Chapter Twenty-Four
Thorne
I line up my shot. The cue ball cracks against the pack, sending them spinning across green felt. The red solid curves toward the corner pocket, kisses the edge, and drops with a satisfying thunk.
"Lucky shot," Ivy says from across the table.
I straighten, twisting the blue cube against my cue’s tip. Chalk dust clinging to my fingertips. "Luck has nothing to do with it."
Rain is pelting the tall windows that line the east wall of the billiards room, and though it’s twilight, the sky is already dark as night. Inside is downright cozy. The vintage fixtures cast shadows across wood paneling where I’ve made deals, broken promises, and drowned my demons in bourbon. But tonight’s business is all fun.
Dinner ended hours ago. Madison and Lillianna left for 3Bs shortly after, talking a mile a minute about an author they both love who is doing a signing. Which means the entire night stretches out around us, empty and waiting.
I pick up my two fingers of Blackstone Reserve from the bar cart and take a sip. The warmth spreads through my chest.
Ivy leans against the table, pool cue balanced in one hand, her glass in the other. The overhead light catches the amber liquid as she takes a small sip, and I track the movement of her throat as she swallows.
"So you're saying you're good at this." She sets her drink on the edge of the pool table and circles toward me. She’s kicked off her shoes and her bare feet are silent on the antique rug.
"I'm saying I grew up on this table." I gesture with my cue. “This used to be my family’s estate. My father taught me to play when I was eight. Said a man who couldn't read angles couldn't read people."
"And can you?" She stops within arm's reach, and her seductive perfume cuts through the scent of leather and old wood. "Read people?"
"Yes."
"What am I thinking right now?"
My gaze drops to her mouth, then lower to where her silk camisole dips between her breasts. Heat crawls up her neck, flushing her cheeks. "That you want me to kiss you."
"Wrong." She reaches past me for the chalk, her arm brushing mine. The contact sends electricity skating across my skin. "I'mthinking about how cocky you are. And wondering if I should take you down a peg."
"You're welcome to try."
She leans against the table. “Strip pool?”
My hand tightens on the cue. "What?"
"You heard me. Every time we miss a shot, we take off an item of clothing. Whoever has the most clothes at the end wins.” She tips her chin up, eyes challenging. "Unless you're afraid you'll lose."
Fire floods through me, catching in my throat as a rough laugh. This woman. Christ. She has no idea what she does to me. Or how she makes everything else fade until there's nothing but her defiance, her heat, her absolute refusal to back down.
I step closer, toe to toe. Then lean in so close that our lips nearly touch. “Game on,” I whisper.
“Then show me what you've got, Blackstone.” Her pupils dilate and she runs her tongue across her bottom lip.
“Let’s start over.” I gather up the balls again and put them back in the racked triangle. My pulse kicks up, anticipation thrumming through my veins like aged whiskey. "Your break."
Heat coils in my gut as I imagine each piece of clothing hitting the floor.
She takes her position at the head of the table. The overhead light paints gold across the shoulders of her thin cardigan as she bends, cue sliding between her fingers. Concentration furrows her brow and she bites the corner of her lip.
The break cracks through the room. Balls scatter across felt—red and yellow spinning in opposite directions. The thirteen ball drops into a side pocket. Stripes.
"Not bad," I say.
She doesn't answer, already lining up her next shot. The nine ball. She makes it look easy, the cue ball kissing her target with just enough English to send it home. Then the eleven.
"Beginner's luck," I tease.
