I nervously tuck a loose strand of hair behind my ear, a silly habit I've never been able to shake. The familiarsounds of clacking pool balls and classic rock playing from the sound system fade into background noise.
All I can focus on is him—the way his eyes follow my every move, how his full lips part slightly as I approach. It's terrifying how easily he commands my attention, how my body responds to his presence without my permission. I shouldn't feel this way about anyone but Reeves, yet here I am, practically breathless under Caine's slow, deliberate stare.
As he inches closer and walks towards our usual table, I remain motionless. He quietly removes the RESERVED placard Liza has set on the pool table. No words are exchanged, no smiles.
My gaze skitters across the hall, noticing that Greg isn't here yet. He must be running late, and I'm thrilled at the prospect of playing with Caine without Greg's constant watchful eye hovering over us. There's no one here but us and Liza, and two old guys I've never seen before playing at the other end of the hall.
Liza doesn’t waste any time leaving. She grins at me on her way out. “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do,” she teases.
“Well, that still leaves me a lot of options,” I joke as she makes her way out.
Caine is smiling widely, entertained by our antics.
“Don’t mind her,” I tell him. “She’s a ham.”
He shoots me a wink as he pulls his cue out of hisbag, and my treacherous heart skips a beat. As I retrieve my own cue from my bag, I study his. Both his break cue and his playing cue are top-of-the-line, high-end cues worth a fortune — of course, I wouldn't expect anything less. I'd love to try them out, but I'm too shy to ask.
I'm breathless as we take our positions to lag at the pool table, the clack of the balls our only soundtrack. He so obviously lets me win the lag, and I get to break first.
Each shot is a dance, a careful choreography of movement and intention. He's close enough that I can smell the tangy scent of him, feel the heat radiating off his body.
When he leans in to guide my stance, his hand resting lightly on the small of my back, I can't suppress the shiver that runs through my spine. The warmth of his fingers leaves an invisible imprint on my skin that I know will linger long after he's gone.
I try to focus on the cue ball, on the angles and geometry that Reeves has taught me over the years, but Caine's presence overwhelms my brain, rendering it useless. His breath tickles my ear as he murmurs instructions, his voice a low rumble that seems to vibrate through my entire body. I grip the cue tighter, knuckles whitening, desperate to ground myself in something familiar while everything inside me threatens to unravel.
I should step away, put some distance between us. But I don't. Instead, I lean into his touch, my bodyacting on its own accord. His fingers trace the curve of my waist before slowly drifting lower, down the length of my skirt.
I need to stop him, but I don’t want to.
His hand finally reaches the hem of my skirt. I close my eyes, knowing what’s coming next. The sensation of his warm hand against my bare skin warms my core. I can't remember the last time I've felt this way — it's too delicious to push away.
I catch my breath, trying to remember that we're in a public place, that Greg could walk into the pool hall at any moment, that I have a husband, a son, a life that doesn't include Caine's intoxicating touch.
But rational thought dissolves like sugar in hot coffee as his fingertips graze the sensitive skin of my thigh, leaving goosebumps in their wake. My guilt feels distant now, pushed to the periphery by something more immediate, more demanding. Something that makes me forget, just for this stolen moment, about all the reasons I shouldn't be here with him.
“S-stop," I finally manage to breathe out, even as my hips arch slightly toward his touch.
His voice is a low rumble in my ear. "Do you really want me to stop?" His hand inches slightly higher, and I'm paralyzed by the conflicting desires warring within me. The warmth of his fingertips against my skin warms my core, making it nearly impossible to think clearly.
His touch is such a rush.
I should say the word 'no.' I should pull away and put an end to this madness. But the word sticks in my throat, swallowed by the haze of arousal clouding my judgment. The familiar scent of his deodorant fills my senses, making me dizzy with want despite everything I stand to lose.
Finally, with a strength I didn't know I had, I find the will to whisper, "No," and gently extract his hand from beneath my skirt. My fingers tremble as they wrap around his wrist, my body betraying how much I want to do the opposite.
The cool air of the pool hall rushes between us as I create distance, a stark reminder of the real world waiting just beyond this moment of weakness.
The moment is broken, and we stand there for a long beat, neither of us speaking. The sexual tension that's been building between us is palpable, a living thing lurking in the shadows. Every breath feels weighted with possibilities and consequences.
"What are we doing?" I ask, my voice barely above a whisper. My fingers still tingle where they touched his skin, and I curl them into my palm, trying to extinguish the sensation.
He runs a hand through his hair, a sign of frustration or uncertainty—I can't tell which. The light catches on his silver chain, the diamond cross momentarily glintingagainst his throat. "I don't know, Jenna," he admits, his eyes searching mine with an intensity that makes my stomach flip.
"This wasn't my intention. This was supposed to be—different." His words come out slow and measured, that smooth voice of his somehow making even his confusion sound deliberate, controlled—everything I'm not feeling right now.
“Am I just a pawn in your game?" I ask, feeling a twinge of anger at being used.
He nods, the truth of it hanging heavy in the air between us. "Yes—"
