Page 26 of Red My Lips

“I should find out who it was and send them a fruit basket,” he counters. I sigh and roll my eyes, making him smile. Nothing I say or do seems to put him off in the slightest. The meaner I am to him, the deeper his obsession with me takes root.

He wants me. He always wants me. If I don’t keep my signals firmly set to red, he’ll take any and every opportunity to pounce—and I’d let him. As much as I’d love for him to fuck me against these mirrors, I need to make it through this night feeling in control. For as long as I can, at least.

If this elevator doesn’t hurry the fuck up, I swear.

His fingers start to massage my neck, his eyes tracing the curve of my shoulder down to check out my ass. The elevator slows to a stop at floor thirty-four. “Fifty-two seconds,” Gage says as the doors slide open smoothly. “I can do a lot to you in fifty-two seconds.”

“Only if I let you,” I reply flatly before stepping out into the hallway.

I don’t know where we’re going, so I allow him to guide me to the right and down the long, rich, green hallway. This floor is all suites, so we only pass a few doors before stopping at room thirty-four-oh-six, the Onyx Suite.

Gage doesn’t pause to knock before pulling out a keycard to unlock the door. He ushers me into the suite and closes the door behind us. The suite is one of the largest and most opulent in the hotel. The walls are a rich black color with intricate gold framework and ornate sconces. The arched floor-to-ceiling windows bathe the spacious room with the light of the setting sun. Geometric chandeliers hang from the high ceilings, illuminating the detailed crown molding and wall paneling. The sitting area, full kitchen, and dining room are all furnished with high-end decor in creams and bronze.

The entire building screams wealth. Even the sage-infused air feels expensive.

Anders is waiting in the living room of the suite while staff set up the poker table and wet bar. Gage leads me to the sofa where he sits and reaches for me—no doubt wanting me to sit in his lap. I sidestep him and opt for an armchair instead as his eyes burn a hole in my profile.

“Jill, nice to see you.” Anders’ grin is wide and knowing.

“Hi, Anders. I would say I’m happy to be here, but I’m not a liar.” I lean back, folding my arms over my chest and crossing one leg over the other. Gage and Anders discuss the group of players coming to the poker night while I sulk.

I move to the wet bar and prep for drinks as the other guests arrive. First is Grecko Vladinski, an older Russian man with salt and pepper hair and a severe expression etched on his weathered face. Completely unimpressed, he barely glances at me when he comes over to the bar and orders a double vodka.

Next to arrive are Dane Presley and Brent Wrenfield. Dane saunters in with his ginger mustache and his brightly colored tattoos. I see the moment he registers my presence and beelines over to where I stand at the bar. Leaning against the counter to invade my personal space, he orders a whiskey sour. Luckily more men enter the suite before he can attempt any conversation.

I hadn’t recognized him when I first saw him that night in the VIP lounge, because we’d never met. But I know who Dane is, I’ve heard his name countless times from my brother, Tommy. They were gambling buddies, Dane was always calling Tommy to invite him to the casinos and poker tournaments.

I don’t like that.

I recognize Brent Wrendfield from a Forbes cover featuring the top tech moguls. He’s dressed more like a dad at a superstore TV sale than a mogul though—his graphic T-shirt is definitely over ten years old. He orders a craft beer with a fresh lime wedge.

Dallin Feldman is a preppy, blond playboy who is definitely throwing his trust fund around. He struts into the suite and calls the set up ‘cozy’—his condescension clear. Gage is quick to call out the fact Dallin recently lost his yacht in the Maldives at their last ‘cozy’ night in, and I have to hide my grin when the playboy’s smirk falls from his face. He orders a Negroni.

The last man saunters in wearing cowboy boots that I can tell aren’t for show. He introduces himself as John Wilder. With his black button-up shirt tucked into belted wranglers, he looks like a wealthy rancher who isn’t afraid to get his hands dirty. He strolls over and orders a scotch on the rocks with a Texan drawl before kicking back in a seat at the poker table.

The men all gather around the table, and the cards are dealt. As soon as Gage is seated, I feel his eyes on me. I’m here to work, and something in the way his attention rains down on me says he has no intention of letting me forget it.

Chapter Twelve

Jill

The rustle of cards is slightly muffled as the fancy poker table meticulously shuffles the deck before the hands are dealt. I watch from the bar, but the game hasn’t even gone around everyone at the table before Gage is beckoning for me. Again.

“Jill, my whiskey is a little warm. Why don’t you freshen it up for me.” Lifting his glass, he dangles it between his fingers. He soaks up my glare like a tropical plant in the sun, his eyes tracking me as I walk over.

Of course his whiskey is warm, he ordered it room temperature.

Asshole.

Gage hasn’t gone a full ten minutes without telling me to do something. I’ve been waiting on him hand and foot since the night started. Every few minutes he needs something that requires me to walk over to him and give him the opportunity to touch me.

It’s hot and infuriating as fuck.

“Here you go, gorgeous,” he murmurs, his hand caressing mine when I reach for the offered glass. When I turn to walk away, his hand snakes around my hips to halt my movements. He crooks his finger at me until I bend down to his level while seated, but not before rolling my eyes.

“Before you go, tell me how many I should discard.” I can smell his rich cologne, swirling with the scent of the expensive cigar smoke and vintage liquor. The combination thrums through my veins until I want to lean in closer and spikes my heart rate like a warning that I shouldn’t.

But, God, I want to.

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