He moves closer, reaching out to touch a lock of my hair, wrapping it gently around his finger. He doesn't let go, and I don't pull away. We stand there, staring at each other, the air between us charged with something dangerous and electric. This isn't how our playdatesusually begin. There's always been tension, but nothing this explicit, this undeniable.
He helps me out of my jacket, his fingers brushing against my neck, and I nearly gasp at the contact. Every nerve ending in my body seems to be firing at once. It’s absolutely ridiculous.
That’s it. I need porn and a vibrator asap.
My hands shake as I pull my cue from its case. "Shall we play?" My voice sounds strange to my own ears, breathless and uncertain.
"A few games of eight-ball?" Caine asks with a playful wink, his voice low and smooth as he racks the balls.
"Sure." I try to sound casual, but my voice betrays me with a slight tremor. We both know we want to play a different game altogether.
He breaks, sending balls scattering across the felt. Two stripes drop into pockets.
“Two stripes down,” he announces, circling the table like a predator.
I watch him sink three more shots before missing. When I step up to the table, he doesn't back away, standing close enough that I can smell his cologne—something expensive and intoxicating that makes my head swim.
"You're still gripping the cue too tight," he murmurs, moving behind me as I line up my shot. His chestpresses against my back, his breath warm against my ear. "Relax your fingers."
I try to focus on my technique, but all I can think about is his body against mine. My shot goes wide, missing completely.
"Sorry," I mumble, straightening up but not moving away from him.
"Don't apologize." His hand brushes mine as he takes the cue. "I like teaching you."
Greg appears suddenly at the edge of the table, his presence like a bucket of cold water. What a cockblocker.
“Everything good over here?" His eyes narrow at our proximity.
"Perfect," Caine replies without looking at him. "Just giving Jenna some pointers."
Greg lingers a moment too long before returning to the bar. I feel a flash of irritation—I'm not a child who needs constant supervision.
"Your watchdog is vigilant," Caine says with a slight smile.
"Reeves doesn't trust you."
"Smart man." He leans in closer. “But the question is… do you trust me, Jenna?"
The question hangs between us. I should say no. I should step away. Instead, I hear myself whisper, "I don't know."
His eyes darken, and for a moment, I think he might kiss me right here in the middle of the pool hall. My heart pounds so loudly I'm sure he can hear it.
"Your shot," he says finally, stepping back and gesturing to the table.
I exhale slowly, not realizing I'd been holding my breath.
I turn back to the table, trying to focus on the game rather than the man watching me. My hands are still trembling as I line up my shot. The cue ball connects with a solid ball, sending it rolling toward the corner pocket where it stops just short of dropping in.
"Almost," Caine says, his voice like velvet.
He moves around the table, studying the layout before leaning down to take his shot. I can't help but stare at the way his shoulders flex beneath his shirt, how his long fingers curl around the cue with perfect precision. There's something hypnotic about watching him play—like he's performing some intricate dance only he knows the steps to.
"Tell me something real about you," I say suddenly, surprising myself with my boldness.
Caine straightens, his green eyes finding mine across the table. He considers the question, twirling the chalk between his fingers.
"I have nightmares about aneurysms," he admits quietly. "My grandfather died from one when I wastwenty-two. Sometimes I wake up convinced there's a time bomb in my brain."
