didn’t even look surprised. She just stared at the table for a long second, then lifted her eyes to mine slowly, accusation simmering beneath the heat.

“You’ve been playing me,” she said.

I leaned back in my chair, folding my arms loosely. “Of course I have.”

Her brows drew together. “You let me win downstairs.”

“I did.”

“So I’d feel confident.”

“Yes.”

“So I’d push.”

“Yes.”

She huffed out a breath, shaking her head. “That is . . . insanely manipulative.”

I gave her an unapologetic smile. “It’s poker, Eden.”

“No.” She pointed a finger at me. “It’s you. This doesn’t feel ethical.”

I let out a low chuckle and leaned forward.

“‘Ethical,’” I repeated, like I’d never heard the word. “I think it would be accurate to say that ethical is the antithesis of who I am.”

She stared at me for half a beat, thinking I was joking—I was not, of course . . . and laughed.

Eden was still laughing as she stood up again and pushed her thong down her hips, slow enough that I was literally gripping the table until my knuckles whitened. The thong slid over her thighs and calves and then pooled at her feet.

My dick felt like it might split straight through my jeans as she sat back down, leaned back in the chair, and gave me a look at exactly what she knew I wanted.

And I did look . . . at every fucking inch.

The swell of her breasts was framed fucking perfectly by the lace bra, and her nipples were straining visibly against the sheer cups. She was flushed everywhere: her cheeks, her chest, the tops of her thighs.

Fuck.

Eden took a deep breath . . . caught between nerves and, hopefully, excitement. “Deal the cards, Thatcher. Let’s finish this.”

“Gladly,” I growled.

The next hand played out slow and tense. She looked down at her two cards, and I could tell she liked what she saw. When I laid the first three cards face up in the center of the table, they were all low numbers. Not great for her.

She bet anyway, and I raised.

Eden hesitated, her eyes lifting to my face, searching for something—any crack in my expression that might tell her whether I was strong or just pushing her around.

She called.

I turned over the fourth card, and she tapped the table, choosing not to bet first. I pushed a larger stack of chips into the middle, and her jaw tightened.