I stay where I am, as if I’ve been stunned into paralysis. “Give me my fucking knife, Thierry.”
The man stares at me, teeth skating across his bottom lip. Assessing me again. “I don’t appreciate being stood up.” Of course his breath smells like cinnamon, and I loathe myself for wanting to eat the air between us.
“Well, I don’t appreciate being hustled. I should’ve known you were full of shit. Why go through the trouble of losing every hand, if you know you’re just gonna win it all back in the end, anyway?”
“People like to feel like they’re winning. If they lose every hand, they quit the game. Which is why I’m offering you a second chance to win back your knife.”
“Are you kidding me? I don’t trust you now.”
He doesn’t bother to contest that.
Okay, I’m curious. “What’s the deal? I’m not working as a stripper for you, if that’s what you have in mind.”
“Non, moiselle.” His tongue sweeps over his lips, and he backs up just enough to look down between us, presumably at my breasts, and back to me. “Je veux te baiser.”
“I don’t know what that means.”
The moment his lips brush my ear, my knees turn weak, and the air I suck in ignites with tension, burning inside my chest. “It means, I want to fuck you.”
Breath stutters out of me. I’ve had men say those very words to me before, but it’s somehow different coming from this man. Far more toxic and dangerous.
He pushes his leg between my thighs, the hard muscles pressed against what I imagine is now thoroughly-soaked cotton panties that betray my resistance. The knowing look in his eyes, along with that insidious grin of his that I want to smack right now, tells me he’s all too aware of my secret attraction toward him.
Tipping my hips back against the wall relieves me of the pressure against my sensitive flesh, and the incessant throb is a frustrating reminder that I could’ve easily humped this guy’s leg like some horned up dog just now.
“One night with you. Whatever I want. After which, I’ll return your knife, and we’ll go our separate ways.”
I’ve certainly slept with men who propositioned me for less than what that knife means to me, but something about this particular man has my body as much on guard as aroused. Something tells me one night with him would probably be the most terrifyingly exhilarating night of my life, but I’m too chicken shit to find out. Doesn’t matter that he’s hot as sin, or that the taste of deliciously bad decisions lingers on the tip of my tongue, just begging to be savored. This guy would swallow me up and spit me out like expired milk.
Sorry Russ. I loved the knife.
“You know what?” I hate that my voice arrives shaky and unsteady. “Keep the knife. Shove it up your ass and fuck yourself with it.” Muscles tense, I wait for him to react in anger, as men sometimes do when their pride has just been slapped.
Instead, his lips curve into a deviant smile, and he steps back from me. “Comme te veux. As you wish.”
The exchange should fill me with elation, knowing I so proudly stood up for myself, to this guy who thinks he reigns over women, so why the hell do I feel like I’ve lost? It isn’t right.
A part of me almost wants him to react in rage, because at least then I’d feel one-hundred percent certain I made the right choice by denying his request. But, no. He’s gotta be all nice and Valir Frenchy suave about it.
“So that’s it, then? You’re just going to keep my knife because I won’t fuck you?”
“Non, I’m gonna keep the knife because I won it in a bet. One you agreed to.”
“Before I knew I was betting against a professional hustler.”
“Ah, well. We can’t all be perceptive.”
“You’re a real piece of work. I’ll bet you win all the girls that way, don’t you? Take something meaningful and turn it into a bargaining chip.”
“It’s really no different than you showing up here in that low-cut dress, is it? We all have our bargaining chips.”
“If you’re suggesting I wore this dress for you, perhaps you’re unaware that I all but exchanged numbers with your cousin Luc this morning.”
Ugh. That argument has absolutely no basis, and I’m not even sure what prompted it to fly out of my mouth, except for the knot of rage churning in my gut. I don’t even know his