"But I'm married."
"To a man who hospitalized the guy you're crushing on."
I blow out a breath. This arrangement has gotten so out of control.
Liza cocks a brow. "Where did this happen anyway?"
"In the storage room," I tell her. "Greg was late coming in… he lost a wheel on his car."
She grins. "Well, thank you, Greg's crappy car."
I laugh softly. "I guess we don't pay the guy enough."
She pulls out her phone. "Have you ever watched Caine play? Like in tournaments?"
I shake my head.
"I didn't want to go there. My head is full enough with thoughts of him as it is."
"Let's look him up."
After several minutes of searching, we find quite a few YouTube videos, and we finally pick one—the 2022 US 8-ball Open final. We set it up on my Smart TV, andI make a mental note to delete it from the YouTube history as soon as we're done watching. The match is an hour and a half long.
Caine looks devastating in a tailored black golf shirt covered with logos, moving around the table with that slow, deliberate grace I've come to crave. His focus is absolute as he lines up each shot.
"Damn," Liza whispers. "The way he handles that stick should be illegal."
I can't even respond. I'm transfixed, remembering his hands on me, his breath on my neck. On screen, he sinks the winning shot and gives a small, confident smile to the crowd.
"You're in trouble, girl," Clara says, refilling our glasses.
By midnight, we're tipsy and exhausted. Liza crashes on the sofa, and I walk Clara to the guest room where her little boy is sleeping in the cozy double bed.
I stumble to my own bed, and as I drift off, I can still see Caine's hands on the cue, precise and controlled, and the problem is… I know all too well what else those hands can do.
The room is bathed in the soft glow of the moonlight filtering through the partially open curtains. I'mlying in bed, the sheets a tangled mess around my legs, my heart racing as if I've just run a marathon. The house is silent, save for the steady tick-tock of the old clock on the dresser—a family heirloom.
I close my eyes, and there he is, Caine, his image stuck to the back of my eyelids. The way he leans over the pool table, the intense concentration etched on his face—it's all so vivid, so captivating. I remember the feel of his lips on mine, the taste of his kiss, the way his hands seemed to know exactly where to touch me.
Frustration bubbles up inside me, a potent cocktail of longing and guilt. I flip onto my stomach, burying my face in the pillow in a futile attempt to stifle the whirlwind of emotions raging inside me.
My body aches for his touch, the memory of his hands exploring my pussy sending shivers down my spine. I can almost hear his voice, low and smooth, whispering naughty promises in my ear.
I roll onto my back and stare up at the ceiling, my mind a complete mess. Reeves’s face flashes before my eyes, his easy smile, his laugh, the way he used to look at me as if I were the only woman in the world.
But those moments are few and far between these days, overshadowed by his temper and his constant need to be away. "For work," he says, but the doubt creeps in, gnawing at my insides, making it hard to breathe.
Anger simmers just below the surface. Why does heget to escape, to live a life beyond the confines of our home, while I'm left to pick up the pieces? Why does he get to leave while I'm trapped, suffocating under the weight of our life?
The ache between my legs is relentless, a pulsing need that refuses to be ignored. I hesitate, torn. My hand hovers over my stomach, the warmth of my skin seeping into my fingertips. I draw in a shaky breath and allow my hand to drift lower.
I tell myself it's just to help me sleep, to quiet the storm inside me.
Just this once, I'll allow myself this small indulgence, something I rarely do.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
My fingers slip beneath the waistband of my panties, the contact sending a jolt of warmth through my body. I gasp, the sensation both foreign and familiar, a reminder of the pleasure that's been so mostly absent from my life.
