Bet on Me
When love is at stake, all bets are off.
Fast and hard. Despite her best intentions, that’s the way Tatiana Belikov rolls, and over the past year she’s tumbled head over heels for her former ex-lover. Hot, indulgent, and ready to cater to her every dirty whim? There’s no way she could resist.
Wyatt Caine is the house, and the house always wins—but love is a precious commodity that rarely crosses his table. His game plan? Drown his woman in pleasure before she realizes he’s hardly a safe bet.
Their happiness burns brighter than the spotlights on the Strip, but when his past rears its ugly head, casting a shadow on their bliss, Wyatt has an important decision to make: time to fold…or go all in.
BET ON ME
Book Three in the Bedroom Games Series
By Alisha Rai
Bet On Me
Copyright © 2014 by Alisha Rai
Edited by Sasha Knight
Cover by Bree Bridges
This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer's imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales or organizations is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any manner whatsoever without written permission from the author except in the case of brief quotation embodied in critical articles and reviews.
“I can't wait to see that dress on my floor.”
A smile curved Tatiana Belikov's lips, her shoulders relaxing. Presumptuous men were hardly new, and over the course of her thirty-odd years of life, she had mastered the art of teasing them or cutting them down with a single look, depending on her mood.
However, since her dress would be shucked off the instant she entered her home, for comfort if nothing else, this wasn’t a case of baseless male arrogance. It didn’t mean she wanted him to think she was easy. “Your floor? Aren’t you always telling me it’s
our
place? That would make it our floor.”
Wyatt Caine’s hand slid over her hip. “I will deed my entire penthouse—no, the whole casino—over to you if it would entice you to strip somewhere.”
“If that’s the way you do business, it’s amazing you aren’t bankrupt.”
“To be fair, I’m not usually dying to fuck my business partners.”
She brushed her fingertips gently over his hand. “You'll have to wait.” Her voice was as low as his, mindful of their surroundings.
Wyatt Caine gave a rough groan. “I know.”
She glanced down at the strapless white silk sheath, satisfied with her choice. Classy, elegant, sexy-conservative. A foil for the deceptively simple gold and emerald necklace she wore. Not only did it ensure she stood out amongst the elite black-clad crowd attending the exhibit, it had the added benefit of driving Wyatt crazy.
Wyatt loved her in white. Loved her in anything he could soil.
“You want me to die of blue balls,” her lover grumbled.
“I’m not sixteen anymore, and I know that can’t actually happen.”
“You didn’t believe it at sixteen either.” His fingers clenched her hip, wrinkling the silk. “But I’m telling you, I’ll be the first documented case.”
“The horror.” She scratched his skin. “Patience. It won’t be long now.”
“It’s already long.”
Tatiana bit back her laugh and gave him a final pat on his hand before she disentangled herself. Wyatt wasn’t the only one wrestling with temptation.
They’d spent the entire last month living in San Francisco, and she had grown accustomed to seeing him in more casual wear. Tonight, he wore black tie, and he wore it well. So well, she wanted to rip it off him. Tatiana shook her head to clear it of the images of what lay beneath his clothes. Broad shoulders, narrow hips, flat stomach, and yes, his long, thick...
She sighed. After a year together, one would think they would be less sex crazed. Weren’t they supposed to be past the honeymoon stage?
She blamed it on his ass. His round, taut, bitable ass.
And of course the fact both of them had sex drives that were…overly healthy?
Not now.
“Stop distracting me. I have to work.”
Wyatt slid his hands into his pockets. Damn it. Mentally, she slapped herself to keep from craning her head around to leer at the way the fine fabric stretched over the aforementioned ass.
“I didn't mean to distract you,” he said.
“Bullshit,” she replied. Wyatt was a breathing distraction, and one she was all too tempted to cling to tonight in an effort to calm the butterflies in her stomach.
But standing around and hiding behind her boyfriend would hardly sell her art. She frowned at him. “Get us something to drink.”
An expression that looked suspiciously like a pout formed on his face. His face was closely shaved, his high cheekbones and chiseled jaw revealed without the scruff he’d sported when they were in California. His hair had been recently cut, and the short, dark strands were begging for her hands to mess them up. “I don’t try to get rid of you when you come to one of
my
events.”
“Because when we go to those things, I don’t follow you around and whisper dirty things in your ear.”
“Oh, really?” Wyatt raised his voice a couple of octaves higher and adopted a breathy quality. “Wyatt, I thought you should know I’m not wearing any panties under this dress.”
“Shh.” Hopeful no one had overheard, she glanced around. Okay, fine. Maybe she’d whispered a few dirty somethings in his ear a time or two.
She allowed herself a moment to reminisce. That had been the best gala she’d ever attended. She’d scored a wine basket in the silent raffle, and then she’d scored with Wyatt in the janitor’s closet. “Point taken. Now go get us something to drink. Shoo.”
Wyatt sighed, but there was a light in his eyes. She loved that light. She saw it more and more often, a sign of his satisfaction and pleasure.
She was starting to love a lot of things.
She fiddled with the hem of her dress. No. No. Too soon. They’d had problems, deep problems with communication, and a yearlong commuter relationship and a couple months of living together wasn’t long enough of a trial period to be certain of anything. Including love. They needed time to ensure they could make things work before they started throwing that word around.
Yeah, she had this mental speech down pat now.
“Fine. I'll go get us a drink.”
She shook off her brief second of melancholy and squared her shoulders. “I’m going to mingle. Find me.”
“I always do.”
She allowed him a few steps before she spoke, mischief prompting her. “Hey. Guess what?”
He glanced over his shoulder in time to see her smooth a hand over her hip. No panty lines marred the drape of the white silk. His gaze dropped there, and he bit back a curse, heat flaring in his eyes. “You’re killing me.”
She added an extra twitch to her ass when she strutted away, confidence in knowing he was watching giving her the boost she needed to stroll through the exhibit when all she really wanted to do was go hide in her safe, familiar studio back home.
People ebbed around her. Some looked at her, some barely noticed her, others did a double take or stared.
Good. Let them stare.
Staring was good. Staring meant attention, and attention was never a bad thing in her line of work. She preferred the attendees talk about her pieces, but talking about her was acceptable, if it resulted in sales.
She didn't do showings often, only once or twice a year. The owner of the gallery she had previously arranged all her exhibits through in California had counseled her on the importance of exclusivity. Supply and demand.
A waiter passed in front of her, and she eyed the tray of shrimp before deciding her nerves would punish her if she tried to down anything more than the handful of small appetizers she had already consumed.
She flashed a meaningless, cool smile at an older couple who paused to survey a bracelet. Usually, her work would have been under glass, but since this line contained a functional element, the gallery manager had made the decision to leave the pieces uncovered. She expected a certain degree of curiosity tonight from the people who grasped the concept underlying her new line. They had deliberately kept things subtle, but the clues were there.
Will they like it? Maybe it’s too scandalous. Maybe you should stick to designing pretty things.
Once her inner bitch started, she wouldn’t sit down.
Maybe you’ll only be able to find success back home. This is a new state, a new city, a new population who has never heard of you. What are you thinking?
She swallowed the lump in her throat. Perhaps she was making too much of things, but it seemed vitally important that her first showing in Vegas be a wild success. This was Wyatt’s home; he was well known here, though maybe not amongst these circles. More importantly, as of three months ago, it was her home.
“You lucky bitch.”
Instant warmth spread through her, quieting her annoying internal monologue, and she turned to greet the woman who had cursed her. “Akira. You came. I wasn’t certain if you were in town.”
Akira accepted the hug Tatiana gave her like a queen deigning to recognize a peasant’s offering. Yet her arms tightened imperceptibly around Tatiana, a rare display of warmth Akira only bestowed upon her friends.
At first glance, no one would associate Akira Mori with friendliness. Slim and tall, she was all angles from the cut of her cheekbones to her narrow hips to her razor-sharp brain. Since Tatiana owed her success partially to the woman, she knew better.
Eight years ago, the stunning female had stopped in front of her booth at the craft fair where Tatiana had been showing her jewelry, out of place in a vintage Chanel dress. She had touched a necklace and snorted.
Girl, you’re better than this place. Dream bigger.
Easy to say. Easier to do when you had a wealthy, internationally notorious patron suddenly wearing your designs.
Akira based her operations in San Francisco, but she could be in any city at any given time checking on her established nightclubs and bars, or breaking ground on a new one. Vegas was a favorite spot of hers. Tatiana had been hoping she would be able to come tonight. Friendly faces were always welcome.
“You know I like to see what you have cooking. Sorry I didn’t RSVP. I had to go to London to launch the new club, wasn’t sure I would be back.” Akira flicked her nails, shoving aside her multimillion-dollar empire with a wave. “But enough about me. Let’s get back to you being a lucky bitch.”
“I am lucky, but I’m hardly a bitch.” Tatiana thought about that. “Most of the time. I’m not a bitch most of the time.”
“Well, I can’t call you a whore, darling. That’s everyone’s pet name for
me
.” Shiny black hair slid over her shoulders, and she pointed in the general direction of the bar. “Tell me I did not see you making googly eyes at the infamous Wyatt Caine?”
Tatiana cocked her head. “Um, I know we haven’t had a chance to see each other this past year because we’ve been traveling so much, but I could have sworn I told you I was dating him.”
“You said you were seeing your old high school flame. You said he moved in with you. Wyatt Caine does not need to move in with anyone.”
“We moved in with each other. We’re splitting our time between here and my place.”
“That’s sickeningly progressive of both of you.” She scowled. “He’s as rich as me. Maybe even richer than me.”
“Are you mad you’re not the richest person in my life?”
“Damn straight. I should be the richest person in everyone’s life. Does he fuck as good as he looks?”
A cough came from somewhere nearby, and Tatiana gave a wry smile. She had spent her whole adult life trying to be discreet about her hunger for sex, so Akira’s open and uninhibited pleasure-seeking had taken some getting used to. Once she had, Tatiana had quickly learned to admire her lack of shame. She leaned in. “Better.”
“Lucky. Bitch.” A dangerous light entered Akira’s eyes. “I’m having a party next Friday.”
Tatiana raised a brow, excitement stirring. “Oh? Here?”
“No. At my house.”
Akira’s house parties were rare, but they were legendary. Probably because they were little more than exquisitely catered orgies.
Tatiana had attended two over the years when she’d been between boyfriends, but she personally had too many trust issues to fuck complete strangers. The first one, she’d clung to the shadows and watched with wide eyes and a heaving bosom. The second one, she had gotten tipsy and made out with Akira in front of a handful of voyeurs.