Page 119 of Forged

“Be ready to lose those tiny shorts first, Siren. I want that pretty pussy on display as I play.”

Neomi’s lips part just slightly, her tongue darting out to wet them like she’s already imagining it. “Big talk for a man who hasn’t even shown me his cards yet,” she says, arching one brow as she fans her hand out in front of her. “Put up or shut up.”

My grip tightens around my cards. “Careful, Siren,” I murmur. “You keep talking like that, I might decide to lose on purpose just to see what you’d do with it.”

Her cheeks flush deeper, but she doesn’t look away. “You don’t strike me as the type who likes to lose.”

“No,” Lars cuts in smoothly, setting his cards down. “Hedoesn’t.”

There’s something knowing in his tone that makes the air shift.

Neomi straightens, glancing between us like she can feel it too. “Alright,” she says, clearing her throat as she lays her cards down. “Let’s see what we’re working with.”

Lars reveals his hand first, calm and confident as always. “Three of a kind,” he says, tapping the table once.

“Not bad,” Neomi replies, but there’s a glint in her eye as she sets her own cards down. “Full house.”

Lars exhales a soft curse under his breath, a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Of course you beat me.”

I don’t say anything. I just place my cards down one by one.

Four of a kind.

They’re both silent.

Neomi leans forward, staring at the table, then back at me. “You’ve got to be kidding.”

I shrug, taking another sip from my glass. “I might not be good, but I’m lucky.”

Lars huffs out a laugh, shaking his head as he leans back in his chair. “I should’ve known.”

Neomi’s gaze drifts over me slowly now, more aware. “Alright,” she says, her voice dipping just enough to make the words feel heavier. “Winner picks.”

My attention locks on her fully. The room feels smaller and I can feel the heat building around us.

“You,” I say, not breaking eye contact. “Give me those shorts.”

Her breath catches, barely audible, but then I see the way her chest rises just a little quicker, the way her thighs press together for a second before she forces herself to move.

“Bold choice,” she murmurs.

“Very,” I reply.

Slowly—far slower than necessary—she stands from the table.

Neither of us looks away as her fingers hook into the waistband of her shorts, pausing just long enough to make the moment stretch. She pushes the fabric down inch by inch, the movement unhurried. The soft slide of denim over her hips feels louder than it should in the quiet room.

I shift in my chair, and my eyes take in every inch as her skin isrevealed. She steps out of them, letting them fall to the floor at her feet. Then she looks up.

“Happy?” she asks.

I lean forward, resting my elbows on my knees, my gaze dragging over her slowly before meeting her eyes again.

“Not even close,” I say.

Beside me, Lars exhales, his hand tightening around his glass as he watches her.

“Deal again,” he says quietly.