“Of a table? Please.”
“Of anything that got my attention like this.”
My nipples tightened under cotton; my mouth went slick. The dichotomy of him—calm and dangerous—lit me up.
I bent over, top sliding just enough to make the women behind me hiss and the men murmur “damn.” Fat ass, small waist—my body talked first, and the room listened. Dark brown skin glowed under the lights, callused hands steady. No mirror needed: I knew the look I gave.
The two dropped easy. I straightened, hips rolling on purpose, caught Quentin’s eyes locked low before he forced them back to the table. Good. Let him look.
He wasn’t the first to gawk, but the way he didit—like memorizing, not ogling—hit a nerve I couldn’t ignore. The heat in his gaze leaned my whole body toward him.
The game unraveled—me sinking shots with a smile, him watching like a man cataloging an equation he wanted to solve. The crowd swelled: Tino grinning, Shawna winking, phones up. My opponent kept me anchored.
Then I scratched—cue ball dropping slow, the ugly sound all players hate. Scratch. Pretty word. Ugly truth.
“Ball in hand,” he said, no gloat—just a patience that made me want to bite him.
He set the cue where I would’ve if I was being cruel, sank the eight, lined the nine. He licked his lips in concentration. My pussy throbbed so hard I almost lost focus.
“Wouldn’t want to scratch,” he murmured, clean stroke, center pocket.
The room erupted. Phones buzzed, glasses clinked. None of it reached us because Quentin’s eyes never left mine.
“Drink?” he offered, like he hadn’t just outplayed me.
We eased to the bar; Leon tested him like a doorman, Shawna watched like she’d seen the good part of a movie. He ordered my drink with steady hands, brushing my fingers on purpose when he passed it. My body betrayed me with a shiver.
“My truth,” he said at last, voice low for me only. “When you laughed after that three fell—I wanted to put my hands on you.”
My lungs forgot how to work. Heat stamped everywhere. Shawna grinned like she’d caught me with my hand in a jar of honey.
“You say that like it’s hard,” I said, leaning in, deliberately soft.
“It is,” he admitted, eyes dragging slow over my mouth before lifting to meet mine. “I teach teenagers at Carver. I’m supposed to model restraint.”
“Restraint?” I laughed, letting my stare travel down the open line of his throat. “We’re in The Green Room. Nothing restrained here except that shirt you’re wearing.”
He leaned close, voice dropping. “I could take it off.”
“Bet.” My reply was a dare, velvet-edged.
We hovered—nose to nose, the air electric. His stare never wavered: dark, steady, like a man who’d decided I wasn’t leaving the night unmarked. My truth unspooled, reckless and true. “I wanted you to miss.”
The corner of his mouth lifted like I’d handed him a prize. “Because you like to win.”
“Because I wanted you to work for it.”
His thumb traced the rim of his glass as if signing his name across my skin. “I don’t mind ordering you a drink. And then working for you all night.”
My stomach flipped; my pulse hammered. But I held his look because this wasn’t just play—this was a man who matched me shot for shot, word for word.
And in that heat, I knew I’d found a worthy opponent. Which meant one thing—it was inevitable.
Chapter 2
Vectors & Desire
Life always made more sense to me when it had numbers. Magnitude. Direction. Four beats under everything—inhale on one, exhale on three, do the work in between. Not performance. Survival. Order in a house that didn’t always have it. A ritual to keep my hands steady when the rest of me wanted to leap.
