Page 17 of Body Language
I was in a good mood too, so I said fuck it. Let’s play.
I pulled out my chair, unbuttoned my jacket, and took my seat like I owned it. Because in a lot of ways, I did.
I own cigar lounges, underground clubs, and high-end nightlife.
I built experiences, rooms that men like them paid to sit in.
I came in with my mind clear, fully focused. Ready to flip egos and stacks like I always do.
But the minute I stepped through that door, something shifted.
She caught my attention and didn’t even have to try.
Every room I walk into had dancers. Bottle girls. Strippers. Models.
Half-naked women who’ll do a back bend just to get close enough to ask what I do for a living.
So trust me when I say—I’m used to pretty. But she didn’t move like she was performing. She moved like she was at peace. Like the pole was a prayer and her body was the scripture.
All rhythm. All grace. And her skin was smooth and deep like brown sugar under candlelight.
The way she spun—slow, sensual, with intention. It didn’t just catch my eye. It locked it, and I kept trying to refocus.
The dealer sat down, cards got shuffled, chips started getting stacked, and the boys were already running their mouths. But my gaze drifted back to her.
She was hanging upside down, arms extended, heels pointed, body stretching like temptation itself.
Fuck.
I shifted in my seat.
She was beautiful as fuck. The kind of beautiful that doesn’t ask for attention—it just owns the air. Her face was unbothered. Her body was speaking in a language I didn’t know but suddenly wanted to learn.
I leaned back, tossed in my first bet, and nodded at the dealer to keep the game moving.
But truth be told, I wasn’t thinking about the damn cards anymore.
The dealer slid the next hand across the table. I looked down at my cards. Solid. Not perfect, but enough to run with. I tossed in another stack, leaned back, and tried to pull my focus in, but her body kept dancing on the edge of my vision like it had a goddamn magnet in it.
Every slow twirl… every glide down that pole…
Shit was witchcraft.
I lost the next hand. Then the one after that. I squinted at the cards, then at the men across from me, then right back at myself like—
“Nigga… get your head back in the motherfuckin’ game. You down two hands behind somebody doing aerial yoga in heels.”
I leaned forward, whispered under my breath like I was about to slap myself.
“You acting like you ain’t seen ass before. Focus, Kendrix. That pussy is not yours. That stack is. Stop thinking with your dick and play your damn cards.”
The man next to me chuckled. “Something funny?”
“Nah,” I said, cracking my neck. “Just talking to myself. He’s the only one in this room I trust.”
But right when I tried to zone back in, she cleared her throat.
My eyes snapped back to her. She wasn’t dancing like before. The rhythm had changed. It was subtle, but different.
