His grin was sinful. “I know better than to get in yourway.” A pause, heat flickering between us. “But you know I’ll be watching.”
The first match was a warm-up. I broke hard, dropping two. Quentin followed, sliding into rhythm, angles unfolding under his cue like equations written in real time. When he tugged off his glasses and slipped them into his pocket, the room rippled—like Clark Kent had just unbuttoned his shirt. Women leaned in. I smirked. That man was mine.
By the second round, sweat dampened the back of my neck. Quentin leaned close, voice brushing my ear, “Angle’s off. Bank two rails.”
The heat of his breath nearly cost me the shot. But I sank it clean, smirk sharp as I straightened.
“You like showing off,” he murmured, amused.
“Only when I got an audience worth it.”
His jaw flexed. The crowd roared.
By the semifinals, the air buzzed. Money swapped hands. Uncle Leon leaned on the rail, arms crossed, studying me like he’d taught me every rule just to see if I’d break them. Shawna hollered my name from the back. Tino hyped the crowd with every ball we sank.
But none of them mattered more than Quentin. We moved in tandem—my risks, his precision. His calculation, my instinct. My fire, his steadiness. The table turned into a mirror of us: harmony in angles, rhythm in trust.
The final rack came down to me. One ball, one pocket, one chance. The felt looked longer than it was. My chest tightened.
Quentin stepped in, close enough to share breath. Hishand brushed my back, grounding, claiming. “You already got it,” he said, voice rough.
Mama’s words echoed:maybe you’re ready for more than the walls you built.Grandma’s too:you don’t pick the timing; it picks you.But what anchored me was Quentin—his hand, his voice, the faith in his eyes.
I bent, exhaled, stroked. The ball kissed the rail and dropped.
The Green Room erupted. Tino banged the mic. Shawna screamed. Uncle Leon’s grin split wide.
But all I heard was Quentin, hot against my ear: “That’s my girl.”
Then his mouth was on mine—filthy, deep, shameless. I moaned into him, gripping his shirt while the crowd howled. When he pulled back, forehead to mine, his eyes burned.
“Next tournament,” he rasped, “we run it back. You and me.”
“Keep talking like that, Hale,” I whispered, still tasting him, “and you might just keep me on your team forever.”
His grin was wicked, certain. “That’s the plan.”
We hugged Leon and Shawna. But once the parking lot swallowed us, the world thinned. My cheeks ached from smiling, my pulse thumped hard, and Quentin’s hand gripped mine like he’d never let it go.
“You know,” I teased, “we carried that last rack because of me.”
He stopped dead, turned slow. Eyes dark, dangerous. “Rayna,” he said, voice low enough to quake me, “say that again and I’ll fuck you against this car.”
Heat licked me everywhere. I smirked. “You wouldn’t.”
His mouth curved like a promise. Then he proved it.
One long step and his hands were on me—hips gripped, body pressed hard to mine, mouth claiming like we were still under lights, still earning cheers. But here it was ours. Urgent, wet, filthy. His palm slid under my sweater, rough over my breast, fingers teasing until I gasped.
I answered with nails in his back, legs wrapping without thought, surrendering to the gravity we’d built all night. He bent me against the trunk, kissed my throat, growled in my ear, “You like being mine, don’t you?”
“I do,” I breathed, ruined and sure.
He laughed low, hungry, kissed me again until the world shrank to heat and breath and the slick press of his hand between my thighs.
By the time we broke apart, lips swollen, I knew two things for certain: the pot was mine, and so was he.
Chapter 18
