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Sweetheart.
That should be insulting. It’s condescending, misogynistic, and should make me want the punch him and tell him to go fuck himself. And I’ve certainly said and done worse to other men who have called me that…or worse. But instead, the little flutter in my chest at the pet name makes me lean in closer to him.
“You might be dangerous, though. A girl has to be careful.”
He grins. “Oh, I’m definitely dangerous, and I agree about being careful. I just graduated from law school, and I can tell you, there are definitely some unsavory and perverted men out there who do not have good intentions.”
“Law school, huh?” My gaze dips to his lips, then back up. “That explains the silver tongue.”
Something blazes across his eyes, a heat that roars through every cell of my body. “You have no idea what my tongue is capable of.”
My entire body clenches, and I have to shift back slightly; otherwise, I’d be liable to throw myself across the tiny space separating us.
And that would be unwise.
I can’t just rush out of here with a total stranger because I have a lady boner for him. The responsible and smart thing to do is at least assess him and the situation a little more. I motion over my shoulder. “How about we play a game of pool?”
He releases a deep laugh, the sound sexy and thick in a way that goes straight between my legs. Amusement flashes in his eyes. “Sure. You can break.”
You can break.
The words seem to hold some sort of double meaning that keep his lips curled into a knowing smirk.
This man is most certainly dangerous; though, I don’t think it has anything to do with the things girls are always warned about by their mothers. This man is dangerous in a way that will destroy your body and soul.
Standing, I take a sip of my drink, then grab a cue from the far wall while he wanders over from the high-top, watching my every move.
Examining the empty felt, I bite my bottom lip. “I forget how you start.”
He fights a laugh and produces a triangle from somewhere under the table. “I'll rack them.” He pulls out a ball and rolls it toward me. “You use the cue ball for breaking—the white one.”
I lean forward to catch it, exposing my breasts to him slightly in the low V of my dress—a move he does not miss. His gaze dips with me, then he clears his throat, and I watch, mesmerized, as his strong hands place each ball meticulously.
Once satisfied, he pulls off the triangle and returns it to its original place. He motions toward the table and winks. “All yours, sweetheart. Do your worst.”
It takes every ounce of willpower I have to hold back a smirk as I line up my shot, fumbling the cue slightly. I take a half-assed shot at the white ball, and it rolls lazily and barely bumps into the perfectly racked set-up.
He walks over to me and steps close, so close that the masculine scent completely dominates every breath I take. “Let's try that again.” He grabs the cue ball and replaces it while I move back into position. “I'll help you this time.”
I shift forward and line up my shot again, sticking my butt out behind me. He steps behind me, pressing his tall, hard, lean body against mine, his crotch pushed firmly to my ass. Leaning over me, his lips brush against my right ear, and he places his hands on top of mine on the cue, adjusting my grip.
“Now…slide it back gently and then forward with as much force as you can.”
He drives his body into me as he says it, mimicking the motion, and I bite back a little groan at the magnificence of all that power. The men I’ve been with in the past have always held back, restrained themselves—either because they feared me or the repercussions of certain people discovering they were with me. But with him, I’m anonymous. Just a girl he met at a bar. Nothing is restricting him or me.
With his assistance, the cue ball launches forward and slams into the others, sending the four into the right corner pocket.
But he doesn’t back away, just keeps his body molded to mine, his warm breath fluttering behind my ear. “That was much better.”
“Thank you.”
He trails a hand along my bare arm, sending goosebumps skittering over my skin. “So, are you going to tell me your name?”
I turn my head toward his until our lips are a mere hairsbreadth apart. “I'll tell you my name if you can beat me at pool.”
Taking a half-step back, he barks out a laugh and nods. “It’s a deal.” He motions toward the table. “You think you can handle your next shot by yourself?”
Again, I fight the smile that so desperately wants to spread across my lips. “I think I can handle it.”
