That ass. Those thighs. She was art tonight. Is art. Something wild and holy and a little bit cursed. I want to worship and wreck her in equal measure. Her laugh bubbles over the table as she licks cheese off Benji’s finger and I take another shot, then chase it with beer because otherwise I will say something devastatingly unethical.
“Game of pool?” Jett asks.
I glance at the cues. At her. At the way she leans in, eyes sparkling like she knows exactly how close I am to breaking.
“Sure,” I say. “I’m not that good.”
“Yay,” she says. Bouncing a little in Benji’s lap. “What are we betting?”
“Winner gets to bend you over the table,” Jett says. His voice is pure gravel. “I am that good.”
My cock twitches. I fucking hate him.
“What if I win?” she purrs.
“What do you want?” Benji asks, already smiling, sweet and soft like she didn’t just lick cheese off his hand like a porn star Juliet.
Of course my dick’s paying attention. Me, me, me. I want to growl. Claim. Undo my belt and show her what I mean when I say “clinical detachment.” I am one bad shot away from committing career suicide and letting her take me down in flames with her.
“If I beat you,” she says, coy like sin, “I get a kiss from all of you. Porn kiss. Not Sunday school pecks. Tongue. Hands. Filth.”
Benji practically whimpers. Jett’s eyes flash.
I should leave.
“Maybe we let Rhys be the one who plays,” Benji says. “Not that you have to win at pool. I’ll kiss you now. After you lose. Before. During.”
“Shut up,” Jett says. “But yeah. Let’s do this. She beats Rhys, she gets what she wants.”
“I’m not that good,” I repeat, throat dry.
“Yeah, doc, that’s the point,” Jett says, smirking. “You afraid of a girl?”
Yes. I am. She’s dangerous. And I’ve never wanted danger more.
I should’ve known. The second she wraps her hand around the cue stick like it’s a damn dildo, I should’ve just forfeited and prayed for death.
“You break, doc,” she says sweetly, leaning her hip against the table, grinning at me like the lamb who brought her own mint jelly.
I do. It’s decent. A ball or two rolls in. I can breathe for maybe half a second. Then she bends. Bends. Low over the table, ass tilted, feet on tiptoe, cue gliding between fingers that know exactly what they’re doing. Her coat’s still on but it’s open, loose, barely clinging to her shoulders. She’s not even pretending to hide the way her tits sway with every shot.
One ball drops. Then another. And another.
Benji’s leaned back in the booth, practically glowing. Proud. Aroused. A little smug.
Jett’s chewing his ice like it personally insulted him.
“Oh no,” she says, blinking up at me. “That was mine, wasn’t it?” She gives me a mock-apologetic smile and struts to the other side of the table like it was all just a happy accident. Her hips swing, trying to hypnotize me.
It’s working.
“You’re hustling me,” I say.
“I’m winning,” she sings. “Isn’t it beautiful, boys? I feel so empowered. I’m a feminist icon right now.”
Benji coughs. Jett’s shoulders shake. I want to grab her and bend her over the table anyway, winner be damned.
She finishes me in five minutes flat. Doesn’t even give me a mercy shot. By the end, I’m leaning against the cue stick like it might stop me from going down on her in front of God and bar patrons.
