As much time as I spend at The Liege, between working in the casino's Taboo Tequila Bar as a cocktail waitress and visiting the progressive bingo room on Sundays with my grandmother, I'd never had the desire to play cards there until tonight. I can only guess that what propelled me through the door of the twenty-four-hour poker room and to the last available seat at a table filled with men and reeking of testosterone and cigar smoke was Hank's deception.

The bastard had lied.

We'd agreed the first time we hooked up that we were in it for two things: sex and more sex.

So what the hell was he doing proposing?

I liked Hank, but—Christ—proposing?

If he'd gotten to know me at all the past three months, he'd know I didn't do relationships, documented ones or otherwise. He clearly didn't know me. Not beyond the way I liked my martinis and men—both dirty as a girl could get 'em. Not beyond the fact that, unlike many women, I didn't have a problem sucking a cock bone-dry. In fact, I loved it.

The taste of hot, salty f luid sliding down my throat. The feel of a man's stiff shaft thrusting between my lips. The knowledge he was under my complete and total control. There was no better feeling in the world.

Or so I was telling myself when I eased my chair up to the poker table with a little hip-scoot shuff le, and discovered Jack Dempsey sitting three chairs away.

From the thick, wavy black hair that matched his mustache, to the graceful slide of his long fingers across the table's green felt as he pushed a stack of nickel chips into a fast growing pot, to the rasp in his voice as he confirmed the bet, Jack was de-fucking-licious. That I could say the same about the body beneath his clothes