He taught me baccarat in a private suite with low lighting,
the kind of room that cost more than my rent,
with a view of the Strip that made the city look small,
like even the sky wanted to watch us burn.
He poured bourbon into a glass that looked like crystal and maybe was,
sat across from me with the looseness of a man
who had once been buttoned up for decades
but had recently learned how to breathe without apology,
almost.
His voice came slow,
deep like velvet dragged through gravel,
and when he leaned over the table to show me how the banker beats the player,
his hand brushed mine,
intentionally,
like he had already bet his soul and just wanted to see if I’d notice.
He wore money like a scent.
It clung to his collar, his knuckles, his watch.
But it didn’t matter,
I wasn’t there to be bought.
I was there because I could see the part of him
that had spent years hiding in boardrooms and marriages
and behind photos with women he never truly kissed.
I could smell the ache beneath the cologne.
I could taste the loneliness under the confidence.
And God, he saw me too.
Not just the way I looked in that shirt,
the chain resting on my chest like a dare,
but the way I watched him,
the way I understood him without asking for his whole past.
He was scared of me.
Which made him hard.
Which made him reckless.
Which made the next few hours feel holy.
He fucked me like he’d never been allowed to want anything for real.
Not like his past partners,
not like the escorts he’d booked on business trips.
He fucked me like I had unlocked something that had been buried in a vault
beneath his spine for twenty years.
It wasn’t rough in the way most men try to be.
It was urgent in the way a dam breaks.
His fingers gripped like prayers.
His mouth tasted like confession.
He kissed with hesitation, like he didn’t know if he was allowed to like it,
then bit my lip like he didn’t care anymore.
We moved like sin and salvation took turns with the rhythm.
His body asked,
Do you see me?
And mine answered,
I’ve been waiting. 😏
He didn’t want to cum.
Not because he couldn’t.
But because he knew something would change the moment he did.
And I let him stay there,
on that edge,
moaning into my neck like he’d finally come home to himself.
When we were done,
he walked naked to the balcony,
lit a cigarette with shaking hands,
and said nothing for a full five minutes.
I wrapped myself in a throw that probably cost a thousand dollars
and leaned in the doorway watching his silhouette breathe.
He turned to me eventually and said,
“You’re dangerous.”
I smiled,
slow,
tired in that satisfied way,
and said,
“No, love… I’m real.”
I could’ve stayed the night.
Could’ve made him breakfast and acted like it wasn’t cosmic.
But I didn’t.
Because it was.
I left while he was in the shower,
took nothing, not even a goodbye,
but I did leave something behind,
on purpose.
My red Baccarat chip.
The one I’d tucked in my pocket after learning the game,
after he’d whispered rules between gasps.
I left it on his pillow.
And I know he saw it.
Because two days later,
it showed up in my tip box at work,
with a note underneath that just said:
“Next time, I want to lose.”
—
♠️ THE END ♠️
(Or maybe just the beginning, if he ever grows the fuck up. There is a lot more to this story…)
🍒🎰🧃🌈🫦🎲🫦🌈🧃🎰🍒
Show some love if you felt it.
👇
