It's a dangerous game I'm playing, I know. But in this moment, with the warmth of his gaze upon me, I can't find it in myself to care. I tell myself it’s not dangerous at all, that it’s just fun and games. I’m caught in it, and I’m content to see where this dance might lead. I make a silent vow not to let it go too far.
"You're staring," I say, trying to keep my tone light, teasing.
He smiles, unrepentant. "Can you blame me?"
My face warms under his gaze. I'm saved from having to come up with a witty response when he steps up to the table to take his turn. He moves with a quiet confidence that I've always admired.
He misses his shot on purpose, I'm certain of it. Itgives him an excuse to come back around the table to where I'm standing, his presence overwhelming me in the best possible way.
"Your stroke is still too jerky," Caine chides gently, his voice a soft murmur that seems to resonate in the quiet of the pool hall. He steps closer, his presence wrapping me in a warm, tangy-scented cloud. His long fingers glide over mine as he adjusts my grip on the cue. The contact is electric, a spark that travels from the tips of my fingers straight to my core. “You need to shoot smoother, like I showed you."
I nod, trying to focus on his words rather than the way his body is pressed against mine, the way his breath feels against my skin.
But I’m hopeless.
His fingers brush against my arm as he adjusts my stance, and I can't help but wonder how those same fingers would feel against my skin in a different context. I'm caught in a whirlwind of emotions—guilt, desire, the thrill of the forbidden—and yet, there's a sense of calm that washes over me, a respite from the chaos of my life outside these walls.
"You've been a bad girl, Jenna," he murmurs, his voice a low rumble that sends shivers down my spine. “I can tell you haven’t been practicing your stroke like I told you to."
The words, coupled with the feel of his breathagainst my ear, make my knees weak. I can't help but imagine what it would be like to have him all to myself, to give in to the desire that's been building between us since the moment we met.
The fantasy is so vivid, so real, that I almost don't hear him when he tells me it's my turn again. I take a deep breath, trying to steady my racing heart as I line up my shot.
I manage to sink a ball this time, but the victory is short-lived. Our hour is up, and reality comes crashing back in.
Caine leans in close, his breath warm against my ear, sending a shiver down my spine. His voice, soft and commanding, wraps around me like a velvet cloak. “I love the skirt… wear another one next time,” he whispers, the suggestion alone making my heart flutter wildly.
“Although I should warn you… I’ve demonstrated incredible restraint today, but I can’t promise I’ll be able to next time.” His words hang in the air, a tantalizing promise of what's to come, and I can't help but imagine the next time I'll see him, the next time he'll look at me with that smoldering gaze that seems to see right through me.
I nod, a silent vow to follow his instructions, even as a twinge of guilt tugs at my conscience. But in this moment, with Caine right next to me, it's easy to getlost in the fantasy, to forget the weight of my responsibilities waiting for me outside these walls.
"Okay," I finally manage, my voice barely audible.
He gives me a knowing smile before turning to leave, his exit as graceful and commanding as his entrance. I watch him go, feeling like I've just been handed a secret, thrilling promise of what's to come. My heart hammers against my ribs as his silhouette disappears through the door.
The weight of our exchange settles over me like a warm blanket—dangerous yet comforting.
I blow out a long breath.
Part of me wants to run after him, while another part knows better. I take another deep breath, trying to compose myself, but Caine's effect lingers.
Damn, the man is good.
I sink next to Clara on my sectional and cuddle with her cat Oscar, a sweet orange tabby, letting the softness and comfort of him embrace me when everything else in my life seems to be spinning out of control.
Clara and Liza are my best friends, and I’m so thankful to have them both. I met Clara back in high school. I was new to the school, and we quickly became best friends. I followed her around like a lost puppy,while she took me under her wing and introduced me to everyone. But now she lives two hours away, so we don’t get to see each other enough.
I stroke Oscar’s chin, and he loves every second of it. "He's so damn cute," I say. "Aren't you, gorgeous Oscar." Funny enough, I was there when Clara first adopted him from the shelter. It had been my suggestion. I could tell she was lonely — her ex really messed her up good. We named him Oscar, after the actor Oscar Isaac, whom we're both secretly in love with. We've watched all his movies.
"Why don't you have a cat?” she asks. "You clearly love them."
"Oh, Reeves’s not a fan, and he says we have enough responsibility on our plates."
"Liam would love one too," she points out. "He gushes over Oscar every time he sees him.”
"I know," My heart sinks a little. "He's asked for one last Christmas, and on his last birthday. I bought him a stuffed purring one, but it didn't really fly. I could tell he was disappointed. It broke my heart."
"That is the saddest thing I've ever heard."
