Page 9 of Betting Her Curves

“Thanks for the thought, but it doesn’t matter what I want, or what you want. Our time’s up, sweetheart. There’s nothing you can do about it, and I certainly wouldn’t want someone as sweet and kind as you to change for a bastard like me. My admin will be in touch.”

Then, I strode out the door, my thumb hitting speed dial as I waited in the hall for the elevator.

“Yeah, hi Elena, can you pick out something for Mary?” I asked in a weary tone after my secretary picked up. “A bauble with rubies or emeralds. Or maybe sapphires. A necklace or ring. Thanks, Elena.”

With that, the relationship was over. Sure, Mary would cry a bit and maybe even bawl over a sappy movie with a college chum. But the minute the jewelry arrived, her eyes would alight on the precious stones while her pussy moistened. It’s pathetic, but a lot of ladies I know literally get turned on at the prospect of expensive jewelry. You show them a diamond, and their nipples harden as they begin to pant. Their heart-rates begin to accelerate and soon, they’ve forgotten my rude words altogether. All they want is a glimpse of their reflections in the mirror, draped in sparkling jewels.

But now, I have a beautiful blonde before me who seems smarter than your average bear. I don’t mean to insult the women I date because they’re notnotsmart. The ladies are clever and street-wise, even if they spent most of their academic careers on the Dean’s shit list. That fuckery doesn’t bother me though. Some people just aren’t the type for grades, degrees, nor any of that academic bullshit. As long as they’re curvy and luscious, then I don’t give a flying fuck.

But Miss Finnegan is different. The woman is ravishing, of course, with long golden locks, a plush pout, and the face of an angel. She’s also voluptuous, her curves practically busting out of her red dress with the vee at the décolletage showing off the inner sides of those big tits. But something tells me that she’s truly intelligent. It could be because she’s the only female here, at the high rollers table at the Degas, because they don’t just allow anyone to play at these tables. You have to be able to throw a significant amount of cash around. Then again, it could also be because she cased this joint yesterday afternoon, like a smart competitor determined to win.

Clearly, Miss Finnegan is not one to be underestimated, and I turn to my cards after they’re dealt. Hmm, the three in my handare good but not great. Let’s see how the lady plays. She takes a peek at her cards, careful to lift only the corner, before putting them back down with a secret smile on those red lips.

“Anything good, darlin’?” the gruff Texan to her left asks. I have no idea why that fucker’s wearing a ten-gallon hat indoors, much less one that’s studded with gems at the brim, but to each their own. He’s barrel-chested and at least sixty, so the young lady merely laughs while shaking her head, golden tresses rippling.

“That’s for me to know, and you to find out,” she says with a sassy smile. Then, the flop is revealed, and to my satisfaction, I have a pair of tens. The turn comes next, and then the river, and I finish with two pairs: tens and fives.

But the most intense psychological fuckery comes now because the serious betting begins. I’ve been observing each of the players as they ante up after successive rounds, and already have them figured out one hundred percent. These assholes have obvious tells, and should seriously consider filming themselves in order to improve their games. One dude has a twitchy left foot, whereas another’s pupils tend to dilate when he lands something tasty. Another reflexively pats his belt in moments of concern, as if reaching for the heft of a firearm. Or maybe he’s looking for his favorite pocket-protector. I don’t know.

But as the night continues, Miss Finnegan’s tells are the most obvious because the beautiful blonde tends to get aroused. It’s not that weird. Everyone has different kinks, and this little filly gets turned on by the game itself. She loves living by her wits, and her blue eyes flash and shine as the cards are dealt. She banters with the other players, knowingly distracting them by shaking her tits in their direction and making them wobble. She toys with her blonde locks, winding it about a finger while licking her glossy lips, and one by one, the other men dropout. They’re eliminated, and fuck, even I’m down to just a few hundred thousand. Shit, this woman has game and I never thought that I’d be bested at high stakes poker through sheer sex appeal alone.

But Miss Finnegan isn’t doing so great either. The other players have taken a significant chunk of her chips and before I know it, it’s just me, her and the dealer at the table. She smiles sweetly at me, licking her lips.

“Are you ready, Mr....?”

“O’Lachlan,” I say in a smooth tone. “I’m visiting from Ireland.”

“Oh Ireland, is it?” she smiles while palming her cards. “I’ve always wanted to visit the Emerald Isle.”

I stay calm while pretending to look at my hand. The truth is that it doesn’t matter what I have because accurately reading an opponent is a thousand times more useful than any cards you’ve actually been dealt. Sure, I lift the corner and flick my eyes downwards, but I don’t actually see what I have. Instead, I’m playing this hand blind because whatever Miss Finnegan thinks she knows ... she actually knows nothing about.

6

Ashley

He’s arrogant and sure of himself, certainly. The Irishman is straight out of a movie with a thick brogue, dark hair, and a cocky air that makes me want to scream his name while in bed.

But you’re not in bed with this man, the voice in my head whispers.Focus, Ashley, focus. You could save your entire ballet company with this haul.

It’s true because Mr. O’Lachlan and I are the last ones seated. The other men have since been eliminated, and they stand at the small bar, watching from a distance. The Degas won’t let them come forward for fear of cheating. Then again, they don’t know that I was actually here yesterday afternoon ... and that I snuck out with bits and pieces of their prize chandelier.

But that’s neither here nor there. Right now, I just need to get through this damned hand in order to enjoy the fruitsof my labor. The pile of chips in the center of the table is mountainous, with chips of all colors sliding off the edges. There are tens, twenties, fifties, and even discs denoting one hundred, five hundred, one thousand, and ten thousand dollars. Can you imagine that? Ten thousand dollars represented by an orange and black striped chip with the name “Degas” imprinted in script on it. It blows my mind.

But I have a strong hand, composed of two queens and a five of spades. The flop, turn and river reveal a two of hearts, a seven of clubs, a five of hearts, a queen and a king. Yay, full house! I highly doubt that Patrick O’Lachlan can beat my hand, and smirk while pushing the remainder of my chips into the center pile.

“I’m all in,” I say sweetly while winking at him. “The ball’s in your court, Irishman.”

His expression doesn’t change at my taunting tone, even if a muscle does slightly flicker at the corner of his eyes. But he’s suave to the end.

“Let’s see,” the man murmurs, talking to himself. “What do I want to do?” That piercing blue gaze is focused on the cards in his hand, but something tells me that he’s not seeing anything. Is it the fact that he’s so calm and cool despite the intense pressure? Is it the fact that he doesn’t appear to sweat, even under the stress of the moment? I decide to see if I can bait the Ice Man, and hop off my stool, making sure that my boobies bounce enticingly with the movement.

“Take your time but nottoolong,” I hum in a sing-song voice with another teasing smile his way. “The Degas has rules about continuous play, you know.”

His blue eyes are fixed to the inner curves of my breasts, and I giggle internally. I know I’ve already won because what man can focus when faced with my Double Ds? They’ve served me well during my lifetime, and I giggle again while twisting my hips ever so slightly. My girls sway again, the fabric slipping so that the edge of my pink areola is almost revealed.Almost, but not quite, and I laugh internally again. Meanwhile, Patrick’s blue gaze sharpens, but then he places his cards face down.

“I’ll meet your wager, Miss Finnegan. Ashley, I think you said your name was? How much do I need to match her ante?”

The dealer responds immediately.

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