Page 131 of Don’t Say Mafia

A surprised laugh bubbled out of me. I stared at my own hand, then placed it face up on the table. “Oh no,” I said sweetly, leaning back in my chair. “Did I just beat you again?”

He glanced at my cards, then back at me, unreadable. “Looks like it.”

I folded my arms smugly. “Maybe you’re just not very good.”

A corner of his mouth lifted. “Maybe.”

He held my gaze for a long second, then leaned back in his chair, studying me like I was the one laid out on the table. “All right,” he said casually. “Let’s up the stakes.”

My pulse jumped, but I kept my expression calm. “To what?”

His eyes dragged slowly over me. “Strip poker.”

The words hung between us, and I swallowed before I could stop myself. “That’s a shocking suggestion for someone who just lost.”

“Perhaps,” he said, that infuriatingly calm smirk back on his lips.

“And what happens when you lose again?” I asked.

He leaned forward slightly and shrugged. “Then I take something off.”

The image hit me before I could block it. Him standing slowly, fingers hooking the hem of his black Henley, dragging it up and over his head in one smooth, unhurried motion. The fabric peeling away to reveal the ink crawling across his chest and abs. Every hard line of muscle flexing under his tanned skin.

I shifted in my seat, feeling that same electric thrill I’d experienced a few minutes ago—the sense of stepping closer to the deep end on purpose.

“Fine,” I said softly. “Deal.”

His eyes darkened in a way that made my stomach flip.

CHAPTER 30

JAGGER

My poker room had always been one of my favorite areas in my penthouse and one of the reasons I’d bought it in the first place . . . but it was about to take the top spot after tonight.

Eden was still in the blue dress from the boutique, the one that clung to her curves like it had been sewn directly onto her skin. The neckline dipped low enough to make my fingers itch, the slit up one thigh high enough to tease every time she shifted.

She looked like she’d walked straight out of my fantasies and into my apartment . . . and she had no idea how much danger she was in.

Eden picked up her cards, bit her lip, and glanced at me through her lashes. “Let’s go, Thatcher.”

I smiled, thinking it was cute how she was trying to act so brave. “I’m ready.”

The whole time we’d played downstairs, the guys had kept shooting me confused looks—side-eye after side-eye, brows furrowed, unable to figure out why the best poker player in the room was suddenly playing like a drunk tourist.

Cruz had even leaned over at one point and muttered, “This is not going to get you laid, Jags,” while Maddox just stared at me as if I’d grown a second head. They knew I could read a table blindfolded. They knew I never folded winners. And yet there I was, folding premium hands, calling with trash, letting pots slip away.

I’d wanted Eden to win. I wanted her confident, bold . . . a little smug.

It was going to make this game so much better.

I dealt the flop, the cards gliding across the felt in smooth, controlled arcs. Eden tapped the table, feigning indifference. I did the same, keeping the pace unhurried. The next card turned over, and this time she straightened slightly, something sharpening in her eyes. She placed a tidy stack of chips into the center confidently, her fingers steady, her expression carefully neutral.

I called without breaking eye contact.

The final card turned over, and her pupils widened just slightly. She had something. Not huge, but enough to make her feel good.

She pushed more chips forward confidently.