"Keep telling yourself that." She lines up the twelve, confidence radiating from every angle of her body. But she overshoots it by half an inch, and the ball ricochets off the bumper.
"Damn," she mutters.
"My turn." I let my gaze travel slowly down her body. "And yours to pay up."
She removes her cardigan, setting it on a nearby stool. "Happy?"
"Getting there."
I move to the table, rolling my shoulders. Three solids cluster near the corner pocket. Easy. I sink them one after another, muscle memory taking over. The four. The two. The six.
"Show off," she murmurs from behind me.
"You haven't seen anything yet." I line up my shot and sink it clean.
But on the seven, I deliberately put too much power behind the shot. The cue ball follows my target into the pocket with a hollow thunk.
Ivy's eyes narrow. "Did you just scratch on purpose?"
"Prove it." I kick off my socks and toss them toward her.
She dodges out of the way, laughing. "You're going to regret that."
"Probably."
The game continues. She misses the fifteen. Her eyes never leave mine as she removes her camisole and stands before me in a thin, pale pink bra. I want to trace the edges with my mouth.
"See something you like?" she asks.
"Yes."
I lose my shirt when I'm too aggressive on the five. She’s kind enough to help me out of it. And the game is almost over whenshe teases one of my nipples with her tongue. But she darts away before I can tempt her to stay.
She loses her skirt on a miscalculated angle. And how the hell am I supposed to concentrate on anything when she is standing in front of me in that falsely innocent pink bra and matching panties.
No surprise I completely miss. Off go my pants.
She sinks the fourteen with precision that makes my heart hammer. Then come around to where I’m standing. She grips me through my boxer briefs. A hiss escapes me, and I rock into her hand. She steps away, bending over to take her shot.
I move behind her, close enough that my rock-hard dick presses into the crevice of her ass. I thrust languidly against her, and her breath catches. “You going to take your shot?”
She looks at me over her shoulder. “I’d rather you take yours.”
I gather her hair in my hand and tug her up to me. “Turn around.”
She does, and I lift her onto the edge of the table. Her legs part automatically, making room for me to step between them. My hands find her waist. Her skin is hot beneath my palms, and she makes a sound that goes straight to my cock.
"Thorne—"
I swallow whatever she's about to say with my mouth. She tastes like Blackstone Reserve and something sweeter, something that's entirely her. Her legs wrap around my waist, pulling me closer. Closer. Until there's no space between us, just heat and want and her fingers threading through my hair.
I press her back onto the felt, moving us more toward the center of the table. The balls scatter around us—ivory clicking against ivory—as I settle between her thighs. My mouth moves down her jaw, her neck, finding the hollow of her throat where her pulse hammers against my lips.
Her fingers dig into my shoulders, nails biting skin, and I groan against her throat. I could stay here forever with her body beneath mine, her breath coming in short gasps, the rest of the world locked away outside these walls. My hand slides up her ribs, thumb grazing the underside of her breast through lace, and she arches into my touch like she's been waiting for this as long as I have.
"This table has seen a lot of games," I murmur against her skin. "But none like this."
Her laughter cuts off when my teeth scrape the swell of her breast. She arches into me, and I take it as permission. My tongue traces patterns on skin that tastes faintly of salt and perfume.
