Prologue
Gia
Stormy blue eyes follow my movement as I raise my glass to my lips and sip my club soda, wishing it was colder.
Though I’m down more than $300 after my first hour of blackjack at the MGM Grand, it’s not the game that has my face flushed and the back of my neck covered in a layer of sweat.
I could lose ten times the amount I’ve surrendered to the house tonight and still not be as worked up as Maverick Hagen has me right now. The man staring at me from the opposite end of the blackjack table has me wishing I could drop an ice cube down the front of my top.
The stakes are high tonight, but they’ve got nothing to do with money. Not directly, anyway. Maverick and I sat down at this table an hour and a half ago, each with $1,000 in chips, to settle a bet. First one to run out of chips loses.
And while I’d never admit it, it’s the first time in my life as a professional gambler that I don’t actually want to win.
“Hell yeah!” The player next to me fist-pumps to celebrate his win. “I had a feeling about that one!” He turns to face me, his breath reeking of cigar smoke. “That was almost as beautiful as you, hot stuff.”
Maverick’s gaze darkens from the other side of the table as the man leans in close.
“Fuck off,” I say, glaring at him with my best resting-bitch-face look.
He laughs again, and this time it’s more like a bellow, tiny spit particles flying from his mouth onto the felt-covered table.
“Feisty.” He waggles his bushy eyebrows. “I like it.”
“Get in my face again and I’ll knock your fat ass out of that chair,” I tell him with a scowl.
Finally getting the hint, he returns my look of disdain as the woman sitting on my right snickers in amusement. I look at the dealer, waiting for the next deal. I’ve got more important things to worry about than a drunken, mouthy tourist.
Actually, tonight, there’s only one thing on my mind. Am I going back to my room alone tonight, or will Maverick be joining me? The two of us have been doing a dance for about four months now—our banter ranging from passionate arguments to heated flirting.
Do I want him? Strictly speaking, yes. How could I not? He’s six feet, two inches of dark, muscled sex on skates. I never would’ve thought an ice hockey player could be as sexy as he is, but in the hundred plus days since I met him, I’ve turned into a hot mess. An actual hot mess, my focus suffering because of how hot I am for him.
Just the way he sips his whiskey, licking his lips afterward, makes me clench my thighs together. No one has ever undone me with just a look the way he does. And his voice affects me every bit as much, the deep, silky sound of it tempting me to toss my chips in a trash can and climb him every time we meet in a casino.
Will I live up to his image of me, though? Maverick thinks he and I will be like sexual napalm—an explosive, rare combination that will put all our past partners to shame.
I think his idea of Gia Ford is more grandiose than the reality. Still, there’s a voice in the back of my mind reminding me of all the times he’s told me I’m one of a kind. That I’m not like other women. That I’m fearless and strong. And he’s right on all counts.
“Hey,” the woman next to me says under her breath as she nudges me.
“Oh.”
I snap out of my daydream and look at my cards, then check to the dealer.
“Weak,” the cigar-smoking prick next to me mutters.
I just smile. I’ve been in Vegas for nine months now, and I see suckers like him come and go every day. They win some money, think they’re the most lethal combination of smart and lucky to ever grace the Strip, and end up going home broke because they can’t stop betting with the hope of winning more.
I’ve never wanted more. At least not for myself. But since Maverick came to town and set his sights on me, I’ve started wondering…what would more be like? What if I gave in and let him take me to bed, that scruff brushing over every inch of skin on my body? What if, just once, I let go for a night and trusted him to make the decisions?
I can’t control myself when I’m around you. All I can think about is your perfect round ass and that smart mouth. Let me show you how crazy you make me.
Maverick’s words echo in my mind as I tap the table to hit for another card. I don’t even register what it is, my gaze locked onto Maverick and his fixed on me.
I’ll fuck you the same way I play hockey—all in, with everything I’ve got.
Maverick and I both win the hand, and I feel a flare of frustration. This bet won’t be settled until one of us is out of chips, and if it takes all night and I lose, I don’t want us to both be exhausted before we even make it to bed.
I want him. God, do I want him. If he’s right, and our chemistry is off the charts, it’ll be a night I’ll remember forever. And once we both get this out of our systems, we can turn our focus back to where it needs to be.
For him, that’s hockey. His team is making headlines for all the wrong reasons right now. They just got out of a bad losing streak and Maverick is feuding with a teammate.
And for me, it’s poker. I’m not winning as much money as I was before Maverick skated into town. And since I didn’t come to Las Vegas for fun, but to make the money I need to bring down my rival, that can’t continue.
If Maverick wins tonight, he’ll screw me all the way into next week and the tension between us will finally be gone. But if I win, this hot, heavy feeling I can’t escape will only get worse.
You’re my fucking fantasy, Gia.
“Ice?” I croak at the waitress who stops by our table for drink orders. “Can I get a cup of ice and a long island?”
The corners of Maverick’s lips turn up in a smile. He knows I don’t drink alcohol when I’m playing. But that’s poker. Blackjack is a cakewalk, and I need a drink to calm my nerves.
“Bullshit,” the guy next to me mutters when he loses a hand he staked a lot of money on.
I push him out of my mind—and everything else—as I try to convince myself that sloppy play is the answer to my problems. If I give in and quickly run down the $630 in chips I have left, this thing with Maverick will be over within eight hours. Or maybe, if I’m really lucky…more like twelve.
Point is, tomorrow night, I’ll be back at the poker table with a newfound focus. I can get back to what I do best—winning.
Losing doesn’t come naturally for me. In fact, it’s painful. My dad raised me to be smart with my bets so I’m not rapidly swinging my pot up and down.
As the dealer works, I fall into my default mode of covertly counting cards. It’s what I do when I play blackjack, which isn’t often. If I can stop looking at Maverick and thinking about what his face would feel like between my thighs, I can make my money back.
Is that what I want, though? My instinctive drive to win is at war with my desire to find out what Maverick looks like underneath the gray Las Vegas Saints T-shirt and black shorts he’s wearing.
I take a deep breath, resetting mentally. When my eyes meet his across the table, though, and he breaks into a full-on, sexy-as-sin grin, I’m once again hot all over.
The waitress approaches with our drinks and as soon as she hands me mine, I pass her a red chip and tip the drink back, taking several huge swallows. It burns, which is fitting since I feel like I’m on the verge of bursting into flames myself.