He nodded. They each rolled a ball down the table, both hitting the far rail and drifting back. Bear’s stopped just shy of the head rail, Bailee’s bumped his by an inch.
Her smile widened, her skin buzzing. “Looks like I win.”
Bear only arched a brow, stepping aside. She chalked her cue like it mattered, like she could focus on anything but the man across from her. She cracked the rack with surprising force, scattering balls across felt. One dropped into the side pocket.
“Stripes,” she announced, working for composure.
“We haven’t talked about stakes,” he murmured, still too close to her, still looking at her like he wanted to fold her into his arms.
Her belly was full of butterflies, her bones feeling liquid. She had to take a breath, pressing her hands against the table as if she was studying the placement of the balls.
“How about the winner makes the choice,” Bear said.
“Blind?” Those butterflies started to swarm. “That’s risky.”
His eyes shone with the power of his lethality. Risk for sure, but the kind of risk that would burn her down to her core. “That’s why they call them stakes.”
She forced a smile, leaning on her cue like it was a prop instead of a weapon. “Winner makes the call. Any call.” She’d just wagered tomorrow.
Blitz let out a low whistle. “Careful, CIA. That’s dangerous ground.”
“I deal in dangerous ground every day,” she shot back, though her pulse betrayed her, beating fast and frantic.
Bear’s silence stretched, steady as ever, his gaze never leaving hers. She’d given him the answer, but what had she really offered? A crack in the armor. A sliver of permission. She wasn’t afraid of losing a game of pool. She was afraid of what he’d do with her surrender once he had it.
His head tilted, the faintest acknowledgment, eyes dark and burning. “Then play it out.”
Bailee leaned over the table, sighting her shot. Her heart hammered in her throat, hands slick on the cue. All she had to do was breathe, line it up, and let the geometry do the work. Easy.
Except he was watching her. Too close. Too steady. The heat of his silence curled around her like touch, and it made her skin spark, her body ache, her focus splinter.
The cue slipped just enough, the angle skewing. The ball kissed the lip of the pocket and rolled wide.
She straightened too fast, her pulse wild. Damn him. She could’ve made that shot in her sleep.
At that angle, she couldn’t help noticing him where he stood. Denim hugged his hips, rough and faded, the placket at the front pulling just enough to make her imagination rebel. Heat flushed through her chest. What was beneath that sturdy fly? Hard muscle, lean power, the shape of him that haunted her in the dark?
He called to her body, her nipples tightening, aching, her skin lit with sparks off the soil-dark depths of his eyes, steady as stone yet alive with something waiting to grow. How could one woman ache this hard for a man, knowing that all she had to do was reach out and touch him? Take him? What was she waiting for?
Bear didn’t move, didn’t gloat, didn’t say a word. He just stepped in, calm as stone, filling her space with quiet inevitability. That silence was worse than a taunt. It was possession.
He chalked his cue without hurry, bending low, lining up, his shoulders rolling smooth under the cotton of his shirt, barely contained power. One clean stroke, and a solid dropped into the corner pocket. He headed for the other side of the table but had to pass by her. It was a tight fit. She didn’t move; something stubborn and needy refused to allow it. His eyes burned into hers as he slid past, brushing the full length of all that man against her, a whisper of sound, he moved so silently.
Before he was fully past, he bent down and whispered. “You playing dirty pool?”
“I need all the advantages with you,” she said back as he let out a hard breath and went to the other side of the table.
She couldn’t be more thankful that the Navy had given special dispensation for religious purposes to men who served. Bear’s face was always beautiful, but with his hair sliding over his shoulders, calling to the majestic nature of the Lakota, he was breathtaking. His eyes held her as steady as his silence, carrying more than desire, carrying lineage, history, belonging. That ball he lined up perfectly went into a side pocket. He didn’t take the shot. He took the room.
Damn, unshakable Navy SEALs.
“See, Dakota? I was right.” Her stomach jumped. She’d never called him by his first name before. She’d shied away from it, away from the intimacy of it.
His cue stilled for a fraction of a second, eyes flicking up to hers. Just a blink, but it landed heavily.
He dragged his eyes from her, studied the table, moved around again, his pace slow and measured. He had to lean over—the shot was difficult, trapped in a cluster in the middle.
“That’s a tough one,” Buck murmured.
