“Blackjack?” I guess when I see the guy show his cards, which equal twenty-one.
“Yeah.” His arm encircles my waist and his hand settles on the front of my belly. He holds me tight as he leans over, pointing to the monitor. “This guy has been in several times over the last couple weeks. Always sitting at the same dealer’s table.” He clicks and the screen zooms back out. “He’s taken the house for over sixty grand.”
“Wow.” That’s a lot of money.
“It shouldn’t have happened,” Ethan says, launching into some explanation about the house edge and the odds. I don’t understand half of what he says, but it’s obvious he’s educated in everything casino-related. I try to keep up with everything, but it’s hard to focus with his fingers massaging into my skin and setting my body on fire. His hand descends and lands on my thigh, squeezing it and making me squirm in my seat.
A lot of the jargon goes over my head, but I catch the bulk of what he’s saying. “So, he’s not only counting cards, but you think he’s working with the dealer?”
“Yeah. The dealer should’ve notified the manager when he won that much in such a short time, but he hasn’t. So, now we’re going to catch them.”
We watch the table for several minutes, and Ethan walks me through the game. I’m entranced by what I see on the screen. The way the dealer deals so smoothly and quickly. When he points out the guy is counting cards, I don’t get it, until he explains it step by step as the man wins three times in a row. Ethan pulls out his phone, explaining he’s requesting a shift change. When another dealer walks over unexpectedly, the current dealer looks confused but changes places. The man who’s been counting cards gets up and, with a small nod to the dealer that you’d miss if the screen wasn’t zoomed in on his face, walks away.
“Oh my God! Did you see that?” I gasp.
“Yep.” Ethan puts his phone to his ear and taps away on his computer. “Got him,” he says to whoever is on the other end. “Sent the file over. Bring them both in and handle it.”
“What are you going to do to them?”
Ethan turns me around so I’m straddling his lap. I try to ignore the thick bulge in his pants that’s pushing against my center, but it’s hard. “The manager is going to make sure neither of them ever step foot in this hotel again.”
“Are you going to kill them?” I ask, memories of finding my brother lying in a pool of his own blood hitting me like a bucket of ice.
Ethan’s hands grip my hips and he pulls me closer to him. “I told you before I’m not in the business of killing people. While your brother had to be dealt with, what Logan did to him… to you… never should’ve happened. When I find him, he will pay.”
Without thought, my arms snake around Ethan’s neck. He stiffens, but I ignore him. “Thank you,” I say, my eyes locking with his. “If it weren’t for you…” I swallow thickly, not wanting to even imagine where I would be right now had Ethan not swooped in and saved me.
“You don’t have to thank me,” he murmurs, his eyes leaving mine and landing on my lips. The air is suddenly thick, and even though I’m not an expert on anything sex-related, I’m almost positive the tension I’m feeling in the room is sexual and mutual.
I lick my dry lips, then speak—immediately realizing my brain must not work when I’m turned on. “I tried to give myself an orgasm like you gave me, but I couldn’t do it. It kept feeling like I was almost there, but then it wouldn’t happen.”
Ethan’s eyes widen then turn into thin slits.
I open my mouth, preparing to take back my word vomit, when Ethan’s mouth crashes against mine. Hard. His tongue delves between my parted lips, seeking my own. I waste no time, grinding against his pelvis. But it feels different this time, and I realize it’s because I’m wearing jeans. They’re playing as a horrible barrier between me and the fireworks.
As if he can read my mind, Ethan lifts me off his lap and sets me onto the table in front of him. He pulls my boots off and drops them to the floor. I lean back and watch as he unbuttons my jeans and tugs them down my thighs. When he stops and stares at me—specifically my panty-covered center—I consider closing my legs, but instead do something the old me would frown upon, but the new me would fist pump over: I spread my thighs open wider to give him a better view.
As if what I’ve done has granted him the permission he was seeking, he pulls my panties down my legs, leaving me open and bare to him. I should be embarrassed, but I can’t find it in me to be. Nervous? Yes. Excited? For sure. But embarrassed? Not at all. And I think it’s because the man in front of me is Ethan, and even though I don’t know him well, I’m comfortable around him. Sure, he’s broody and growly and dangerous, and I should probably be scared of him. But all I feel is relaxed and turned on and content.