Page 59 of Blood & Throttle

I roll my eyes, snatching the cards like they’re to blame for my flushed cheeks. “Please. I’d spell it wrong just to piss you off.”

“Wouldn’t be the first time,” he mutters, voice dripping with amusement.

And just like that, the tension ratchets tighter.

Round Three

I lose again.

“Shorts,” Riot says, voice like gravel.

I flip him off and shimmy out of the tiny gray sweat-shorts—the kind that barely count as clothes anyway. Now I’m down to nothing but my black lace bra and panties, holding thatbottle of moonshine like it’s a damn trophy. I tip it back, taking a long swig that burns all the way down. Good. I like the burn, means I’m still breathing.

Riot watches me as he polishes off his second bottle like it’s water. Eyes locked. Unblinking.

“See something you like, Carter?” I ask, arching a brow, lips curling around the rim of the bottle.

He doesn’t answer. Just keeps looking at me like I’m the last cigarette on Earth and he’s dying for a hit.

It makes my skin buzz, stomach twist, but not in fear, something hotter. Dirtier. There’s heat in that stare, something feral and barely restrained. Like he’s one wrong breath away from forgetting every reason why this is a bad fucking idea.

And I like it.

Which is exactly the problem.

Bastard.

Round Four

He loses.

I flash my cards—full house, queens and eights.

“Jeans,” I say, sugary sweet, sitting up straighter and tilting my head like butter wouldn’t melt in my mouth.

Riot smirks, eyes glinting as he stands. He doesn’t rush. Of course he doesn’t. He unbuttons them slowly, like he knows I’m watching, like he wants me to. The denim slides down his hips, over those carved thighs, pooling at his feet before he kicks them aside.

And just like that, he’s down to nothing but those black boxer-briefs. Tight. Fitted. And yeah, there’s no hiding a damn thing.

My lips part slightly. My gaze drags over every inch of him—scarred muscle, tattooed skin, that impossible mix of brutal and beautiful that makes him look like he crawled out of somepost-apocalyptic biker fantasy. My thighs press together without permission, and his smirk deepens.

“Done checking me out?” he murmurs, voice low, rough, and full of goddamn sin.

I drag my eyes back up to his, slow and deliberate, letting him feel every second of my stare.

“Not even close.”

Round Five

I lose. Again.

I stare down at my shitty hand—two pair, tens, and fives—and toss the cards down with a groan, letting them scatter across the mattress.

“This shit is rigged.”

Riot doesn’t say anything at first. Just leans back with that slow, smug grin spreading across his face like he already knows what comes next.

Because he does.