“You should know that all of my illusions are shattered,” I tell him. “I don’t know if I can stay with a man who loses at poker.”

“But I do it with such charm,” he says.

Jamie lifts her hands in a what-can-you-do gesture. “I’m just that awesome,” she says. “Don’t say that I didn’t warn you.”

Damien leans back on the small love seat that he and I are sharing, his feet kicked out in front of him and his cards face down on the small glass table. “You both do realize that poker is a game that develops over time. It’s not about just a few hands.”

Jamie and I exchange glances before she looks back at Damien. “In other words, you’re sizing me up.”

I raise my brows. “He better not be,” I say archly.

We all laugh, but Jamie tosses down her cards, then flops backward onto the chaise. “Yeah, well, then the joke’s on you, because I think I have to pass out now.”

I wait, expecting her to say something else, but all I hear is a soft snore.

“Jamie?” I say stupidly.

“She’s out,” Damien says.

“It’s the whipped cream vodka,” I say. “That stuff’s dangerous.”

“Shall I move her inside?”

I consider getting a blanket and letting her sleep outside, but decide she’ll be better off with a mattress and real sheets and no sun blasting on her face first thing in the morning. “Can you lift her?”

“She’s tiny,” he says. “I think I can manage.” He picks her up easily, and she tilts toward him, curled up like a little girl against his chest. I hold the door open for him, and she wakes up just long enough to smile sleepily at him. I expect her to say something flirtatious and trademark Jamie. Instead, my heart squeezes when I hear her soft, “You’re so good for her. You know that, right?”

“She’s good for me,” Damien replies, squeezing my heart a little bit more.

“That’s what I mean,” Jamie says—and then she’s out again. Lost in her whipped cream haze.

I pause in the doorway before shutting her door, looking back fondly. As much of a wreck as Jamie can be, she’s still my best friend, and it’s times like this that I remember why.

“So tell me, Ms. Fairchild,” Damien says as I follow him to the master suite. “How much whipped cream vodka did you have?”

“Too sweet for me,” I admit. “But I ordered quite a few shots of Macallan.”

“Did you? That can increase a bar tab pretty quickly.”

I step close to him, relishing the way the air thickens with our proximity. “Well, maybe you can win it back at poker.”

“That’s an interesting wager,” he says. “I propose a small amendment.”

I cock my head. “Negotiating, Mr. Stark?”

“Always.” He takes another step toward me. He’s right there, so close that my breasts will brush against his chest if I do nothing more than take a deep breath. He leans forward until his lips are near my ear. We still do not touch, but his breath when he speaks sends shivers down my spine. “Strip poker, Ms. Fairchild.”

The heat in his voice matches the fire in his eyes, and I start to melt a bit.  But this opportunity is too delicious to squander and I match his gaze inch for inch, my lips curving into a smile when I see the bulge of his erection beneath his jeans. I lift my eyes slowly to meet his and find them smoldering. He cocks his head as if to say, oh, yes.

I swallow. “All right, Mr. Stark,” I say, then turn and head toward our bedroom. I pause in the doorway and smile. “Prepare to get naked.”

My threat, however, turns out to be hollow, and twenty minutes later I have lost my flip-flops, the light sweater I was wearing to ward off the chill from the lake, and my T-shirt. I’m left wearing a short pink skirt, a pale purple thong, and a matching demi-cup bra that is cut so low that my very erect nipples are straining against the decorative lace that lines the top of each minuscule cup.

Damien is still fully dressed.

“Are you sure you don’t cheat?” I ask.

“As a rule, no. In order to see you naked, I would be sorely tempted.”

“Aha!” I aim a stern finger at him.

He laughs. “Fortunately, your massive consumption of Scotch saved me the trouble. You’re not playing your best, Ms. Fairchild.”

I raise my brows. “Have you considered that I’m just setting you up?”

“Are you? Well, that’s interesting information.” He nods at the cards I hold in my hands. “Let’s see what you’ve got.”

I lay my cards down, feeling smug. “A pair of kings, ace high.”

“Not bad,” he says. “Too bad I have the other three aces.”

“You do not,” I say, but he lays the cards down and, sure enough, two red and one back ace wink up at me.

“Off with it,” he says.

I reach for the clasp at the front of my bra.

“Oh, no,” he says, then makes a twirling motion with his finger. “The skirt. I’ll get the zipper for you.”

I scowl, but comply, turning around to give him access. He presses his palm against my skin, his hand curved to cup my waist. With the other hand, he slowly tugs down the zipper. “Up,” he says, and I rise to my knees, then close my eyes and try not to tremble as his slowly eases the skirt down, his fingers grazing oh so softly on each bit of bare skin that he reveals during the process. “There you go,” he says, as I twist around to sit back down, pulling my legs free from the skirt as I do.

I’m dressed now only in the tiny bra and even tinier panties. It’s cool in the room—we’ve opened the door to the private patio—but my skin is burning. “Deal,” I say, trying to control my breathing, because with each breath my breasts rise and fall, and with each motion my nipples brush the lace. The sensation is driving me crazy. It’s rough and teasing and I can’t help but imagine the light nip of Damien’s teeth, the soft pressure of his mouth as he suckles me, the warmth of his hands as he cups my breasts. And the insistent press of his cock as he presses his body full against mine.

“Nikki.”

“What?” I jerk my head up, reality returning. Considering the way Damien is looking at me, I think he knows exactly what I was thinking.

“Your cards.”

I glance down and realize he’s already dealt. “Oh. Right.” I see the corner of his mouth twitch. “What?” I demand.

“I didn’t say a thing,” he says. “But if I had, I probably would have told you to move.”

I tilt my head. “To move?” I’m sitting on my heels, my knees and thighs together.

“On your bottom,” he says. “Your legs crossed.”

“I—why?”

“Because I want to see you,” he says.

I raise my brows. “Is that part of the game, Mr. Stark?”

“It is now. I want to see how wet you are. I want to know how much it turns you on sitting here across from me, slowly losing bits of your clothing, becoming more and more open to me. And all the while knowing that soon—very soon—I’m going to bury myself in you.”