by Qwillia Rain
Poker Posse 1:
LOOKING AT ROSE
Qwillia Rain
www.loose-id.com
Poker Posse 1: Looking at Rose
Copyright © January 2013 by Qwillia Rain
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eISBN 9781623001421
Editor: Rory Olsen
Cover Artist: Scott Carpenter
Published in the United States of America
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This e-book is a work of fiction. While reference might be made to actual historical events or existing locations, the names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
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Dedication
For RJ and his intentional murder of his plot bunny—if you hadn’t asked for help, I never would have met Jake or been introduced to the Poker Posse or the Omen.
For my mom, Starr, who has always supported my writing and for naming the ladies of the Posse—I promise never to move back home!
And for Elijana Kindel, Cassandra Gold, Erin Kelley, and Jennifer Cole for providing feedback, support, and encouragement as I worked out the details of not only Rose and Ibraham’s story, but the other Masters of the Omen.
Chapter One
Ibraham Rajonovich loved to watch Rose Whittman move. Each stroke of the whisk through the creamy concoction in the bowl was enhanced by the sway of her hips, as if she danced to a beat only she could hear. The way she’d slide her fingers over the various jars and bottles or the boxes of ingredients lining her worktable made him imagine how those fingers would feel on his skin. Today she chose the blue bottle and measured several drops of the liquid into the mixture, then stirred until the coloring was distributed through the frosting.
Even more tantalizing than her seduction with food was how animated Rose became every time someone strolling along the sidewalk stopped to observe her. Many times, the performance she put on creating her unique candies and specialty cakes would draw a customer into her shop. Those were the moments he knew her love of being on display outweighed her interest in selling her wares. It was obvious in the way her shoulders drooped the slightest bit with the jingling of the bell over the door that she’d rather be watched than tend to customers.
Most seductive of all to him was how comfortable she was in her own skin. No skimping on meals or depriving herself of sweets for his curvy confectioner. She never hesitated to nibble on one of her candies or to swipe her finger along the edge of the icing or batter bowl as a reward for completing a cake or selection of cupcakes. She secured her long black hair in a twist or ponytail beneath a hairnet, but the inky strands tempted him to imagine what they’d look like loose. The requisite white chef’s coat remained on a hook while the vibrantly hued T-shirts, tank tops, and low-rise jeans she wore showed off her abundant curves and voluptuous figure. A figure he ached to get his hands on and into his bed.
Finally Rose looked up and spotted him at the outdoor table. She smiled and waved and then went back to the cake in front of her. The rhythm of her hips matched the familiar forward-and-back, then left-to-right motions of the spatula as she smoothed the icing over the bottom layer, before she set the second on top and began covering it in the blue frosting. Ibraham shifted in his seat, his body growing uncomfortably hard. He doubted she was aware how sexually enticing her movements were to him—to any man watching. She spun the rotating platform the cake rested on at a steady pace, working the topping over the treat and her audience of one into an aroused state that even the coldest of showers couldn’t dissipate.
The alarm on his watch beeped, alerting him that it was time to return to his shop. When he stood, Rose’s head came up, and she smiled at him again. He gave her a wave and headed toward the storefront he occupied next to her candy store. What he wouldn’t give to have her bound inside his cage at the Omen. She was tall, only a few inches shorter than his six feet six inches. Since he’d designed the barred display box to accommodate his height, it wouldn’t strain her shoulders or hips to be bound to the outside framework of the wrought iron. Not like the smaller subs he’d chained up and played with inside his barred cell. Her ivory skin and long black hair would look perfect in contrast to the matte black iron.
Behind him the bell over her shop door rang. “Ibraham.” Her husky voice reached him a few steps from his door.
She stumbled to a halt when he turned to face her. “Yes, Rose?”
Her cheeks went pink, and her blue eyes shimmered with excitement. She held out a small white cardboard box. “I made this for you. I was hoping you’d stop into the shop when you took your break…” She let her words trail away.
The tips of her fingers were tinted blue from the frosting, but they were cool despite the summer heat when his hands covered hers to accept the box.
“I didn’t want to disturb your play. You looked like you were having a wonderful time with your cake,” he teased, wanting to see the color warm her face again. He wondered if the cheeks of her ass would flush that exact shade of pink if he applied his hand to them.
“I was, but I wanted to make sure I got this to you. I think I’ve finally gotten it right.” She practically bounced on her toes, waiting for him to open the box.
He lifted the lid and laughed at the miniature wine-bottle-shaped treat. “Perfect.”
“Taste it,” she urged.
The smile on her lips tempted him to taste her, but he fought down the craving and lifted the treat to his lips. The moment he nipped off the top and neck of the bottle-shaped candy, the smell of muscadine grapes and vanilla reached his nose. The robust flavor of the wine he made burst on his tongue along with the subtle taste of white chocolate and the barest hint of peaches. The blend of flavors filled his mouth, drawing a low hum of appreciation. “Sinful. You will put me out of business with these, woman.”
She ignored the teasing threat and clapped her hands like a child who’d won a prize at the fair. “Really?”
He held the treat to her lips and squelched the command that rose to his lips, changing it at the last minute to a query. “Taste it?”
She took a nibble. Her nose immediately scrunched up the tiniest bit, and a sour look caused her face to wrinkle.
Ibraham laughed; he’d seen her make the same face when he gave her a sip of his best vintage. Tempting fate, he leaned down and kissed her lips—a quick peck that could be considered a gesture from a friend and nowhere near as sexual as he’d like it to be. “You have a barbarian’s palate.” He popp
ed the rest of the treat into his mouth and chewed while he gauged Rose’s response.
She didn’t run away, but she didn’t move closer. The dominant within shook his head and settled back onto his throne. A bit more time, that’s all he would give his sweets maker.
Rose grinned up at him. “I don’t have a barbarian’s palate. I simply don’t like the taste of alcohol.”
The curve of her chin felt softer than the inside of a rose petal against his fingertips. “If you would come into my winery, I would teach you to appreciate it. Like you appreciate each of the ingredients you use to make your candies and cakes.”
Rose tilted her head so her cheek rubbed along his retreating fingers, despite the speculative look she gave him.
As innocent as she might appear, he glimpsed a knowing awareness in Rose that stirred the dominant in him. It made him want to test her boundaries, her limits. To see how far she would go if he put her on display before an audience at the Omen. Would she simply let him tie her up, or would she allow him to bare her luscious body? Stroke her breasts, her belly, her thighs? Between her thighs? Would she climax with others watching? Or would she fight her body’s need for release? Perhaps let him fuck her while the crowd cheered encouragements and suggestions? All these thoughts went through Ibraham’s mind in the moments before she responded to his oft-mentioned offer.
She adopted her heavy Georgia-peach accent, the one that only came out when she was extremely tired or extremely irate, or in this case, when she was teasing him mercilessly. “I’m a good Southern lady, Mr. Rajonovich. We don’t enter establishments alone with a gentleman especially to partake of spirits.”
Ibraham laughed and corrected her pronunciation of his name, like he did every time she rejected his offer. “Ray-no-vick, Miss Whittman, not Ra-john-oh-vitch.”
“I know.” She grinned and the dimple in her left cheek taunted him. “I’ll see you later, Ibraham.”
“Tomorrow, Rose.”
ROSE WATCHED IBRAHAM enter his urban winery, and let loose the breath she’d been holding. She turned back to her shop, desperate to get off the street and wallow in the fact that not only had he touched her cheek, something he did quite often and she always looked forward to, but that he’d actually kissed her. Her belly flip-flopped, and her knees felt like gooey caramel sauce.
At six feet tall in her bare feet, Rose was an oddity. Her mother assured her, her height came from her father’s side of the family, but considering Joe Whittman was an only child of only children and hadn’t been taller than five eight, the giants in her dad’s gene pool had to go back pretty far. By her senior year of high school she had grown accustomed to towering over most of the men in her small hometown of Magnolia, Georgia. It would have been okay if it was just her height that set her apart, but nature had given her the double whammy of height and curves—very generous curves that no amount of dieting could reduce.
Until the age of fourteen, things had been okay. She’d avoided most of the issues with the other girls in town by wearing sneakers, jeans, and oversize shirts. But once she started high school, no amount of slouching or layering could hide her from the taunts. The fact that she preferred fishing and hanging out in her dad’s garage to tea parties and window shopping further distanced her from the “normal” girls.
It didn’t matter that she counted the daughters of an honest-to-goodness English lord and the town’s mayor as two of her four best friends; being an Amazon among the fairy-tale princesses at school had been disheartening to Rose. Most guys were eye level with her D-cups, and considering the suggestions and wandering hands she fended off usually resulted in her beating up any potential dates, that tended to leave Rose with a nonexistent social life. Even the boys tall enough not to be intimidated by her preferred to date the petite cheerleaders.
And no one dared suggest sports to Rose, not after the debacle created by her attempt to go out for the high school basketball team freshman year. Based on the way Mrs. Tibbets still glared at Rose whenever they crossed paths even eight years after graduating, Rose was pretty sure the coach hadn’t forgiven her for the concussion, not to mention the shiner the woman had sported for a week after the incident. Since her failure at sports rivaled her romantic life, Rose had learned early on to find joy in the simple things. Like food, particularly sweets. Candies, cakes, tarts, pies all those wonderful confections that kept her hips pleasantly plump.
Then Ibraham arrived, and her libido hadn’t been the same. Since the day the big vats had been installed and the crusher/destemmer had rumbled to life, Ibraham Rajonovich had been a present and constant distraction to her. He wasn’t pretty-boy handsome like Ryan Reynolds or Channing Tatum, but more mature, charismatic, and rugged like Robert Downey Jr. or Daniel Craig. His eyes were a dark honey brown, and his hair was a unique indigo black, which he wore long and pulled back into a ponytail that hung below his shoulders. Most delicious of all, he was tall. Taller than her even when she was in her favorite hooker high heels.
Since they were neighbors in the shopping center on Magnolia’s High Street, she’d chatted with him whenever he’d step outside for a break or those times he’d visited her shop. Over the last year she’d learned quite a bit about who he was and where he was from. Despite the faint accent that flavored his words, Ibraham was second-generation Slovakian-American, born in California and raised on the small vineyard his grandfather, three great-uncles, and four “adopted” uncles had built when they first came to America from a small village in the Carpathian Mountains. He’d teased her during one of their first conversations that he’d been declared the black sheep of the family because of his fascination with muscadines after sampling a bottle of homemade wine made from the hearty Southern grapes.
Back inside her shop, Rose added yellow food coloring to the remaining icing and stirred until it was the deep green of magnolia leaves. While she piped the leaf design onto the cake, Rose forced her mind to stay on task instead of wandering into the fantasy realm it liked to play in when it came to Ibraham. The man was successful, handsome, charming; he could have his pick of women, and considering the ones that frequented his shop, he had no shortage of interested parties. The chance that he’d pick a Goliath who’d never see a size 14 in her closet much less on her body wasn’t likely.
She frowned down at the wind-blown-leaves design taking shape on the top of her cake, despondent at the idea of seeing Ibraham escorting one of the skinny, delicate debutants that were always hovering around him. The poor man would develop a permanently hunched back if he had to bend over to kiss one of the pretty little blondes that buzzed about like bees to honey. If she thought Ibraham would ever see her as something other than a friend or business acquaintance, Rose would be right there with all those other women vying for his attention.
Only problem was Rose was nothing if not honest with herself; there wasn’t much she had to offer a man like Ibraham. Her shop was a small one, barely making enough to pay the rent on the space and keep her in supplies. The online purchases were her biggest draw, but right now Sweet Rose Treats was only known regionally, nowhere near the level of income Slova Wines brought in. If the business and industry magazines were to be believed, her annual profits barely matched what his family’s wineries netted in a week. Heck, as the daughter of a retired school librarian and an auto mechanic, her social ranking put her just barely on the right side of the tracks, while Ibraham had a few blue-blooded noblemen somewhere in his family line. With that kind of background, what possible interest could he have in her?
If that didn’t deflate her aspirations of gaining his attention, there was that other little thing that kept her feet firmly planted in reality. Rose piped the last leaf onto the cake with a scowl. Ibraham was a sophisticated, engaging man who practically oozed experience—of the sexual kind. At twenty-six, she had been on five dates—the last one three years ago—and was still a virgin. She’d been kissed, but never passionately. Although she wasn’t ignorant about sex and had turned down her fa
ir share of offers while attending cooking school, Rose had never entertained thoughts of going all the way with any of the boys she’d known. She was also confident, based on the poor results of her sports career, that any attempts at intimacy would more than likely result in a disaster to rival the burning of Atlanta, if not the entire War of Northern Aggression.
Rose had resigned herself to lusting after Ibraham from afar despite his daily visits and his teasing. Picturing him when she was alone and aching in her bed at night had become a pretty sad but common practice over the last eight months.
With a heavy sigh, Rose eased the cake into a box and moved it into the cooler so it would be ready for her customer to pick up later in the afternoon. Shaking her head, she began cleaning up her work area. No, wanting more than friendship from Ibraham was ridiculous. Rose knew her limitations, and Ibraham Rajonovich fell outside those boundaries.
She grinned, then scooped a bit of icing from the bowl and licked it off her finger. Yes, he was way out of her league, but there was no harm in indulging in a fantasy or three about the man. And Rose had a very vivid imagination. A purr rumbled in her throat as she eyed the last little bit of whipped cream frosting. Images of carefully smearing it over Ibraham’s lean torso, then licking it off had the temperature rising in Rose’s shop.
Yup, she had a great imagination, but the reality was she’d never have the courage, much less the opportunity, to indulge it. Not with Ibraham. Probably not with any man.
Chapter Two
“You remind me of Joe.”
Her mother’s comment was a familiar one, especially when Rose had her head buried in the engine compartment of her mother’s Chevy Nova. Grinning over her shoulder, she quipped, “Is my butt that big?”
A slap against her posterior only made Rose laugh.