Upstairs poker night is basically a big acting gig. Everyone’s pretended it’s just cards and beers, but the real game happened downstairs like ten minutes ago. I sat at the dining table, legs squeezed together super tight, so nobody noticed the warm, slippery situation going on between my thighs. Jeans and cozy sweater? Total cover-up fail. I’m basically a human furnace.
Dad’s sat at the head of the table, shuffling cards like it’s his job, the same grumpy-efficient way he always does. The guys are spread out: Mark on his left looking way too pleased with himself, Tony and Rick across from me cracking dumb work jokes, Javier chilling quietly but stealing glances at me every few seconds, and Paul at the far end fiddling with his chips like he’s remembering exactly how my n*****s felt earli
