Claim My Baby (Crescent Cove 2)

“Let’s play Baccawhatever,” I said again, plastering myself a little tipsily against his chest. “You can teach me,” I purred.

One of his black eyebrows winged up. “Your retention skills right now aren’t worth the breath.”

“It really turns me on when you talk stuffy like that,” I said to his back as he walked toward the tables, apparently trusting I would follow.

I did, because I was back to watching his ass. Such full cheeks. Surprising on such a leanly muscled man. Then again, I hadn’t made a study of many male asses. Such a shame. They were so sexy.

When I joined him at the table—Baccarat was the correct name, I swiftly learned—he was already placing a bet. His wallet was thick. Not the only thing that was thick on him, but his wallet wasn’t permanently attached to his body.

At least I didn’t think so. Though he did seem rather attached to it.

I giggled at the thought, and half the snooty people at the table looked at me as if I was something that had been left behind with the trash. Oliver gathered me against his side as he spoke to the dealer, and I didn’t know if I wanted to shake him off or settle in.

Naturally, I settled in. His arms were a magical elixir. Plus, I was so drunk.

Oliver pressed his lips against my ear to briefly explain the rules. Something about needing to hit eight or nine before the house, along with a bunch of other exceptions. Whatever. I rubbed my hands together.

Let’s play.

Oliver lost the first three hands. Every time, I tried to cheer him on, though the glances he offered in return lacked appreciation. Still, I soldiered on. Especially when he won the fourth, fifth, and sixth ones—and I’d bet on him winning all of them.

Let no one say I didn’t stand by my man.

Sort-of man? I wasn’t sure what the protocol was there. I’d only had his dick in my mouth. We’d have to discuss that later. Possibly when I was sober.

“You’re so good at this.” I leaned up on my tiptoes and nuzzled his jaw. “You just made me very good money.”

He cocked a brow. “Six dollars?”

I frowned. “Stop it. I bet more than that.”

He sorted through my tidy stack of, um, ones. “Six,” he repeated. “I didn’t even know you could bet that low.”

The dealer winked. “She’s cute.”

Oliver didn’t even growl, just placed the next bet. And proceeded to win the next two times as well, raising his bets each time. As did I. Not like he did, though. He was a high roller.

Must be nice to be rich.

When he finally decided he’d had enough and motioned toward me as he moved away from the table, I was a little in awe. He was a damn shark. Cool and composed no matter what he was betting. Ice water in his veins. I’d been so impressed by his poker face that I’d even sobered up a little.

The horny thing, however? Even more in force. At least in his direction.

“So, have you decided on a game you’d like to try? Or want to spin the wheel?” He gestured to the Wheel of Fortune game a few feet away.

I shook my head and tried to do math to figure out how much I had to spend. The radio station had awarded me two-fifty in spending money and I’d brought a small amount myself, along with the one credit card I used for emergencies. I also had my Baccarat windfall, which was modest.

“I’ll just play a couple and we can leave,” I promised, slipping onto a seat in front of a game that had giant buffalos who appeared to be stampeding for money. The basic deal appeared to be the typical get three like objects, ca-ching. Get three buffalo, get bonus plays.

Seemed like a winning formula to me.

“I won’t be long,” I said again, snagging a drink off a passing tray and flinging a tip in the server’s direction. I’d forgotten that last time.

I took a sip. Hello, cranberry deliciousness, old friend.

This one seemed to be virgin, however. Like me. Look at that.

Sipping again, I tested my luck with the game. It took a bit to get the hang of it, but once I did—and once my money started adding up—I finished my drink and went for another, this time not virgin at all.