My spine vibrates with his deep laugh, echoing through to my chest, and I lean over the table so that I’m fully bent at the waist as he guides me.
Saint’s entire body engulfs my own. I’m only five foot four; he’s a goliath compared to me.
Another bout of bravery hits me, or maybe it’s the lust-filled fever. I do something I’ve never done.
My back subtly arches, my ass now fully pressed against his waist. His unmistakable groan filters through my ear, and damn would I love to hear that in a different position than this.
“Now what?” I whisper, feeling my heart thump against my chest; it’s beating so hard, I’m surprised the tempo can’t be heard clattering off the pool table.
“You keep rubbing your ass against me, and I’m losing my train of thought.”
I smile proudly to myself. The shy version of me does a quick applaud in my head, happy to hear that I might not be alone as I teeter on the edge.
And maybe, this isn’t a one-way street on the path.
“Sorry.” I nudge forward slightly, but he steps into me further, not breaking our contact, my breath catching in my chest.
“When you break the little triangle in the middle there, whatever suit you pocket is yours for the rest of the game. Youcan’t pocket the dark eight-ball on the first go. You need to try to get your entire suit pocketed before you do that.”
Saints goes on telling me the rest of the rules, the fouls, and then shows me how to use the cue. The alcohol is fully submerged in my system by the time he’s finished.
And I couldn’t tell you a damn thing about this game.
Only that his voice would make the alphabet sound hot.
I need to get a grip.
He pats my waist, and I push up from the table to turn around, but he’s got me caged in. The notes of his aftershave send my head spinning, stronger than any liquor I could ever consume.
I’m playing a game of Russian roulette with my heart, being this close.
“Now, show me.”
My eyes widen.
“Show you?” I parrot back to him.
Oh hell, I really, really should have been paying attention.
He smirks and says, “What I just told you?” eyeing the table behind me.
I open my mouth to say something, but the words get stuck.
How do I explain I have no idea how to play this game, never mind hold the damn stick, because I was too lost in listening to his voice like it was a spicy audiobook?
“I-I think I might need a couple more lessons before I attempt to do that,” I say, and the most peculiar thing happens.
Those grey eyes darken, gaze dropping to my lips, and then lazily drag back to my eyes.
It causes my pulse to roar in my ears; the temptation to just lean forward slightly and kiss him is astronomically high.
I’d never live down that embarrassment. I’d need to move to outer fucking space if he turned me down.
His lips tilt up at the corners, and he runs a hand through his thick, dark locks. “Well, you know where to find me if you want it,” he adds, and I find myself still in a trance looking at him.
I’ve been relatively within this parameter of space with Saint before; our group has been close since we were kids. We’ve had drunken pictures together, usually him putting me in a headlock right when the snap goes off.
But this?
