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“To put your balls in your pockets?” When he laughed heartily, Brea realized her blunder. Her face seemed to heat to a thousand degrees. “I meant to shoot the balls you’ve chosen into their assigned—”
“I know what you meant. And you’re mostly right.” He grabbed the blue cube on the rim of the pool table and chalked the tip of the cue. “I’ll explain along the way. Take this.”
She wrapped her fingers around the stick he proffered in her direction. “Now what?”
“Bend over the table, behind the cue ball…”
Brea did, more than vaguely aware of her shorts creeping up her thighs, dangerously close to the under curve of her derrière, then glanced over her shoulder. “Like this?”
He tore his gaze away from her backside, then frowned. “Damn, you really are a little thing. You might have to stand on the tips of your toes to get your arms on the table for a good shot.”
She did, feeling the muscles in her legs tighten and her butt lift in the air.
“Yeah.” Pierce’s voice sounded rough. “Like that.”
Brea glanced back. She didn’t want to notice that the bulge behind his jeans had grown…but she’d be lying if she said she didn’t. The notion that a man like him found her attractive made her feel a little feverish and giddy.
The man is only after you for a piece of ass, Cutter had warned.
She straightened and turned—only to find him suddenly plastered against her body. She gasped, automatically setting her hands on his chest to put space between them. But he was like solid stone under her touch.
Pierce’s hands dropped to her hips. “Would you rather do something besides play pool?”
Yes, please. “No. This is fine.”
His fingers tightened on her. The heat of his touch penetrated the khaki twill of her shorts. Suddenly, she found it hard to breathe.
“Then turn and bend over the table again.” He waited until she complied, and Brea was achingly aware of his body heat bracketing the backs of her thighs, of the sexual stirrings his closeness roused. “You’re right-handed?”
“Um, yes.”
“With that hand, hold the cue about five inches from the bottom. Now place it near your hip. Don’t hold it so tight. You want to be relaxed but controlled. Good. Align your body with the cue ball. This will help your aim. Exactly. With your left hand, make a V with your thumb and index finger, like this.” He demonstrated. “You’ll balance the tip of the cue in that crevice.”
Brea watched, acutely aware of the veins bulging in his forearms, the size of his hands, the length of his fingers, the hair dusting his knuckles.
Then he took hold of her hips again. “Spread your legs, pretty girl.”
Her stomach tightened. “Why?”
“Your feet are too close together. You’ll find it hard to stabilize when you take your shot. Go on. Yeah, just like that. Now lay the rest of the fingers of your left hand on the table and make a bridge for the V to rest on. You got it.”
“Now what?” she asked.
Brea only half listened to his answer. She was excruciatingly aware of his body heat blistering her, of his hips packed against her backside as he leaned over and utterly surrounded her with his big body.
“That means you need to bend over a bit more.”
“Oh,” she breathed as she rushed to comply.
“Good. Now hold the cue steady and eye the ball. Like that.” He sounded hoarse as his fingers gripped her tighter. Then he pressed his entire chest over her back and breathed against her neck. A shiver wracked her. “Hold still. Yeah. Now take your shot.”
How the devil was she supposed to concentrate when he was all over her? When his musky scent swam in her head and she kept closing her eyes to drink him in? It was hard to concentrate on balancing the cue when her body kept urging her to press back into him with a moan.
But Brea did her best.
The tip of her stick barely poked the cue ball. The white orb rolled lazily across the table, made a polite clap with the first of the balls in the triangle, barely jostling them before rolling away.
“Not a bad first effort. Next time, put a little more force into it.” He eased away, seemingly reluctant to put space between them.
“It was horrible.” She straightened, and her hungry stare climbed him again. “Show me what I should have done?”
He hesitated, then set his pool cue aside. “You didn’t come to play pool. Cutter made you promise not to talk to me, so why are you here?”
“To thank you.”
“You could have left cookies for me at the office. But you came to my house. On a Friday night. With your hair curled and your makeup done, wearing pretty white lace.” Pierce fingered the scooped neck of her top before he wrapped his hand around her neck and tilted her face up to meet his stare. “Look me in the eye and tell me why you’re here.”
