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Snow flutters down between the long buildings of Boston, blanketing the Christmas Eve streets in a thin layer of powder and muffling the sounds of holiday celebration. Warm light spills out of large windows and the people inside, their faces rosy with the heat and alcohol all seem oblivious to the growing winter wonderland.
Roman smiles and takes in a gratuitous breath. The cold has made the air smell clean, and the solitude suits him — for now. His dark eyes reflect the streetlights as he makes his way along a downward slope, long coat brushing up snow as he walks. His stride is naturally long at 6’2″, but his feet barely crunch the snow underfoot, his movements graceful. He takes his time — the night, for him, was just beginning. It is a short walk from his brownstone to the basement entrance that, like many of its above-ground-counterparts, glows with warm, inviting light. He reaches a gloved hand up to brush through wavy auburn hair – long enough to tickle the nape of his neck and to remind him a haircut is due in the coming weeks.
Polished shoes dance down the stairs, through the open archway and into the short hallway that lays beyond. He glides past the sign that says Closed for a Special Event without giving it a second glance, and grins as the smell of cigar smoke and aged whiskey hits him. He pauses just past the hallway — the cold from outside against his back, and the heat from the furnace and dozen or so people in the room warming his face.The light from the room washes over his skin, revealing a square, freshly shaven jawline. His eyes dance over the room, drinking in the scene and assessing the tone of the evening.
A handful of round tables are spaced out evenly and a long, mahogany bar lines the long wall. Behind it, liquor bottles glint with a rainbow of colors from the twinkle lights strung above them. Of the handful of tables, only three were still running, the others abandoned one by one as players ousted one another.
“A little late to the game, are we?” A voice from beside Roman speaks. A man, a little shorter than the newcomer, moves to stand shoulder to Roman. His hand moves gently, and the ice in his glass swirls as they survey the room together.
Roman makes an unconcerned noise, “Why bother with less skilled players when others can deal with them for me?”
“A fair point, sir.” The man nods and takes a sip of his whiskey on the rocks.
“And I am certain none of these people would be bothered by the prospect of taking my money,” Roman grins and adjusts the scarf around his neck. Snowflakes lose their grip on the fiber and rain gently to his feet. A woman comes from around the bar and, after Roman tugs off his gloves, takes the scarf and long coat as Roman strips them all. The coat had made his shoulders appear broad – now that it is gone, it was clear the coat was actually form-fitting. What was also revealed is a vest that buttoned high up the man’s chest – dark brown and a rough texture. A flap is folded open near the base of his neck, and a simple white dress shirt with the top button undone completes the look. “Tell me, Walter, who is my competition for the evening?”
Walter gestures with his drink, speaking clearly, but not loud, “The gentleman in red, he tells everyone he plays for a living. He’s not great, but he is also not a risk taker. It makes for a long, if not steady game. I believe he is simply waiting the others out.”
“That’s boring,” Roman scolds.
“Indeed, sir.”
“Who else?”
Walter glances imperceptibly at his counterpart. He recognizes the eager, impatient expression on his face and decides to skip any further niceties. He gives a small sigh before proceeding, “The woman,” he nods his head in her direction, and luckily she is too focused on the game – her game – to notice their attention. “Too many have underestimated her this evening and regretted it. I am sure it doesn’t hurt that she’s…” He trails off.
“Smoking hot,” Roman finishes for him.
“Yes sir.” Walter agrees and finishes his drink.
Roman’s eyes narrow and he wets his lips as he observes the woman. She is wearing a red dress that matches her red, glossy lips. The garment hugs her curves nicely, leaving smooth lines that any man that still had a pulse would die to reach out and touch. She leans forward on the table and runs a contemplative finger down the length of the pendant of her necklace — Roman can’t exactly make it out with her hand in the way, but it rests very neatly in the slope between her breasts. All the men at the table look transfixed — and not at their cards.
When she finally shows her cards, she favors them all with a generous smile. She leans forward and a strand of her dark hair comes loose, dragging against the green felt of the table as she pulls her winnings to the edge. Her round cheeks and sparkling eyes exuded midwest charm, but her long legs — one crossed over the other — exuded a different kind of charm. Even the man who was left with no chips at all doesn’t seem zonguldak escort to be that upset about it. Instead, he utters some words about it being a pleasure, and wanders over to the coat check with a dumb smile. He revives himself from the trance long enough to give a wink to Roman on his way by, along with a look of sympathy as he notices the man staring.
“What’s she drinking?” Roman asks.
“She’s not.” Walter supplies.
Roman makes a reproachful noise and voices his thought aloud, “That will need to be remedied.” He smiles and claps a hand onto the man’s shoulder. He speaks instructions and gets a curt nod and slight bow before he leaves Walter to his work and weaves his ways between tables. He runs his fingers along the chairback of the recently vacated seat and watches as the woman looks up from arranging her clips to regard him. The vacant seat is across from her – fortuitous, perhaps, or simply the product of the previous man being too distracted to care about is cards, or his money.
Her lips part and he can see the brilliant white of her teeth peeking out behind them. He is grinning – not on purpose, because he is imagining her lips curled back, in a moan, or perhaps a scream. He is about to frivolously ask permission to join their table when she speaks instead.
“You look like you slipped and fell into the 1890s.” She informs him, and the look on her face immediately afterwards clues him into the fact she had not intended to speak the thought aloud. She recovers quickly, her green eyes refusing to look away.
His grin turns into a bemused smirk, but his eyes are serious, “My dear, has no man ever dressed the occasion for you?” He asks and sounds upset on her behalf.
Her cheeks flush, and she may think his question is rhetorical, but he keeps his gaze insistent. “Not like that,” she finally answers, inclining her head to where he stands.
“Shame,” He says, and he means it. “Ms…”
“You can call me Scarlet,” her hand moves back to the pendant dangling from a long chain around her neck and he can see it clearly now. It’s a long tooth. The fang of a predator. Roman’s grin is back, and she thinks it is because her little game is working. Stroking the necklace, drawing his eyes lower. He admits to himself the view is not bad, but it is her choice of jewelry that amuses him. “And you are..?”
“Roman,” the man straightens and gives a bow at the waist, leaning forward only inches – but that is all that is needed to convey the meaning of an old gesture. A moment later, he is nodding to an attentive servant who is waiting for instruction. As he sits, a drink is placed in front of him and he gives a word of thanks. Finally, he acknowledges the others at the table. “Gentlemen – Lady, I hope you don’t mind my late arrival.”
“Depends on how much money you plan to lose,” the man to his left says and gives a hearty chuckle.
“It’s only money,” Roman laments and takes a sip of his Old Fashion. It’s normal orange hue is tinted darker, bordering on red.
The two men to Roman’s left share a look, and then a grin.
Roman taps the table and the dealer slides three stacks of chips in front of him. Scarlet is looking at him oddly, but he ignores it – and her, as the dealer speaks. “Gentlemen, lady.” He nods toward Roman, “You have the pleasure of meeting our host for the evening.”
“Some host,” Scarlet says and can feel the other men at the table tense. She pauses to enjoy this tension. “To rob us of any chance of studying him until now.”
“I believe you’ll be a quick study,” Roman says with a smile that now reaches his eyes. He takes another sip from his drink and lets his attention linger on the woman before prompting the gameplay to continue.
They work as silent partners – easily taking the two men out of the game within the first half-dozen hands. When the two other tables resolve themselves to a player each, they join Roman and Scarlet, both sitting behind tall columns of chips.
The man in red is as stubborn as Walter made him out to be, but he is no match for Scarlet’s charm. Roman takes no measures to hide his open interest in her as she carefully maneuvers the game. She is a smart player, with a fair amount of good luck on her side, but her game transcends normal poker strategy with a thoughtful tap on her lips, or an offhand comment there to stoke the flames of masculinity. For risk taking. For being bold.
The men are bold, and they lose. Even Roman, who finds that his losses make her bold. He tests this and finds Walter’s ever vigilant gaze. It’s all that is needed and moments later, a drink is served to the lady.
“No thank you,” is her first response, but Roman can tell it’s not genuine. The servant knows better than to remove it, anyway.
“You don’t drink?” Roman asks.
“I do,” she contradicts. “Just not right now.”
“Do you not trust yourself?” he wonders, leaning back in his chair. For his part, he’s had three, but it would bursa escort take many more to get him drunk. “You’re winning.” He points out.
“I’d like to ensure I keep winning,” she counters and reaches slender fingers to the base of the wine glass and pushes it away.
Roman tracks the motion, his attention lingering on her hand before returning to her face. She’s blushing again, and he finds it amusing she only seems to be able to meet his gaze half of the time. “I’ve not seen you at any of my previous games.”
The dealer is watching Roman, and only when he lifts his hand and places it back on the table does he begin distributing cards. Scarlet notices and fixes him with the same odd look he’d seen on her before.
“Are you some kind of big deal I don’t know about?” She wonders aloud, and once again he gets the sense the question did not form itself in the way she meant it to. She stands by it, though, and doesn’t try to rephrase.
His eyes dance with private amusement, as if she’s unwittingly told a joke. “Perhaps,” He answers without answering. “How did you learn of this tournament?”
Scarlet covers the small pile of cards dealt to her and slides them off the edge of the table. Her eyelids lower as she holds the cards low to look at them. He notices how comfortable she looks when she is in her element. Her tongue sweeps along the inside of her lower lip, making the briefest of appearances and for the first time all night, Roman feels genuinely distracted. They are finally alone at the table – save for the dealer – and he watches as her slender fingers rearrange her cards.
She allows herself to buy time by focusing on the cards. By making him wait. She notices he hasn’t even bothered to look at his and thinks she is doing a fine job of keeping his attention off the game. She thinks she is a good player, but has found that she is an even better player when the cleavage comes out. Yet, something doesn’t feel quite right, and it has been steadily scratching against the edge of her mind since Roman appeared.
She thinks, perhaps, because she had intended to be the prettiest person in the room at all times – not exactly difficult in the exciting world of Poker. Now he is here – and, god, he is gorgeous. His old-world charm is off-putting, but not in a bad way, she thinks. Worse, his attention seems to have two, and only two speeds. All or nothing. He is either looking at her with an intensity that, she is not ashamed to admit, makes her blood run hot with excitement, or completely ignoring her. Both are equally infuriating, and though she feels like she is hiding it well enough, is more of a challenge now that it is just the two of them. He is not at all anything she had expected to encounter, and has little preparation for. She fights for her own focus, trying her best to remind herself why she is there in the first place.
Scarlet reaches for the wine glass, raises it to her lips and sets it back on the table before she realizes, in her moment of introspection, she has broken her resolve. She glances up at Roman, feeling startled at herself and is equally vexed by his smug look. “What?” She feels herself snap, but feels breathless. She wonders why she is so flustered, but knows the truth. She is so close to winning – she would have won already if not for him – and now she can barely concentrate.
“My question,” he reminds her.
She gapes, having completely forgotten. “I… a friend told me.” She explains. “He heard I needed money…” She says before she can stop herself. She doesn’t think the wine has had enough time to work on her, but takes another sip of it anyway thinking it might help calm her nerves.
“How many cards would you like, miss?” The dealer asks.
Scarlet looks at him with her charming smile replaced with a look of embarrassed confusion. She looks down at her cards, picks quickly and exchanges them with the dealer.
Roman leaves his cards on the table and the dealer knows better than to inquire. “Money troubles?” He asks, his eyes dancing – not with malice, but interest.
“Nothing terribly original. I am putting myself through grad school.” Scarlet answers as she evaluates her cards. Her focus returns with what she sees, and she plants an elbow on the table, resting her chin in her hand and fixing him with a taunting smile that says she’d either had a hell of a hand, or was bluffing her face of. “Are you going to check, or bet, my friend?”
“Are we friends now?” He smiles back, and finally looks at his cards. It’s a brief glance, and he leaves them face down on the table, waiving off the dealer. He won’t need more cards.
“I hope so, as otherwise I might feel worse about taking your money,” she answers with a grin. He can feel the excitement roll off of her – too much to be a bluff.
“I am going to bet,” Roman answers. “Half,” he pushes half the stack of chips in front of him closer to the center of the table. “Are you going to match?” malatya escort He challenges, and drinks in her reaction.
Scarlet feels her heart race at his generous bet, and it mixes with surprise. He has barely looked at his cards – what are the odds he managed to get a good hand on the first deal? Knowing her own hand… Her thought process trails off and emerges elsewhere. She is excited about the the prospect of taking him out so soon – walk away with the money before he can distract you any more than he already has, she tells herself. “Certainly,” she finally answers and counts out the chips before placing them in the pile. “And,” she says after a beat. “Raise you the rest.”
His eyebrows rise and she feels a hearty satisfaction wash over her. It was the most off guard he had looked all night. She has more winnings than him, and he can’t match her bet. But this, of course, had been the plan all along.
Scarlet leans back in her chair and allows herself a moment to cast her gaze around the room. They were more alone than she had expected them to be – all the bar staff seems to have made themselves sparse now that the game looked to be wrapping up. This must have been a usual scene for them to not be interested in the final hand. The dim light of the underground bar is accented by candles burning, and she feels a pang of regret that she decided to rush this instead of enjoying being the last woman standing for a little while longer.
From the purse placed next to her on the table, she extracts a vanilla cigarillo, lights it, and takes in a long inhale as she watches the man weigh his options.
Roman’s eyes are transfixed on the cigarillo, the one end resting between her pillowed lips. After a long pause, and open admiration, he speaks, “I’m in, and I raise.”
She laughs, a puff of sweet-scented smoke erupting from her mouth. “With what?” She wonders.
“If I win this hand,” he explains as he leans forward. His eyes have captured her, and her cigarillo burns, forgotten. “You are mine for the rest of the evening.” He watches as she tries to hide a shiver, and fails. His grin is easy, and he lets his words hang in the air for a stretch before leaning back and finishing. “And if you win, I am yours.”
Scarlet’s hands have gone numb, and she wonders how she’s managed to keep a hold of the cigarillo. She knows she is gaping, but this time there’s less of an ability to hide it. Goosebumps roll up from the base of her neck and into her hairline. When she doesn’t speak, Roman adds commentary to his own proposal.
“It is a win-win, as far as I am concerned.” His smile shows shiny, white and perfect teeth.
“I…” Scarlet breaths, working to regain her focus. If her body had been in charge of the answer, she would have already agreed. They might already be on the table, chips falling to the floor. “Didn’t realize this was that kind of game.”
“It’s not,” Roman counters quickly. “Did you see the other players?” He asks with a twinkle in his eye
She laughs and finds herself taking a sizeable sip of the wine he’d ordered for her. It is the best wine she’s ever tasted, and she thinks it is contributing to the feelings of warmth coalescing to her center. “And when you say, ‘mine’, you mean…”
“I think you know what I mean,” his voice rumbles, and there is an undertone of a growl. Scarlet hopes desperately that her face isn’t as red as it feels. “Either way, I can guarantee you will never have another night, or orgasm, quite like what I can give you.” She hides a gasp and finds herself glancing at the dealer. Roman notices, and with a gesture, the man gets up and leaves with a silent bow. They are truly alone now – or at least it seems that way. “So, are you in, or are you out?” Roman asks pointedly.
“I’ve made my bet.”
“And I’ve raised you.”
Scarlet frowns and shifts her position where she sits. She feels a pulse between her legs and wishes it would calm down so she could think. Her hand is good, and she’s beginning to feel the itch of irritation at his attempt to corner her. Perhaps, she thinks, the best revenge is to take his money and leave him wanting. The thought flees her mind almost immediately as she has it. If she wins – no, when she wins – she has every intention of taking him up on his offer of servitude. She looks around and asks, “Where?” He knows her meaning.
“My brownstone. It is close.” He answers, his gaze never leaving hers. She finds herself glancing down at his cards again.
“Fine,” she breathes the word, but recovers quickly. “But I hope you are comfortable being under a woman,” She lays out her cards. It is a straight flush – the 5 of Hearts through the 9 of Hearts. She watches as his expression darkens and thinks she’s won. She can feel how wet she is, and the rush of this victory is very different from the other tournaments she’s taken the grand prize at.
“That is a very good hand,” He admits.
“Thank you,” she grins and leans back, taking a drag from the cigarillo before bringing the wine glass to her lips and drinking easily now that both hands are free. She vaguely wonders if he is into being bossed around by a woman. This was certainly a roundabout way of getting a thrill, but she wasn’t going to trouble herself with that just now.
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