Page 22 of Wicked Embers

A knock at the door makes her flinch. I suppress a smile as Dolph enters, his towering frame filling the doorway. He hands me a pristine deck of cards, a knowing look in his eyes.

“Thank you, Dolph. That will be all for now.”

The door clicks shut behind him, leaving Leigh and me alone again. I place the cards in her hands, feeling the faint tremor in her delicate fingers as they brush against my calloused skin.

As she shuffles the deck, I lean back in my chair, savoring the tension that hangs between us. My body responds instinctively, desire heating my blood because soon enough she will belong wholly unto me.

The cards glide across the table, Leigh’s nimble fingers dealing with a speed that almost matches the pounding of my heart. I study her intently—the way her teeth worry at her lower lip, the determined set of her jaw. She’s all fire and spirit with a touch of innocence at her core.

Leigh’s about to pick up her cards, but I stop her.

“First, the rules.” Her eyes widen slightly. “The winner of the hand gets to choose the items of clothing the loser takes off.”

“Okay,” Leigh’s voice comes out a little gruff, and she clears her throat.

“No cheating!” I raise my eyebrows.

“That goes for you too,” Leigh snaps back. I smile, nodding.

“If you win, Dolph will take you home.” I see the pulse at the base of her neck quicken as I lay down the last rule. “If I win, you’re mine, and I get to decide what we do for the rest of the night.”

Leigh nods and picks up her cards. I check my own hand, keeping my expression neutral. “Ladies first, milaya moya.”

Leigh lays down her cards, a full house staring up at me. Triumph flashes in her eyes—the irony is not lost on me. It’s the exact hand I won her with earlier this evening. “Unless you can somehow beat that,” she says, a hint of smugness in her tone. “I win this round.”

A slow, predatory smile spreads across my face. “So you have. And what would you like me to remove?”

Her eyes flicker to my chest, then snaps back to meet my eyes. A rosy hue blooms across her cheeks, a delicate contrast tothe dim light enveloping us. She battles her evident shyness, her tough exterior wavering for a moment—and I smile.

“Your shirt,” she breathes, her voice barely audible over the soft hum of the room’s ambiance. The words hang between us, charged with unspoken tension.

Rising slowly from my seat, I maintain eye contact as my fingers work the buttons of my shirt. The whisper of fabric against skin fills the silence as I shrug it off, revealing my bare chest. Shadows play across my torso, accentuating every contour, and my tattoos.

Leigh’s gaze remains fixed, but I catch the darkening of her pupils and the tremor in her hands as she reaches for her crystal glass. Her vulnerability, barely concealed beneath her determination, stokes the fire building within me. In this high-stakes game we’ve embarked upon, the real prize lies in the unspoken connection forming between us—fragile, electric, and utterly intoxicating.

"Do you like what you see, ptichka?"

She glances away, breaking our intense connection, and I settle back into my seat with a ghost of a smile. Leigh’s throat constricts as she swallows; her voice emerges softer than before.

“You have quite the physique. I like your tattoos.” Her eyes lower as she nudges the deck toward me. “Your move.”

Now it’s my turn. I collect the cards with deft fingers, feeling their familiar weight. Each shuffle echoes in the room like a pulse. I lay out my hand—straight flush—and watch Leigh’s expression shift from confidence to unease.

“Now it’s time for you to remove something,” I say, my voice tinged with promise. “Your sweater and T-shirt.”

Her brow furrows momentarily. “But... that’s two items,” she protests, her voice wavering just so.

I lean forward slightly, letting my words sink in. “The rule was set—you agreed that the victor chooses whichitemsare lost.“ My gaze holds firm.

Leigh rises with measured grace despite her reluctance; her movements are deliberate, as if weighing each action. She eases off the sweater first, the fabric sliding down her arms until it falls at her feet. Then comes her T-shirt—drawn over her head, exposing skin kissed by soft light, revealing toned elegance framed by lace-edged pink lingerie.

The sight stirs heat within me. Every curve invites exploration. “Stunning,” breathes softly past my lips—my eyes trace every contour hungrily.

Despite visible goosebumps dotting Leigh’s skin under my scrutiny, she stands tall, an image of pride and vulnerability—a paradox fascinating in its complexity.

Leigh’s gaze flickers back to the table as she bridges the distance between us once more. Reluctance tempered by curiosity dares her to glance at my chest again, her eyes lingering where shadows dance teasingly over taut muscles and intricate ink.

She resumes her seat opposite me, shuffling the cards with nimble fingers. The hypnotic motion draws my attention back to the challenge at hand. Victory remains uncertain, but the outcome promises intrigue no matter how the next hand is dealt.

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