Playboy

by Katy Evans

  Cullen

  Last night

  I didn’t sleep. I kept watching Wynn sleeping soundly beside me, my chest heavy, my dick hard. I’m not big on sleeping with the women I fuck. But something about this girl has always struck a different chord, something has always made me feel protective of her. Interested, and also possessive of her. I haven’t felt like that in a long time. And I don’t remember being this interested in a woman ever.

  She looks down her nose at what I do, but I see the look in her eyes when she looks at me. Interest. Curiosity. Desire.

  Makes me want to take her and brand her and make her scream Cullen until her voice is raw.

  I think back to fourteen years ago, to the only other woman I was once obsessed with. It didn’t turn out well but it began on fragile soil anyway.

  “I’m pregnant. God, how am I going to take care of this baby, Cullen?”

  I was shocked. Part elated, part confused. I assured her, “I’ll find a way.”

  “Your dad.” Her tears vanished as if they were never there in the first place. “You’ll go talk to him. He’ll set us up and everything will be fine.”

  “It’s not my dad’s responsibility, it’s mine.”

  “What? You’re seventeen. You’re getting a nine-to-five job, and earn what? Twelve bucks a day? How will that help me and the baby?”

  “You’re crazy, you know that?” As I said the words, I believed them. She wasn’t crazy as in fun-crazy but more of an insanity-plea kind of crazy.

  I never even considered asking my dad but if I had, he would’ve shouted alternatives while asking his secretary to type up a bullet-point list of why I should’ve been running in the other direction.

  Still, I couldn’t resent her. While I’ll always think she wanted to get pregnant and saw me as some sort of meal ticket, I don’t hate her. How could I?

  She gave me the best gift in life. She gave me my son.

  In some ways, she gave me my career, too.

  I didn’t have a lot of options so that very night, I got a fake ID and drove to the Indian Reservation. I went straight to the poker room. Back then the casinos used the virtual tables, which were more like video games, but they paid out like any other machine.

  I took one thousand dollars out of my savings account and played all night. Looking back, I don’t know how I did it. I was green or young or dumb. Maybe all of the above.

  And so into her that I couldn’t imagine life without her. A week later, I called her up and asked her to meet me. I handed over every last dollar from my winnings.

  “Here.” I forked over six thousand dollars, wadded up in an elastic band.

  “What is this? Wow. It’s . . .”

  “Don’t abort,” I told her. “Marry me.”

  “I don’t want to marry you. I’m dating Cody Baxter. You know, from Baxter Group. They’re really rich. Like your family, except he doesn’t mind asking his dad for money.”

  “My dad lives across the country in Chicago, Sondra. It’s not his responsibility. It’s mine. You’re carrying my kid. Marry me.”

  “You cannot give me what he can. You don’t even talk to your dad, and your mom spends money, not earns it.”

  “I’ll have an empire one day and Cody Baxter will have nothing but his dad’s money—or what’s left of it.”

  I was devastated when I heard she was seeing Cody and Cody wanted to make an ‘honest woman’ out of her. She was just a girl, a stupid girl who focused on money and things rather than having a real family with a man who would’ve given her everything.

  A few months after my son was born, she called me up and said, “We’re married. He wants to adopt him. You have to agree.”

  Looking back now, I don’t know if she was caught up in this ideal world filled with big houses and luxurious cars or if she wanted to hurt me. Sometimes I think she regretted getting pregnant even though I still think it was planned. It was like she thought that the pregnancy would speed things up, throw her into adulthood before her time.

  She used my son against me and even now, when I think of that call, I still feel my heart clench and can almost hear her whispering in my ear, “He wants to adopt him. You have to agree . . .”

  “I won’t.”

  “I’ll sue you. You cannot be close to him. You’re a bad influence.”

  “I did it for you, for him.”

  “Nobody asked you to gamble.”

  “You’re a bitch.”

  “You’re a fucking loser. You know why you gamble? Because you know you’re a loser and the only way to counteract that feeling is by winning as much as you can.”

  “Fuck you.”

  The joke was always on her. I didn’t care what she thought about me and I didn’t care that she didn’t understand. It was the greatest career, the best job I could’ve ever hoped to have.

  She didn’t have that with Cody. She didn’t even have Cody.

  The money I won at the tables could’ve taken her away from a real job, any real forty-hour commitment because the money and the perks . . . every last one of them . . . were exactly what she wanted from the start. It was why she married Cody Baxter and that was the saddest part of all. He married her for sex. He wouldn’t have found anyone else so willing to sleep with him, but I have to give him credit, after he tired of her pathetic little games, he grew into a man who wouldn’t be controlled.

  He didn’t give her anything more than the bare essentials, the necessities. In that regard, he was much smarter than most.

  I push the memories aside and shift in bed, my eyes falling on her. Her hair liquid lava on the white hotel pillow. I skim my knuckles across her cheek. I smile.

  She’s available now.

  I want to tell her everything now. She should know.

  Maybe. Maybe not.

  I blow out a hard breath and drag my hand through my hair thinking that maybe the time isn’t quite right yet. Maybe I should wait until she asks. Will she ask? Doesn’t she wonder why I’ve been so intrigued by her? Why I’d give her everything just to keep her in Vegas a little longer?

  She’s beautiful, so damn beautiful, but it’s more than her looks that drive me to want and need her. She’s smart and talented and has the kind of personality that will keep a man guessing.

  She keeps me guessing.

  Even when we played strip poker. I wanted her to drop her hands and sit there confidently, defiantly, and she could’ve. She almost did, but it’s like the devil sitting on her shoulder, sitting there and whispering, “Don’t do it. Make him suffer. Make him wait.”

  And suffer I did, but not through the game.

  The long wait for her breakup from that chef was pure torture. I couldn’t ask Callan to keep an eye on her but I knew when she and Emmett were over.

  From the moment I boarded the plane in Vegas, I knew my luck was changing. Before the underground game, there was something different in the air. It was like my life had been on full tilt waiting for the slow play of a lifetime.

  I brush her hair away from her face and know that this woman changes my game.

  She. Changes. Everything.

  She never saw me that night months ago. She pressed closer to the guy she was with. It bothered me, but I watched like it was me her hands were on.

  Sometimes I wonder what might have happened if I’d thrown caution to the wind and bought her a drink. Her ex wouldn’t have minded one bit.

  I bet he cares now.

  Callan and Liv’s wedding reception and that kiss? I wanted her right then and there. I did little to hide it. My interest. Real interest. I didn’t do it for show. I did it for me.

  I think her ex saw her then just as I see her now . . . strong and beautiful, untouchable by those who want to hurt her and unattainable by those who actually believe she’s sitting on the sidelines waiting.

  She’s not a girl who waits patiently for anything.

  I scoff as I think of how she gravitates toward me in the poker room. How her body curves closer t
o mine as she sleeps.

  She’s in my bed now and I’m determined to have her here again tomorrow night. She’s scared I’ll hurt her. And that’s all right and valid. But I’m going crazy here.

  We have a bet going on. Either I give her oral, or she does. I have a mind to lose if only to get my mouth between those thighs tonight.

  SHOW

  Wynn

  Cullen is looking at me almost with that same intensity that I feel when I look at paintings, and I feel so seen and bare. “The art is over here,” I point with a smirk, sashaying to the next work. A part of me tingles in excitement over his male appreciation. This guy is so blatant it’s . . . hot.

  He reaches out. “Not all art is on these walls.”

  “Ha. You’re smooth.”

  He runs the back of one finger down my hair. “You’re gorgeous.”

  “Cullen,” I groan, flushing all over. I raise my eyes to his—and suddenly I believe him. I feel perfect, and gorgeous, and hotter than I’ve ever felt in the last few months.

  Smiling cheekily, I turn away and keep walking. We view another painting, one which is full of vibrant colors but with two shadowy figures, young boys facing different directions. It immediately reminds me of Callan and Cullen, of the different lives they’ve chosen and how their paths have inevitably led them down different roads.

  “Why did you and your brother end up living separately?”

  “Our parents split when we were both teens. Callan stayed with Dad, I went with my mother.”

  I eye him quietly. “It must have been hard.”

  “It was harder for me knowing that she would be all alone. I couldn’t let her go without one of us.”

  “So you chose to be the one?”

  “I’m the oldest.”

  “How often do you see Callan and your dad now?”

  “I travel quite a bit, but I try to make it a point to stop by when I can. Dad’s getting older, but he’s healthy as a horse.”

  “Lucky you, you get good genetics,” I tease.

  “On my dad’s side. My mom is a whole other thing. Shopaholic to the core.”

  I laugh.

  “My mom’s not easy to live with but she’s alone. I’m all she has, really.”

  “Does Callan see her?”

  “Once or twice a year. Took him a while to get over the fact that our mother chose to leave Dad when he wanted her still; hell, he still does. She just fell out of love, I guess.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  We fall silent for a while.

  “And your parents?” he asks me.

  “They’re the best. Happily married. They own a couple of candle stores. I used to help out until I went on my way to open a gallery. They’re not rich, by any means, but we got by and I’ve never lacked for anything.” I smile. “I’ve always wanted to find what they have. I sometimes feel wanting it to this degree has only decreed it impossible for me to find.”

  “Why?” His interest brings us both to a halt.

  Him, because he wants an answer.

  Me, because his interest seduces me.

  “I don’t know.” I laugh nervously, his unwavering attention making my cheeks feel warmer than normal. “Because maybe nothing lives up. Maybe all these failed relationships are my fault.”

  He stares with drawn eyebrows. “You believe that?”

  “I . . . no,” I admit, a soft laugh escaping me. “It wasn’t my fault. It was just . . . not meant to be. I guess. I was willing to give them a shot far longer than most of my exes were willing to work for it. Bastards.”

  “Bastards,” he agrees, more effusively than me.

  I smile, my stomach knotting painfully in yearning when his hand encloses mine again.

  Suddenly what happened with Emmett seems like it happened to another girl, in another lifetime. But I remember what happened that drove him away . . . remember that I won’t be able to have a family in the way I always envisioned, and my smile fades. I’m about to pull my hand free, but Cullen watches me, as if reading my mind.

  “I have a son.”

  My eyes jerk up to his. “What?”

  “I have a son.”

  Shock doesn’t even come close to what I’m suddenly experiencing. I blink as my world spins, confusion making me reel. I search Cullen’s implacable features and realize . . . he’s not lying. Realize, from the set of his jaw, the fierceness in his metallic eyes, that this is a subject he may not usually talk about. That this is a subject that gets to him—deeply. He’s watching me back, his gaze as intense as a loaded weapon trained on me.

  “What happened?” I ask softly.

  I remember the little boy photographs I saw in his home—and suddenly I know that’s his son. My heart melts remembering that he looks just like Cullen. That I even thought it was Cullen in those photographs.

  “Is he the boy from the pictures in your home?”

  “Yes.” We continue walking, but I’m not interested in the art anymore.

  “He’s beautiful.”

  “He’s a great kid. I just don’t see him as much as I’d like.”

  “Why?”

  “His mother wouldn’t allow it. I’m a bad influence.” He shoves his hands into his pockets and scrunches his forehead thoughtfully.

  I feel livid. Like punching whoever keeps a man, any decent man, from seeing their own flesh and blood.

  “Where does he live?”

  “Santa Fe. Close but not close enough.” His eyes twinkle, but the frustration is still there. “I fly in to see him once a month . . .” He shakes his head, chuckling. “He loves it when I fly in.”

  “Of course he does. You’re his dad!”

  He smiles at me in silence.

  “What’s his name?”

  “Adam.”

  “It’s a beautiful name. And he’s not bad to look at, either. Like his father.”

  He crosses his arms as we stand before another painting, both of us staring at it. “Never really pictured naming my son Adam, but he’s a good kid.”

  “Do you want more children?” I ask, my heart stopping all of a sudden over my question.

  Cullen looks at me, frowning, as if I’m asking a trick question. Maybe I am.

  He glances past his shoulder, spotting something behind us. “The artist should be here somewhere,” he murmurs. Cullen points at a flock of people around the corner. “There she is,” he says.

  I spin around and spot her at the very end. Excitement rushes through me at the prospect of meeting the artist. I tell Cullen to give me a moment and head over to greet her and inquire as to her other exhibits. Once I’m able to push past the fans surrounding her, I also hand her the card to my gallery, in case she’s interested in representation in Chicago. It’s not New York, but we have amazing art in Chicago.

  She seems impressed over my determination to get her to come, and we’ve begun talking about my gallery when, out of the corner of my eye, I spot Cullen as he motions to his phone and to the doors, indicating he’ll meet me outside when I’m done.

  “I wasn’t interested, but now I am,” the artist assures me once we’re done.

  “I’m so pleased to hear that.” God! This is so fabulous.

  “Give me a call next week. Let’s set aside some time next week, look at a few options, and see what we can do.”

  “Fantastic!” I’m over the moon but hold it together enough to casually say farewell.

  I need to go find Cullen and tell him the good news. I’ve just won a jackpot. I think.

  KING OF HEARTS

  After my chat with the artist, I feel high on my own luck and head out to where Cullen indicated he’d meet me. I spot him standing beside Oliver as I stride toward the car, and they’re discussing something, Cullen looking at me.

  He pushes himself off the hood of the car and walks forward with something terribly deep and dark in his eyes.

  “She’s super interested. She’s calling me. I can’t believe it.”

  As he opens the car
door for me, there’s pride gleaming in his silver eyes as he leans to whisper in my ear, “I lose.”

  “Excuse me?” I glance over my shoulder as I slide into the backseat, and then watch him settle in next to me.

  He shakes his head, those silver orbs dark and hot enough to make me cinder. “There’s no way I’m going to win this, Red. I lose.”

  “What?”

  He circles an arm around my hips and leans toward me, and again, whispers in my ear, his voice getting thicker and hotter with each word, “I’m going to taste you now, Wynn.”

  I clench my thighs together, the idea of having his mouth between my legs too hot to stand.

  “You really believe I win?” I ask, disbelieving as I push him back.

  “I believe in this,” he whispers, and then his hand bunches my hair. He lowers his head, and his lips feast on mine.

  Am I in a movie, living a fantasy, creating a dream? Living the life?

  Cullen is kissing me like he’s never going to stop. The illusion is real. The life is mine.

  My whole body catches fire. Whatever this is, I want . . . need . . . must have . . . much more. My fingers are suddenly in his hair, gripping him.

  “Closer,” he rasps, dragging me across the seat until my chest is flush with his.

  I kiss him back because he’s the most delicious thing I’ve ever tasted. He tastes of bubblegum, his rich cologne intoxicating. He smells like confidence. And the urgency of his kiss? OH MY . . . I need to savor, enjoy, but it’s impossible when I want to eat him right up.

  And he’s eating me up and up and upppp!

  His mouth is at my ear. His hand rests on my knee.

  He drags me closer still, pulling me onto his lap.

  I straddle him. My hands are on his face and I’m pampering his lips like they’re mine to savor, mine to keep.

  He lets me guide the motions before I’m cradled in his arms. His fingers tease me as he pulls strands of my hair, tucks them behind my ears.

  I’m flush against his chest. Catching my breath as we look at each other.

  His ragged breathing makes my head stir with salacious thoughts, lecherous desires.

  His lips come back and are all over mine, claiming and giving, owning. He retreats. And I feel the void as if he’s left me alone on a busy street.