Tarotica

playing roulette, poker, and craps. Others sat trance-like before the one-armed bandits.

Scantily clad waitresses maneuvered between them, balancing trays of drinks. Now and again, a shout rose above the din as a player scored a win.

“What’s your passion?” Clint asked, taking her arm.

“I don’t know. I’ve never gambled before.”

He grinned at Miranda and winked. Now that he’d changed clothes and dried his hair, he looked even better than before. “Well, how ’bout I introduce you to mine?”

He purchased chips in various denominations and led her to a table marked with red-and-black numbered boxes. A wheel turned lazily as four men and a woman contemplated their bets.

“Put this on your favorite number.” He handed her a five-dollar chip.

Miranda laid it on twenty-two. My birthday. Clint slid a chip marked $25 beside hers, then set another at the intersection of squares eight, nine, eleven, and twelve. When everyone had placed their bets, the croupier spun the wheel, sending a ball bouncing about until it settled into slot twenty-two.

“You won!” Clint exclaimed.

“Beginner’s luck,” she said, trying to sound modest. But as the croupier passed her $185 in chips and slid a much larger stack toward Clint, she felt like jumping up and down.

Clint raised her hand to his lips and kissed it, pressing a hundred-dollar chip into her palm. His dark eyes sparkled. “Can you do it again?”

“I’ll try.” She put the chip on number twenty-nine. My age.

He set an identical chip at the corner of squares twenty-five, twenty-six, twenty-eight, and twenty-nine. Again the croupier spun the wheel. When it slowed, the ball rested on number twenty-nine.

“Yes!” Clint jabbed his fist into the air, his face flushed with excitement.

He picked Miranda up and spun her around as the croupier slid stacks of multicolored chips toward them. The thrill of the win and the heat of his body made her feel wild and reckless.

“Place your bets,” the croupier said.

When Miranda slid a chip onto a square, not only Clint but several other players followed her lead. This time, however, the ball skipped over her number. She guessed wrong the next time, too. But twice afterwards, she scored again. The tower of chips before her grew taller and taller. A small crowd gathered at the table, calling out encouragement. The atmosphere buzzed with electricity.

Clint stood behind her, his hands on her shoulders, his hard cock pressed against her butt. Heat waves rippled up and down her thighs. Her pussy throbbed in anticipation.

“One more time, baby,” he whispered in her ear.

Miranda pushed a stack of chips onto square thirty-six. The number of days I’ve been on this journey. The croupier spun the wheel. The ball danced, dropping into one slot then bouncing out again and into another. Finally it settled on number thirty-six.

Clint whooped and pulled her tight against him. Feeling giddy, she kissed him, tasting his excitement. My head’s spinning like that wheel.

He tipped the croupier, then scooped up their chips and cashed them in. When he handed her a fistful of hundred-dollar bills, she squealed, “Oh my God!”

“Looks like your day turned out just fine, after all,” he grinned.

He ordered champagne sent to one of the top deck chambers and escorted her upstairs. The bottle was waiting on ice when they entered the room. Clint popped the cork and when the foam spurted out, Miranda giggled at the erotic implications.

He filled two glasses and toasted, “To my lucky lady.”

The bubbles tickled her nose and throat. Her whole body, in fact, seemed to sparkle like the golden champagne. Already she felt deliciously drunk. Clint licked champagne off her lips. She sucked his tongue into her mouth, savoring its sweetness.

He maneuvered her to the bed, kissing her neck while he unbuttoned her blouse.

Unhooking her bra, he picked up a new hundred-dollar bill and rubbed her bare breasts with it. The slight roughness made her skin tingle. Her nipples stiffened. He pulled off her skirt and caressed her belly with the bill. Then he spread her legs and stroked it along the insides of her thighs. Longing to be rid of her panties, Miranda arched her mound toward him, moaning softly. He laughed and pressed the C-note to her wet crotch. How can cold cash feel so hot? she wondered.

Her hands explored his taut stomach muscles, his chiseled chest, his strong back.

His cock strained against his jeans. She freed it and it stood up, twitching like an angry rattlesnake. Grabbing another hundred-dollar bill, she palmed his stiff shaft with it until drops of fluid oozed from the tip.

As she licked the glistening drops from the purple head, he slid off her panties.

His thumbs parted her pussy lips. His tongue teased her clit ands probed her opening.

Lightning bolts shot through her body as she came in his mouth.

Quickly, he slipped on a condom and plunged inside, riding her through another orgasm. He lifted her hips so he could thrust deeper. When he hit bottom, she cried out and wrapped her legs around him, her fingernails digging into his back. He pumped faster and she moved with him, begging harder, harder, clinging to him as he bore into her like a jackhammer, until she exploded again and he came along with her.

After their hearts had stopped racing and their breathing returned to normal, Clint refilled their glasses with champagne. Propped up on a pile of pillows, Miranda hummed Mary Chapin Carpenter’s song, “Sometimes you’re the windshield, sometimes you’re the bug,” and thought, isn’t that the truth?

Card 11: Justice

Even though they had to share the narrow sidewalks with hundreds of other tourists, Miranda saw San Antonio’s River Walk as an oasis of sunshine, trees, and flowers. Here and there, waterfalls cascaded over rocks. Shops, restaurants, and hotels lined the winding green rio and footbridges arched over it, reminding her of Venice.

“Want to take a tour boat ride?” she asked.

Eli shook his head. “Too hokey.”

She stopped in front of a busy Mexican restaurant. The tantalizing smells made her stomach growl. “Want some lunch?”

“Too crowded.”

“Okay, we’ll try somewhere else.”

“This whole place is too crowded,” he grumbled.

“Well, San Antonio is the number-one tourist destination in Texas.”

He stepped aside to dodge a stroller and bumped into a laughing couple walking a poodle. “Let’s get out of here.”

“All right, how about La Villita?” She pointed toward the historic village just above the river, where dozens of art galleries and shops occupied antique buildings made of stone and adobe.

“Do you think it will be any quieter there?”

“Probably a little.” She took his hand and led him over a footbridge. “Why are you so grouchy today?”

“I can’t take two steps without smacking into someone. And it’s hotter than hell.”

Miranda sighed dramatically. “We’ll find a quiet place where you can sit down in air conditioning.” And after we eat, we can visit the galleries.

Following her tourist map, they quickly located a restaurant rich with Old World charm and ducked inside its thick stone walls. A waiter seated them at a wooden booth and handed them menus. As Eli perused the extensive wine list, she watched his expression shift from annoyance to enthusiasm. He looks like he’s reading a good book, she thought. He was still studying it when the waiter returned to take their orders.

“I’ll have a glass of the Meditrina Pinot Noir,” he said.

“With all those choices, why don’t you try something more exotic?” Miranda asked.

“Maybe I will later. Right now I’m feeling homesick.”