Chapter 1: Cocktails and Cards
The casino bar hummed, a low thrum underneath the glittering chaos. It was the sound of slots eating money, ice clicking against glass, and a hundred murmured conversations fogged by whiskey and cigarette smoke. Kima followed the swing of Tommi’s leather jacket through the maze of polished tables, the neon from a roulette sign washing his profile in a sickly green.Her heels tapped a quick, nervous rhythm on the patterned carpet.
“You’re thinking about him,” Tommi said, not turning around. He slid onto a velvet stool at the bar and held up two fingers to the attendant.
“I’m not.”
“You get quiet like that.It’s your ‘I’m being a good girlfriend’ face. It’s boring.” He accepted two glasses of something amber and nudged one toward her. “Drink.Unclench.”
Kima took the glass, letting the cold seep into her fingers. She was thinking about him—about Brandon, who was seven hundred miles away and had texted her ‘Sleep well, baby’ three hours ago. The thought felt like a thick sweater on a hot day. She took a long pull of the whiskey, feeling it burn a path down to her stomach, warming the chill that had little to do with the air conditioning.
“That’s better,” Tommi grinned.His knee brushed against hers under the bar.A simple accident, maybe. It stayed there.Two drinks later, the buzz was a soft blanket muffling the sharper edges of her guilt. Tommi was explaining poker hands to her, his breath warm against her ear, his hand on her lower back guiding her toward a quieter table in the corner. He was her boss, but first he’d been her friend.The lines had always been smudged.
“Sit here,” he said, lowering himself into a plush chair at the felt-covered table.He patted his thigh. “Better view.”
She should have said no.She knew she should have said no. Instead, she laughed, a loose, giddy sound, and let herself sink onto his lap. The denim of his jeans was rough against the back of her thighs.His arm came around her waist, anchoring her. He felt solid, real.Present.
“See the flop?” he murmured, his chin dipping close to her shoulder as he tossed chips into the pot with his free hand. The other hand rested low on her belly, his thumb making slow, idle circles just above the waistband of her skirt.
The other players were ghosts, smears of color and sound. Kima’s world condensed to the heat of Tommi beneath her, the smell of his cologne cut with the sharp tang of gin on his breath, the dizzying spin of the overhead light.She pretended to watch the cards. Her heart was pounding a frantic, eager beat against her ribs.His hand drifted.
It was a slow, inevitable descent. His fingertips traced the line of her hip, dipped inward, and came to rest high on her inner thigh.She stiffened.Every cell in her body screamed. She tried to remember Brandon’s face.Tommi made a low, appreciative sound in his ear as he folded his hand. “You’re trembling.”
She was.A shiver ran through her, hot and cold at once. She took another shaky sip of her drink, the glass clinking against her teeth.
His touch was a brand through the thin fabric of her dress and her panties. He wasn’t groping, not yet.He was just…claiming. Letting his palm rest heavily against the fullness of her, the heat of her. His other hand was still tossing chips, chatting casually with the dealer as if his fingers weren’t curled around the very core of her.
A flush spread from her chest up her neck. She could feel herself getting wet, a slow, aching seep of betrayal that sent a pulse of shame through the fog of the alcohol. She squirmed, ostensibly to get a better view of the table.The movement only pressed her more firmly into his hand. A quiet gasp escaped her lips.Tommi heard it. He leaned in, his lips grazing the shell of her ear.“There she is.”
His fingers moved.Just a subtle, testing pressure. A stroke along her seam.The fabric was damp.He hummed again, a vibration she felt everywhere. His thumb found the swollen nub of her clit and pressed down in a slow, deliberate circle.Her head fell back against his shoulder.Her eyes shut. The casino noise blurred into a static roar.“Tommi…” she breathed.“Shhh. Just watching the game.”
He did it again.Another devastating circle. Her hips made an involuntary rock against his hand, a greedy little jerk.She was on fire. The last cohesive thought—Brandon, this is wrong, I should stop this—dissolved into pure, buzzing sensation.
His fingers pressed harder, working her through the silk.The heel of his hand ground against her. She was panting now, small, sharp breaths she tried to stifle. She could feel his erection hardening beneath her, a rigid answer to her own desperation.“I shouldn’t…” she moaned, the words slurring, meaningless.
“You shouldn’t,” he agreed easily, his own voice rough. He pinched her clit gently, and she saw stars.“But you are. Your pretty little cunt is soaking through this dress. Everyone can probably see it.”
The humiliation of it, the filthy truth of it, sent another jolt of pure arousal straight through her. Her hand shot down, clutching his wrist.Not to pull him away.To hold him there.
His mouth was at her ear again, his words a dark, hot promise. “What do you want, Kima?”
She turned her face into his neck, her skin scorching.The words came out torn and honest. “Don’t stop.Please.”
“Please what?”
She swallowed.The room tilted. “Treat me like your whore.”
He moved then. His hand left her, and for a second she felt a loss so acute it was a physical pain. But he was just gathering his chips, cashing out with a smooth, victorious smile at the dealer. He stood up, lifting her with him, setting her on unsteady feet.“Okay,” he said, his voice casual, final. He pocketed the chips, his arm wrapping around her shoulders, pulling her tight into his side. “Let’s get out of here.”
He guided her toward the exit, his steps sure. Kima stumbled alongside him, her legs weak, her mind empty of everything except the throbbing between her thighs and the terrifying, thrilling freedom of having chosen this. The cool night air hit her face as the automatic doors slid open, but it did nothing to douse the heat he’d lit inside her. She didn’t look back.
The parking garage was a concrete tomb, silent except for the echo of their footsteps and the distant drip of water. Tommi’s car, a low black coupe, waited in a corner pool of jaundiced light.He didn’t speak. He just opened the passenger door for her, his hand on the small of her back applying a firm, guiding pressure.The interior smelled of leather and his cologne, the same scent that was on his fingers. He started the engine, the roar unnaturally loud in the enclosed space. As he drove out into the city night, one hand rested on her thigh, his thumb tracing circles on the inside of her leg, higher with each revolution. The streetlights strobed across his profile, hardening his smile into something predatory.“Your place or mine?” he asked, his voice casual, as if choosing a restaurant.
“Yours,” she whispered.Hers had pictures of Brandon on the fridge. Hers had her own bed, where she’d have to lie later and feel the ghost of this.
He nodded, satisfied.
His apartment was a sparse, modern space on the tenth floor, all cold surfaces and city-light views.He didn’t turn on the main lights. A single floor lamp in the living room cast long, angular shadows.He dropped his keys on a glass table with a sharp clatter.
Then he turned to her.The playful boss from the bar was gone. In his place was a man whose gaze stripped her bare. He closed the distance between them in two strides, his hands cupping her face, his kiss swallowing her gasp.It wasn’t gentle.It was a conquest. His tongue shoved into her mouth, tasting of whiskey and ownership. She kissed him back, her hands fisting in his jacket, pulling him closer, her body arching into the solid wall of him.
He broke the kiss, breathing hard.“Say it again.”
Her mind was fuzzy, her lips swollen. “What?”
“What you called yourself.”
The words were ash and gasoline in her throat. “Your whore.”
A dark grin spread across his face.“Yeah. You are.”
His hands were everywhere at once. He spun her around, yanking the zipper of her dress down in one brutal motion.The fabric pooled at her feet. He unhooked her bra with a practiced flick, her breasts spilling into his waiting hands. He groaned, squeezing the soft flesh, his thumbs scraping over her nipples until they were hard, aching points.“Fuck, Kima. Look at you.”
He turned her back to face him, his eyes raking over her body, leaving a trail of fire.He unbuttoned his own jeans, pushing them down just enough. He was already fully hard, thick and eager.He didn’t guide her. He just wrapped a hand in her ponytail and pulled, forcing her to her knees on the cool hardwood floor.
The shock of the position, the subservience of it, made her whimper. He looked down at her, his expression utterly controlled.“Open your mouth.”
She did. He fed himself to her, not gently, not asking.The first thrust hit the back of her throat. She gagged, tears springing to her eyes.He didn’t pull back. He held himself there, his fingers tightening in her hair.“Relax,” he commanded, his voice rough. “Take it.”
She forced herself to breathe through her nose, to let her jaw go slack. He began to fuck her face in a slow, deep, punishing rhythm.Each thrust was a claim. Saliva dripped from her chin.The sounds were obscene, wet, and choked. She looked up at him, his head thrown back, his jaw clenched in pleasure, and a dizzying wave of powerlessness mixed with a deep, shameful thrill.This was what she’d asked for. To be used.“You love this, don’t you?” he grunted, his hips snapping faster. “You love being on your knees, getting your pretty face fucked. You’re a natural cocksucker.”
He pulled out abruptly, glistening and slick. She gasped for air, coughing. Before she could recover, he hauled her up by the arms and marched her towards the couch.He shoved her down onto her back, the rough fabric scraping her skin. He dragged her to the edge, hooked her legs over his shoulders, and drove into her in one brutal, seamless motion.
She cried out, a sharp sound ripped from her lungs. He was too big, too sudden, filling a hollow she hadn’t let herself acknowledge.There was no tenderness, no preamble. Just this: the relentless, physical truth of his body pistoning into hers. Her hips rose to meet him, her own need overriding the burn, the shock. Each slam of his pelvis slapped against her, a raw, primal music. He leaned over her, bracing himself on the couch back, his eyes locked on where they were joined, watching himself disappear into her.
“So fucking wet,” he snarled.“Soaking for me.Is this what you needed?Someone to just take it? To use this greedy cunt?”
“Yes!” she screamed, the word torn from her. “Yes, god, Tommi, please!”
He fucked her harder, deeper. The coil in her stomach tightened, a pressure building towards an inevitable, shattering release. Her fingers clawed at the couch cushions. The world narrowed to the slap of skin, the guttural sounds he made, the devastating friction that was obliterating every thought, every promise, every other name.
She came with a violence that shocked her, her back bowing off the couch, a ragged scream tearing from her throat as the waves convulsed through her, milking him, pulling him deeper.He felt it. With a final, ragged groan, he pulled out of her, his hand stroking himself furiously. His other hand grabbed her jaw, holding her head still. His release shot across her face, hot stripes landing on her cheeks, her lips, her closed eyelids. She flinched at the first splash, then went utterly still, accepting it.The last few pulses landed on her chin and in her hair.
For a moment, there was only the sound of their ragged breathing in the dark room.
He let go of her jaw.She opened her eyes. He was looking down at her, his own face a mask of satiated intensity, studying his work. The smell of sex and salt filled the air between them.