Page 70 of Playing Dirty
The elevator doors slid shut, sealing us from the casino noise below. It was just me, Callie, and the quiet hum of the lift as it carried us toward the suite. She was pressed against me, her soft curves fitting like they were meant to be there, her hands resting at the edge of my jacket. The reflection in the polished brass walls showed her looking up at me with that mix of curiosity and mischief that could wreck a man’s concentration.
“So,” she said, her lips quirking, “you’re really offering me a job as Mrs. Callahan before you’ve even seen the paint job on your baby?”
I slid a hand to her lower back, keeping her close. “You mean my truck?” I dipped my head so my mouth brushed the shell of her ear. “If you messed it up, you’ll just have to find a way to fix it.”
She tilted her head, pretending to think it over. “What if it’s beyond repair?”
“Then I guess you’re stuck working for me forever.” My thumb traced slow circles at her waist. “Pretty sure I could live with that.”
She laughed under her breath, but I felt it more than I heard it—vibrating through the few inches between us. Her perfume clung to the air, warm and distracting.
“You know,” she murmured, “most bosses don’t start their job offers off with some kind of vailed marriage proposal.”
I grinned. “Most bosses aren’t me.”
The lift dinged for our floor, but neither of us moved right away. Her fingers curled into the front of my shirt, and for a second, I thought about hitting the stop button just to keep her here a little longer.
By the time we stepped out, the playful pull between us was wound tight, and I already knew tonight was going to be a long game I had no intention of losing.
We slipped into the private elevator at the far end of the hall, the one that went straight to the second floor of Callie and Tessa’s suite. The main floor was all noise—Colt, Tessa, and Dalia were wrangling the twins into pajamas—and I wasn’t about to walk in and ruin bedtime just so I could get my hands on Callie.
I hit the elevator button for level 2, and it opened directly into the hallway outside our room. I led her in, shutting the door behind us. Floor-to-ceiling windows framed the Strip in all its neon glory, the lights stretching on like the city had no idea what “sleep” meant. But I barely looked at it.
She was here. That was the view I cared about.
I pulled her into me, just holding her there for a long second, breathing her in. The chaos of the past few days—the hunt for Matt, the confrontation, the miles between us—slid off my shoulders like it was never there.
When I finally let her go, I crossed the room to the desk and pulled open the top drawer without even thinking. Of course, there’d be a deck of cards inside, and I plucked it out, holding it up between two fingers like I’d just drawn an ace.
“Vegas,” I said, grinning. “You can’t walk five feet without finding a deck of cards.”
Her smile curved knowingly. “Planning to teach me a few tricks?”
“Oh, sweetheart…” I set the cards on the table between us. “I’m planning to teach youeverything.”
I pulled a bottle of champagne from the chiller and poured two glasses. “Orientation starts now,” I told her, sliding one her way. “First lesson—Strip poker. House rules: The loser gives up something they are wearing, and we start with shoes.”
I dealt the first hand. She bit her lip, thinking hard, but my pair beat her high card. With a mock groan, she slipped off her heels and set them aside.
“Rematch,” she said.
“Confident.”
“Motivated.”
The second hand went the same way—two pair for me, one for her. “Earrings,” I said. She rolled her eyes and took them off.
By the third hand, she was leaning in, eyes narrowed, completely focused. I kept winning by a hair, and the pile of forfeits grew: shoes, earrings, a cardigan. She lost with dignity, but the competitive spark in her eyes made my blood heat.
“You’re enjoying this,” she accused.
“Watching you learn? Yeah.”
Finally, she won. “Shirt,” she said, chin tipped in challenge.
Laughing, I stood and unbuttoned it slowly. Her breath caught. Her grin turned wicked.
She shuffled for the next hand, shoulders brushing mine. “Tell me when to draw,” she said.
