Play Me

He was going to kill his brother.

Roman Steele muttered under his breath as he ended his shift, carefully checking the cards and organizing his table. He'd only been in Vegas for a few short weeks, and already his older brother was trying to run his life. First, he'd convinced him to transfer from Atlantic City, and now he'd forced him to set up a date through a matchmaking agency. Rome's temper cranked a notch. If there was one thing he didn't need help with, it was recruiting a female for company.

With methodical precision, he counted out chips and stacked decks while he brooded. The casino swung into overload as night arrived in full-blown Vegas style. The ching of the machines vibrated with noisy celebration and competed with screams of rivalry around the Roulette table. The lushness of the casino beckoned both the novice and experienced gambler to play. From the dripping crystal chandeliers, to the Merlot carpet, opulence was the buzzword of choice. Cocktail waitresses rushed by in low cut tops and short skirts with trays filled with vivid neon drinks. The familiar scents of exotic perfume, musk, and money drifted in the air. Rome held back a groan. He craved a soft bed and a hard drink. Alone. Instead, after weeks of being battered by his older brother, he’d set up this mysterious date. A date that beckoned with endless possibilities.

The perfect woman. The perfect night.

He snorted at the impossible thought. With a ridiculous name like FANTA-C, the exclusive matchmaking agency sounded like a whorehouse. But Rick was their greatest advocate. Seems he met the love of his life, Tara, through the agency and had settled into domestic bliss. Rome was damn happy for his brother, and adored Tara. But Rick was now doing what every single male succumbed to when he was hooked up into a monogamous relationship.

Turned his attention to all the other single males out there, whether they wanted love or not.

Rick had handed him a black and gold business card with the name FANTA-C scrolled in the front and a phone number on the back. He instructed him to call, using his name as the referral. Then burn the card.

Of course, being the pain in the ass brother Rome was, he asked Rick how he’d gotten a new one if Rick had been instructed to burn his original card. Seems once the date is successful, the place sends you a single business card to recruit one referral. There was no guarantee they’d find the perfect match though, so Rome figured nothing would occur, and he’d finally get his brother off his back.

Until he got the call. Guess he was the lucky winner.

Cha-ching.

Ah, hell. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad. Maybe one night with the perfect woman would get him out of his rut. Mid thirties threatened and still he hadn't found someone to challenge his dominate side. Moving to Vegas only made him more depressed as he dated the same women over and over. Chasers of money and glory. These women were out for a man to finance their dreams, or to find a cheap thrill for the night. The other category contained a tight knit cluster of friends on a weekend visit for an episode of Girls Gone Wild. If he saw one more drunken wink with the accompanied drawl of “Everything in Vegas stays in Vegas” he'd hurl.

Crap, he was becoming a grump.

He ignored the deep pang in his gut and buried it with the ease of an expert. Images of a woman by his side for the long term haunted him. His relationships always seemed to lack something crucial. Rome craved a woman who challenged him on every level—inside and outside the bedroom. He desired someone who wouldn't fear his need for dominance and surrender, but without the strict rules and limits of a classical dom/sub relationship. He shook his head at his inner whining. He needed to get the hell over himself and get himself off. He'd probably feel better.

He mentally brought up the image and three-sentence biography he’d been sent. Sloane. No last name. She looked like a stunner, and faintly familiar, but the pic had been blurry. Short dark hair. Intense type eyes. The three sentences said she was career oriented, had a strong personality, and needed a man to challenge her. Not much else was in her file to solve the clue of why they’d been set up. Wonder why—

His phone vibrated with intensity. Rome glanced down at the text.

Are you ready to meet your date?

He hesitated. Hell, what did he have to lose? A night of great sex with no strings attached. Before he could change his mind, Rome found his fingers type one simple word.

Yes.

The phone shook in his palm as if in excitement. You will find her seated at the blackjack table, far right. Second chair from the left. Good luck.

The screen went blank.

Rome shook his head and his phone, as the charge seemed to drop. Then with a jump, his iPhone zinged back to life. Weird. His back itched right between his shoulder blades. The same damn feeling he always got when something big was going down. Like a cheat at his table counting cards. Or a woman about to play him.

He shut down his station and headed toward Table 6. He was taking this much too seriously. Hopefully, he’ll have a great night, be less cranky in the morning, and thank his older brother for the tip. No reason to bitch and look the proverbial gift horse in the mouth.

He stopped dead and stared at the woman in black at Table 6.

Her name suddenly rang through his head in a symphony of clanging bells. Sloane Keller. Champion of the World Series of Poker. “The Queen of Cards.”

Rome snapped his mouth closed before he resembled a guppy. Was this a joke? An updated version of Candid Camera? He'd been half in love with her since she stumbled on the card scene with a cold confidence that pissed everyone else off. She'd come from behind and won her first poker championship with the big boys. An unknown, unnamed long shot whom everyone laughed out of the game. With icy deliberation and a talent that blew him away, she blew every other player off the table and still never batted an eyelash with victory.

Shit. She was gorgeous.

His gaze swept over her with a greediness he never experienced. The woman practically exuded “I dare you” to any guy within her distance. Her hair shimmered under the lights, an exotic black cherry that fell pin straight to brush the top of her shoulders. Longish bangs hid most of her features until she turned her head, and then he caught a whirling impression of strength. A stubborn chin. High cheekbones. Arched dark brows. Thick eyelashes. Her lips were ruby red and not overly puffy like the normal Botox look that was so overdone. No, they were perfectly sculpted with just a hint of plumpness in the bottom. Her outfit added to the impression of lean power—a sleeveless black silk blouse, dark trousers, low-heeled sandals. She straddled the chair as she stared at her cards, her blood red toenails tapping on the bottom rung. Her fingers were lightning quick and her nails matched the color of her toes.

She must have sensed his stare, because her shoulders tightened and she swung her head around with a hint of annoyance.

Her gaze slammed into his with a fierceness and challenge that singed his nerve endings and his cock.

Eyes a deep violet sucked him in as deep as he imagined her wet channel would welcome him. But it wouldn't be easy. Everything about this woman screamed the need for an alpha to take her under him. Figuratively and literally.

Rome met her stare dead on and refused to look away. A few beats passed. Then she turned with a dismissive shake of her head, but he knew she was irritated she'd lost the skirmish. Satisfaction thrummed in his veins. Finally. A woman he could sink his teeth into without worrying if she'd break.

Why the hell had she signed up for a one-night stand? She had her own groupies—men who'd line up to take her to bed. She was a literal rock star in Vegas world.

He took stock of the situation. There must be a damn good reason she used FANTA-C, and he was going to find out. Obviously, she didn't give a crap he was already bought and paid for. She refused to stroll off with any man, even if she’d been the one to pursue the match. No, her deliberate action told him he'd need to earn his time with Sloane Keller.

A smile played about his lips.

Game on.

He closed the distance between them.

Sloane watched the man approach her table with her peripheral vision and pretended to be engaged in her hand. Was this him? Hell and damnation, the man was hot. Of course, she'd met many hot men in her travels. Most of them crumbled under the personality test, but something told her he'd hold his own. In fact, maybe he'd even surpass her.

FANTA-C might have scored a home run.

He was a mixture of George Clooney and Richard Gere. Short gray hair cut close to his scalp told her he was a man who didn't give a crap he was pre-maturely gray. A sexy, scruffy beard hugged a perfectly sculpted jaw and set off the sensual curve to his bottom lip. His eyes glimmered with a controlled strength that made her wonder if he was military. The odd combination of blue and gray reminded her of rainy skies and stormy seas. He moved with a predatory grace that made a slight shiver tingle down her spine. A quick assessment confirmed his body was rock hard, evident in the thin white shirt and black pants he wore. Sloane knew from the report he worked as a dealer in the Bellagio, but spotted no nametag on his regulation uniform.

She tried to control the dip in her tummy when he stood beside her. When was the last time a man excited her at first glance? His body heat and the delicious scent of lemon and spice rose to her nostrils. Sloane kept her head down and gaze on the cards and waited for his first move.

She tapped her finger on the table for a hit. Jack of spades smiled up at her. The dealer nodded and slid the chips toward her as she met the goal of 21. Then she looked up.

He never spoke. Just waited by her side as if enjoying the game of Blackjack for pleasure. She raised her hand to her dealer, Wayne, for a short pause, and then swiveled in her stool to face the man beside her.

“Were you ever going to introduce yourself?” she asked.

He gazed at her with a bold appraisal that stripped her naked and pumped her with pleasure. An amused smile touched those carved lips. “Didn't want to break your concentration. Besides, it seems we have all night, Sloane Keller.”

She raised her brow. “Perhaps. And you are?”

He seemed even more pleased at her obstinacy. They both knew she’d received his name and some brief details. Still, he answered. “Roman Steele. You can call me Rome.”

He looked like a Rome. She imagined him dressed in armor and chains, leading an army of men with no thought to being disobeyed. Imagined him standing over the bed of a naked woman, ready to enjoy his spoils.

Then imagined herself as the woman. Oh, yeah.

As she was the only player at the table, Wayne waited patiently for her to decide whether or not she was still in. Sloane decided it was time to up the stakes. “Do you play?” she asked.

“Of course.”

“What's your pleasure?” Sloane made sure she dropped her voice to a husky drawl.

He crossed his feet and bumped a hip against her chair. “Poker, of course.”

Sloane wondered how he'd handle her. Most men she met either fawned like a groupie or treated her like shit. Since he was bought and paid for, she figured a bit of time before she made her final decision was acceptable. If she didn't like him, she'd demand her money back before they even hit the elevators. “Funny, me too. But I like a good game of blackjack to relax.”

“Are you good?”

She smiled slowly. “I'm the best.”

“Cocky, huh?”

“Confident.” She leaned forward. Her lips stopped inches from his. The sizzling tension between them stretched in exquisite agony. “Not that I mind a little—cockiness.” Her gaze lingered on his lips, then dropped slowly to the evident bulge in his pants. “As long as someone can back it up.”

Those misty eyes heated and sharpened like lightning. “Oh, I can back it up.”

“Care to play a hand with me?”

“Thought you'd never ask.” He slid on the stool next to her and motioned to Wayne to deal him in. “So, you in Vegas for business or pleasure?”

Sloane watched the cards fly and leaned back in her stool. She automatically looked for clues in his face to find what type of player he was. “Pleasure tonight. Business end of the week.”

“Hitting Bobby's room, huh?”

She nodded. His casual reference held no adoration or resentment. In fact, he wasn't the least bit intimidated. A thrill shot down her spine and right between her legs, leaving her hot and wet. As “The Queen of Cards” Sloane hit the high stakes signature poker room at the Bellagio regularly. At a minimum of $20,000 to grab a seat, she believed the play was integral to honing her skill in the competition of the World Series of Poker.

Two wins placed her name at the top of the charts in Vegas. Unfortunately, most men couldn't handle the intimidation. Her last relationship bombed so badly she teetered on switching teams and going full lesbo. Not only was she physically hard up, it had been so long since she enjoyed an honest, open relationship she was afraid she'd become one of those very rich spinsters who spent their life doing things for charity. Sloane fought a shudder at the thought.

But Rome Steele didn't seem too afraid of her.

And, God, she needed an orgasm.

The thought was humiliating. She was well known in the tabloids for her exotic hook ups. Fortunately, the press had no idea they were mostly visual candy to throw people off track. Some of her most well known escorts were only good friends or gay. The ones she attempted to actually sleep with were...disappointing. Something must be wrong with her. When she did climax, it was barely a hiccup of pleasure. She craved a man's body under her hands and warming her bed, so when her friend gave her the mysterious card to FANTA-C, she decided she had nothing to lose. Sloane did not engage in one-night stands for the risk factor. This was perfectly controlled to the last detail—just the way she liked it.

Sloane pushed away her thoughts and concentrated on her hand. Ten of clubs for her. Deuce for her one night stand. She kept her head down and watched from the corner of her eye for every nuance of expression, then dug deep into her gut. Yes, he wasn't a safe player. Not stupid, but he liked risk. He'd ask for a hit fifty percent of the time when he should stay. She watched the dealer flip up an ace for himself.

She tapped her finger twice on the table. A face card stared up at her in the solemn face of the Queen. She hid a smile and put out her hand in the hold gesture. Rome's card slid across the table. Eight of hearts. A slight hesitation did him in, and his next hit revealed a six. Done.

Wayne kept his expression neutral as he dealt himself a card. Five of spades. Without much of a flicker of an eyelash, he hit himself again. Ten. Done.

The chips slid into her pile to match her first mound. Sloane waited for the fake expression of awe she usually received from her dates. Instead, she was treated to a wolfish grin that promised he'd eat her for breakfast and enjoy every last bite. Then he grasped her wrist in a firm grip and pulled her forward so their lips were inches away.

“Nice warm up. But can you do it again?”

She laughed with sheer pleasure. “Of course.”

“Fine. Do it again and you get me for the night to do whatever you want with.”

She gazed at him with suspicion. “I already did.”

“Not yet.”

Admiration cut through her. His cock, as impressive as it seemed, did not lead this man around. Curiosity teased the question from her. “What do you get if you win?”

His face turned. Determination and promise gleamed from those blue-gray eyes in warning. His voice dropped to a growl. “You, of course. But you'll listen to everything I say without any back talk.” He paused and deliberately stared at her with the look of a warrior issuing an order. “And obey.”

She gave him an icy glare. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me.”

His commanding tone made her clench and dampen her panties. Her nipples tightened painfully, and suddenly her body was on full alert, practically begging him to make good on his threat. She forced the excitement down, knowing she'd win. She always won. Still, he never backed down, and she decided she wanted Rome Steele in her bed. Sloane licked her lips and nodded.

“Done.”

Wayne dealt the cards. The stately king of diamonds winked at her. Rome took a five. The dealer turned over a lucky seven. They moved to the face down cards.

Sloane let her senses open up as her view narrowed to the dealer's hands, and the cards on the table. She looked at the next card, poised for the flip, and knew it was an ace. She watched the ace unfold and put her hand out to stay.

Rome took a ten. She knew the odds favored a bust. The man never even paused, just tapped the table. Six of spades. 21.

The dealer busted and they both raked in chips. Sloane glanced up at Rome and found no emotion etched on his face. She knew immediately he was a skilled dealer, and her respect went up a few notches. She 'd dated dealers before, hoping the knowledge and shared love of the game would be a bond. Usually, they ended up pissed off at her for winning most of the time, or became clingy when she wanted to play in other casinos.

Rome didn't look concerned or overly interested. They set themselves up for round two.

This time she hit twenty. Wayne held at 18. And her one night stand surprised her for the second time that night.

His cards added up to sixteen. Sloane prepared herself to leave the table with her winnings, cash out, and have some very good sex with her Roman warrior. Instead, he tapped the table for a hit.

If she hadn't been so used to guarding every emotional reaction, a gasp would have escaped her lips. Why would he hit? The odds were almost impossible not to bust. Her eyes widened slightly as she waited for the card.

Five of clubs.

Blackjack.

Son of a bitch.

He pulled in his chips and turned to face her. No hint of victory marred the carved lines of his face, or the steady gleam in his eye. He said a few words to Wayne and slid a few chips across the table for the tip, and then stood up and offered his hand. “Your room or mine?”

Sloane blinked up at him and tried to school her features. When was the last time she lost a hand to an amateur? The glint of purpose in his ocean eyes told her he knew her thoughts. The sudden turn of events slammed into her like a launched champagne cork.

She agreed to do anything he said.

The answering thrill hit her body as fast as her mind. She was instantly damp and pulsing, ready for him to take charge. He'd won. There's nothing she respected more in another player...or in a man.

Her voice caught on the word. “Yours.”

His fingers interlaced with hers and he gently tugged her off the stool, making sure to scoop the chips in her cup. “Come with me.”

They walked in silence to the elevators. Never spoke as the doors swooshed open on the thirty-sixth floor for the Penthouse suites. He ushered her in and clicked the door shut. She scanned the lush interior with quick dismissal, used to living in a variety of luxury hotels. The gorgeous colors of the desert theme interspersed the room with a cream sectional sofa, rich cherry wood dining area, and a wet bar that took up one whole side. The oriental carpet and watercolor canvases lent to the exclusive feel of the suite. The ceiling to floor windows gave an aerial view of the shimmering lights of Sin city during a hazy sunset.

Rome walked to the wall and hit the button. With expert grace, the blinds slowly closed and locked out the city from view, shrouding the room in a shadow. She suddenly felt like a virgin as Sloane watched him take charge. She stood rooted to the ground in a strange mixture of fear and anticipation. He closed the distance between them with a few strides.

Then smiled.

Sloane sucked in her breath at the flash of white teeth amidst the sexy stubble of beard that covered his upper lip and jaw. At the moment, she was surprised she didn't spot fangs. He looked exactly like a wolf who was about to enjoy long hours toying with his meal.

“Let's play, Sloane Keller. Take off your clothes.” He leaned forward an inch so his warm breath struck her trembling lips. “Now.”