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Ah, fuck it. I hunt through my pockets and, not finding what I need, I kick off a shoe and pull my sock off. Then, like some sex-crazed hormonal mess, I lean my back against the door and unbuckle my belt with quick, jerky movements. My cock is a heavy iron bar when I pull it free from my pants.
Fisting myself with a tight grip, I close my eyes and think of those shiny, pink lips. Of that body leaning over the pool table, hair spilling over her shoulder with her back on display. Of Trina’s bright eyes, and how good they’d look if they were lazy with pleasure. I think of notching my shoulders between those thighs while discovering what kind of noises she’d make with her legs wrapped around my head. How she’d taste, earthy and sweet and fucking perfect. I think of spreading her wet heat with my hardness, feeling her milk my cock with every hard stroke—
My orgasm rips through me, pulling heat to my groin and spurting it out in thick, long ropes. I grunt low and rough, catching my seed with my fucking sock, of all things, wishing it was her skin. Her mouth. Her soft, pink folds.
I lean against the door, panting, letting my head fall back with a soft thud. I should be fucking ashamed of myself for this, but all I feel is relief. A few gulping breaths, and my heartbeat starts to slow. When I close my eyes, I still see her, but I no longer feel like I’m about to burst out of my skin.
Then I tuck myself in, zip myself up, slip my shoe back on, walk out of the keg room, and throw my soiled sock away in the first available trash can. Finally, with a deep breath, I walk back out into the bar.
CHAPTER 8
Trina
“It’s all about angles,” Hamish says for the millionth time when my shot hits the felt just beside the pocket, ricocheting halfway across the pool table. “Focus on the angles.”
“I get that,” I answer, trying hard to keep the frustration out of my voice, “but I’m not understanding what angles I’m supposed to be focusing on.”
A hand lands on my shoulder, and Simone appears at my side. “Can I try?”
“Please.” I give her a smile in thanks, needing a sip of my drink—badly. Between seeing Mac fall flat on his face when he saw me, to the heat in his eyes when I approached, to this surprisingly serious lesson on how to play pool, I’m not exactly feeling like myself.
Not to mention this backless bodysuit requires undergarments that are a combination of Spanx, a girdle, and a full jumpsuit with built-in cups—no way in hell am I ever going braless in public, not after breastfeeding two kids—and all these layers are starting to feel a little too warm. A bit too tight…especially down there.
Simone sights a ball as Hamish directs her, but I have a feeling she doesn’t need his help. She hits it with practiced ease. Not only does she pot the ball she was trying to hit, but the white ball rolls to nudge a second ball into a corner pocket.
“Show-off,” I mumble, but there’s no animosity in it.
Simone grins. “Try thinking less. When you do an eyeliner flick, do you calculate the angles in your head, or do you just go for it and trust your instinct?”
“Instinct,” I answer. “Also, I’ve done it a zillion times, so I know what looks good on my face.”
“So do the same thing here. Look at the ball and line up, then hit through it with a smooth stroke.”
Why did the words “smooth stroke” just make me blush? Is it perhaps because Mac just walked out of the hallway where he disappeared a few minutes ago, and he looks good enough to lick?
Simone titters, then winks at me. She thrusts the pool cue into my hands and gives me an encouraging nod. “Go for the orange.” She points to the solid orange ball lined up perfectly with a pocket.
It should be an easy hit. Even for me.
But I can almost sense Mac approaching. The distance between us shrinking. His eyes on my body, my skin, my hair.
Squeezing my eyes for a moment, I think of eyeliner flicks. Easy. Intuitive. The more confidence, the better the wing.
And I hit the cue ball, smiling at the satisfying thunk of the orange hitting the bottom of the pocket and rolling into the internal mechanism of the table.
“Nice shot,” a deep voice says behind me. I turn to see Mac grinning at me. “You’re a quick study.”
“Thank goodness for eyeliner,” I respond, and laugh at the tiny frown that appears on Mac’s forehead. I shake my head. “Never mind.”
“Boys versus girls?” Simone asks, sipping her drink as her eyes gleam at me. “I’ll rack ‘em up.” She gets to work, accepting the keys that Hamish hands her to unlock the table and allow us to play for free. I watch as she gets the triangle and starts expertly swapping balls around with—in my eyes—no rhyme or reason, trying my best to ignore the heat of Mac’s shoulder as it nudges mine.
“How was your week?” I ask, my voice going up uncontrollably at the end. I clear my throat.
Mac takes a sip of beer. “Long.” His eyes flick to mine, then to my lips, then away.
Lordy.
Is it hot in here, or is it just my shapewear?
