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His gaze snaps to my eyes as he scratches his cheek. “Uh...well, you should spread your legs out a bit more. They should be shoulder-width apart with one foot forward. Lower your chest closer toward the table so you can properly align the stick to the center of the ball.” His deep baritone sends shivers down my spine.
I follow his instructions and adjust my stance. When he approves with a nod, I make my shot.
“Not bad.”
No balls went in.
“Next time, arch your back and add a little more force.”
Easton goes next and sinks two balls. “Guess that means you're stripes.” He takes another turn and misses.
I walk around to the other side, trying to find a good angle. The perfect one is in front of him. Instead of moving when I lean over the table, his feet stay planted behind me.
“How's the view from there?” I mock.
“Not bad, but I'd say you need to go lower.”
I blink. “Excuse me?”
Easton presses his palm to the small curve of my back. My shirt rose up when I moved. “Like this,” he states, pushing me down. “It'll allow you to fully see the playing field.”
I gulp, his warm hand presses against my skin. He’s made no attempt to remove it.
“Take your shot, Stripes.” His low husky tone whispers in my ear, and pleasure shoots between my thighs.
What the hell is happening to me?
After ten seconds of trying to collect myself, I strike the ball and watch as my ball goes straight into the pocket.
“Beautiful,” he murmurs.
Slowly, I stand and look over at him.
“Did you feel that?”
I blink a few times, my heart racing a million miles an hour. “W-What?”
“Your posture. How you were able to get the ball in...”
“Yeah. I think I’ve figured it out now.”
He flashes me a wink. “Awesome, let's see you do it again.”
I move to the other side of the table, and this time, he stays in place. Putting myself in the same stance, I focus on the cue ball and aim for the middle pocket. My chest rises and falls as I nervously pull back and slam my stick into it. It shoots forward and hits the side of the table, speeding past where it should’ve gone.
Dammit.
“So close,” Easton says.
He knocks two more of his in, then misses the third before it's my turn again. That time I make it but miss the next. We go back and forth until we each have one ball left.
“Okay, Stripes. You got this?”
I grin at his teasing tone because my ball is only inches away from the pocket.
“Get ready to lose,” I taunt.
Easton lifts his arm and reaches behind his neck for the back of his shirt, then slowly pulls it off. “You're making me sweat with all that confidence.” He uses the fabric to wipe off his forehead. My eyes focus on his broad chest and lowers to his stomach.
Jesus Christ.
I've seen him shirtless before, but right now, he's close enough to touch and lick that sweat off his body.
His playful wink nearly does me in.
I swallow hard and refocus on the game. Sucking in a breath, I take the shot.
And fucking miss.
“You play dirty.”
“What do you mean? I even taught you the correct stance!” he says innocently. But his smirk isn't fooling me.
I narrow my eyes because he knows exactly what I'm talking about.
“My turn.” He walks around to my side, acting like he's already won.
“Your arrogance is showing,” I tell him.
“You mean my optimism?”
I lick my lips and plant my feet. If he wants this shot, he'll have to do it pressed against me.
“Well, good luck to you then,” I say, crossing my arms.
He starts to lower himself, then realizes he needs to move closer to line up the stick.
“Excuse me, please.”
“Go ahead.” I shrug, and that's when it hits him that I'm playing him right back.
Easton slides into position, and his eyes are level with my ass. I look back at him, and he’s wearing a devilish smirk on his face. Without focusing on the stick or ball, Easton takes his shot. It goes directly into the hole.
“You weren't even looking!” I gasp.
“Trust me, I was.” He winks, moves a few inches over, then smashes the eight ball in.
“That's game, Stripes. You wanna knock your last one in for sentimental purposes?”
“You're a cocky shit,” I groan, stepping around him and tossing it into a pocket. “You're supposed to be a gentleman and let the woman win. It's called chivalry.”
He barks out a laugh. “I think I found your first flaw. You hate losing.”
I furrow my brows. “Don’t worry, I have many more than that.” And insecurities too.
He lowers his eyes like he's memorizing every inch of my body. Usually, being under his hard gaze would make me self-conscious, but for once, I'm not. I wish I could read his mind when he looks at me like that.
