She scans my forearms, tilting her head to the side as she does. There’s nothing but want on her face. “I don’t hate them.”
Then she returns to the game and easily scores another ball. “Do you have a favorite one?”
“Of course.”
When I don’t make a move, she sighs with impatience. “Can I see it?”
“It’s not in a showable place, love. Not right now, at least.”
Her cheeks turn pink again, and I don’t hide the grin it brings to my lips. For the next ball she decides to sink, she has to lean far forward, which raises the skirt of her dress and gives me a delightful view of her long legs and perky arse. When she turns back to me, my eyes are high enough not to betray my crassness.
The next question she decides on is, “Since you own the place and are quite the manwhore, have you ever had sex on this pool table?”
It’s so unexpected that I can’t stop the genuine laughter that pours out of me. “Why? Do you want me to throw everyone out and show you what it’s like?”
“No, I was wondering if I’ll need an anti-bacterial shower after this. So?”
“I have, yeah. A few times. Kill and Eli, too. The women ask for it, and we’re nothing if not gentlemen, so we indulge.”
She grimaces and comes toward me for her next hit. This time, she bends over right in front of me, and while she probably expects me to move, I don’t. So when she backs up to adjust herself, she ends up pressed right onto my cock.
“Do you mind?” she asks, half-irritated, half-flustered.
“Not at all, love. Go for it.”
She sighs but stays right there, focusing on her game. Just as she’s about to hit the cue ball, I lay a hand on her hip. It destabilizes her, but not enough to make her fail. “Why did you leave Australia?” she asks, turning around.
“I needed a fresh start and a clean slate.”
“When was that?”
“That’s another question, Miss Kensington.”
That doesn’t buy me much time, as she swiftly scores once more. Fuck, she’s too good at this. I might not get to ask something else.
“Since you mentioned a clean slate, do you have a criminal record there?”
She’s a little too perspicacious for my liking. “I did six months of juvie when I was fifteen. And they gave me a year in prison when I was seventeen.”
“For what?”
“I fell into the wrong circles and became involved in drugs.”
“Selling or using?”
“Moving it.”
She thinks about it for a moment, and I hate that some dumb mistakes I made as a kid will affect the way she sees me from now on. I’m not that person anymore.
“And now?” she asks.
“I haven’t been involved in all that since I came to America thirteen years ago. In fact, this place has a zero-tolerance policy.”
The entire time she processes my words, her eyes remain on mine. I hope she’ll see that I was a stupid child who was given a shit hand—not an addict, not a criminal, and not a bad guy. Just some dumb teenager who tried to crawl his way out of the gutter the only way he could think of.
“Good,” she concludes, moving to the other side of the table.
A long, deep sigh flows out of me, reassured to see she doesn’t seem too affected by my past.
