He Won Me in a Poker Game, But His Best Friend Wanted Me Too

The whiskey bottle stood empty beside three chipped glasses, amber residue catching the lamplight. I reshuffled the deck for what felt like the tenth time, cards sticking to my fingers as the cheap laminate table wobbled beneath our elbows. Alex's radiator hissed like it resented our presence, turning the cramped living room into a humid box that smelled of tobacco and the ghost of someone's takeout.

Quinn swept another pot toward his side of the table, plastic chips clacking. "Read 'em and weep," he said, though no one had asked. His grin cut sideways, sharp enough that I felt it along my collarbone. He stacked winnings with the same precision he used when tuning his motorcycle—measured, certain, already bored with the outcome.

Alex shifted beside me on the sagging couch. His knee nudged mine once, then settled there, warm through denim. The contact felt deliberate, a private signal amid Quinn's theatrical dominance. I didn't move away. Instead I dealt another hand, watching Quinn watch my fingers instead of the cards. The neck of my tank top had slipped lower during the night; his gaze kept dipping to the shadow there, as if he could will the fabric to fall further.

"Your deal's getting sloppy," Quinn observed, though he sounded pleased. He raised blind before seeing his cards, a habit that should have annoyed me but instead prickled heat low in my stomach. Everything about him operated on assumption—he assumed he'd win, assumed I wouldn't object, assumed the cramped space between us belonged to him.

Alex's leg pressed harder against mine. When I glanced over, he was studying his cards with fake concentration, but the corner of his mouth twitched. We'd known each other since secondary school; that twitch meant he was holding something back. Usually it meant he was about to say something cutting. Tonight it felt different—like we were both waiting to see how far Quinn would push before the room's tension snapped.

The radiator clanked. Outside, someone's television bled through thin walls. I rearranged my cards, noting the sweat forming along my spine, wondering whether it came from the heat or from the way two sets of eyes kept finding me instead of their hands.

Quinn's fingers moved over the cards with practiced efficiency, but his attention stayed fixed on my chest as I leaned forward to ante up. The movement made my tank top gap further; I didn't adjust it. Instead I met his stare directly, watching his pupils dilate as he dealt three cards face-down with deliberate slowness.

"Let's make this interesting," he said, pushing his entire stack into the pot. The pile towered precariously, plastic chips sliding against each other. "Everything on the table."

My hand was garbage—seven high, mismatched suits. I moved to fold, but Alex's knee pressed harder against mine. When I looked over, he'd matched Quinn's bet without checking his cards, his chips clicking as they hit the pile. His eyes found mine, holding a question I couldn't quite read but felt in my throat.

"Call," Alex said quietly, though the word seemed to expand in the humid air between us.

Quinn's smile sharpened. "Big moves, Alex. Didn't know you had it in you." He dealt the remaining cards, his thumbnail catching on my index finger as he passed me my final card. The touch lingered deliberately.

I studied my worthless hand, aware of both men watching me instead of their own cards. The radiator's hiss filled the silence as I arranged and rearranged the same terrible combination. My pulse thudded in my ears, louder than the traffic outside, louder than the neighbor's television bleeding through the walls.

"Well?" Quinn prompted, drumming his fingers beside the pot. His other hand rested near my elbow, close enough that I could feel heat radiating from his skin. "Show us what you've got."

I laid my cards face-up, exposing the pathetic spread. Seven high, nothing matching, a hand that should have been folded immediately. The admission felt like shedding clothing—vulnerable, deliberate, exposing something beyond the cards themselves.

Quinn's laugh came low and satisfied as he revealed his straight. But his victory felt secondary to the way Alex's hand had moved to rest on my thigh, fingers spreading wide across denim. The game had ended several moves ago; we were playing something else now, with different rules I hadn't learned yet.

"Guess that makes me the winner," Quinn said, though his attention had shifted to Alex's hand on my leg. His tongue touched his bottom lip. "Question is—what exactly have I won?"

Quinn leaned back in his chair, the cheap wood creaking beneath him. His eyes moved between Alex's hand on my thigh and my face, calculating. "Seems a shame to end things here," he said, voice dropping lower. "When the night's just getting interesting."

Alex's fingers tightened against my leg, a warning or a claim—I couldn't tell. The radiator hissed again, filling the silence while Quinn studied us both.

"One more hand," Quinn continued, gathering the cards with practiced efficiency. "Just me and Alex. Winner takes... something better than chips."

My throat felt dry despite the whiskey. "What exactly?"

Quinn's smile turned sharp. "You." He shuffled, the sound rhythmic and deliberate. "Winner gets kissed. Properly. Right here." His gaze flicked to my mouth. "Unless you're scared."

The word hung between us like a challenge thrown down on concrete. Alex's hand left my thigh; he sat forward, elbows on the table. "Deal," he said quietly, not looking at me.

Quinn's eyebrows raised slightly—he hadn't expected Alex to accept so easily. But he recovered quickly, dealing two hands with the same theatrical flair. Five cards each, face down, the snap of cardboard against laminate echoing in the humid room.

I watched them pick up their cards, studied the way Alex's jaw tightened as he arranged his hand, noticed how Quinn's confidence never wavered even when his expression shifted. They were both playing for something beyond the game now, something that had been building all night in the spaces between glances and the weight of knees pressing together under tables.

Alex discarded two cards. Quinn took three. The radiator clanked. Outside, a car alarm started wailing then cut off abruptly. Neither man looked away from their cards.

"Show," Quinn said, laying down three kings and a pair of sevens. His voice carried that same satisfied edge, like he'd already won regardless of what Alex held.

Alex revealed his hand slowly—four queens and a ten. The room went still.

Quinn's smile didn't falter, but something shifted behind his eyes. "Well," he said, standing and pushing back his chair. "A bet's a bet."

He looked at me expectantly, arms loose at his sides, waiting. The space between us felt charged, electric. Alex sat motionless beside me, his breathing shallow, watching my face instead of Quinn's.

I stood on unsteady legs, aware of both men tracking my movement. The floor seemed to tilt slightly—whether from whiskey or anticipation, I couldn't tell. When I stepped closer to Quinn, I caught the scent of motor oil and cigarettes that clung to his clothes, sharp and masculine.

His hands found my hips as I rose on my toes, pulling me flush against him. The kiss wasn't gentle—he took what he'd won, mouth hard against mine, tasting of whiskey and victory. One hand moved to the small of my back, pressing me closer until I could feel his arousal through denim.

When he finally released me, my lips felt swollen, sensitive. But the game wasn't over. I turned to Alex, saw the dark intensity in his eyes, the way his hands had clenched into fists on the table.

This kiss was different—slower, questioning. Alex's mouth moved against mine like he was asking permission for something larger than this moment, something that had been building between us for years. His hand came up to cradle my jaw, thumb stroking my cheek as he deepened the kiss, gentle but possessive in a way that made my knees weak.

When I pulled back, both men were breathing harder. The air between us crackled with new possibilities, boundaries redrawn in the space of two kisses. Quinn's eyes had gone dark; Alex's hand still rested against my face, thumb brushing my lower lip.

"Interesting," Quinn murmured, voice rough. "Very interesting indeed."