Tall. Fine. Unbothered. His skin—mocha brown kissed golden under the neon—looked like it made the light work harder just to keep up. Button-down rolled to the elbow, sleeves framing forearms roped in vein. Dark denim sharp enough to do his legs justice. A slim chain glinting at the collarbone like punctuation, but those glasses—black-rimmed, unapologetic—were the real sentence.
The kind of fine that made women lean off the rails for a betterview. Even Shawna let out a low “mmm” under her breath like she wanted to wrap him in foil and take him to-go.
But he looked at me.
And when his mouth tipped just enough to say I see you, my chin came up like I didn’t care. But Lord, I cared. That man had turned every tournament into something worth dressing for.
We squared up.
“Ladies first,” he said, voice pitched deep, rich enough to settle heat low in my belly.
“Only when it’s a guarantee.”
His mouth twitched, almost a smile. He covered it by racking—fingers precise, every ball nudged into its place like he was promising something he hadn’t even admitted yet. Neat. Quiet. Straight lines and patience.
Me—I was chaos in heels.
Left foot forward, hips grazing the felt. Cue locked into my grip, bridge hand steady on callused fingers. My cropped white top hovered just high enough to flash dark skin when I bent—stilettos biting the floor, hips full, ass unapologetic. The room watched. They always did. Tonight, though, only one pair of eyes mattered.
Tap—tap. Breath. Slide. Crack.
Balls scattered; the cue ball snapped back toward center like it belonged there. No sink, no scratch. I straightened slow, shoulders rolling, casual like I meant to do exactly that.
Quentin circled—slow, deliberate—his chain catching light with each step, shoulders moving like he knew who he was and what he offered. He had that kind of finethat reorganized the whole room. Unc yelling at the TV, Shawna waving her drink, side bets buzzing—was all background noise. Quentin pulled the air into his orbit and left me greedy for it.
“Nice spread,” he said.
And Lord, I thought about spreading. My thighs clenched under denim, my pussy fluttered like it already knew what it wanted. I propped my hip against the stick, smirk ready. “Flirt with the table if you want, but she’s not taking you home.”
He laughed, short and clean. “She never does. I make myself at home.”
Then—glasses off.
Just like that, he went from professor to problem. The room tilted; neon bent. My pulse spiked.
His eyes were darker than I expected—heavy-lidded, certain. The kind that said want without needing a verb.
And I hated that my knees registered it before my head did.
Shawna whistled low from the bar. “Lord, have mercy.”
I pretended not to hear. Pretended the slate in front of me mattered more than the man who’d turned a room of noise into a rhythm under my skin. Pretended I wasn’t watching the angle of his bearded jaw without anything to hold it.
Quentin chalked slow, like time belonged to him—no rush, no show, just a quiet burn. “Your turn,” I managed, voice steadier than I felt.
A hush rolled along the rail. Women leaned in, men straightened. His eyes weren’t on the table. They were onme—dark, unblinking, hungry in a way that felt like a hand at the back of my neck.
“I’ll take solids,” he murmured, and my clit answered like a bell.
He sank the seven. Then the five. Shoulders moving clean beneath cotton. He played like math—angles, patience, certainty. The way he counted under his breath—slow, four—made me wonder what else he measured when he was buried somewhere more private.
“Whitaker, you seeing this?” Leon hollered.
“Eyes on your own table, Unc,” I shot back, grinning without turning.
Quentin missed the two by a kiss—close enough to tease. I stepped in. “You gonna let me shoot, or are you courting the felt all night?”
He lifted a brow. “Jealous?”
