Page 75 of Devil in Disguise

“You don’t get a beer. You’re nineteen.”

“Maybe I want one, though.”

He glared at her. She hadn’t known Owencouldglare. Another flutter of nervous excitement in her belly, and he said, “Don’t push it. And take off your shoes.”

“Why?”

She expected him to say, “Because this is barefoot pool,” or something, since, for once, he was barefoot. And not wearing jeans. And wearing an actual T-shirt, so she could see his arms. Which were quite a sight to see.

He didn’t say that. He said, “Because I said so.”

“Seriously, dude? Even my mom doesn’t try that one.”

Some more enigmatic stare. “I’m not your mom, though.”

She did her best shrug, set down her cue, sashayed across the room, and took off her shoes.

When she was still bent over, yanking off a shoe, he said, “Now do the jeans.”

She got still. Then she said, “I thought you wanted to play pool.”

“I do.”

She swallowed. Then she looked him in the eye, unsnapped her jeans, lowered the zipper, taking it slow, and wriggled her way out of them. It wasn’t easy. They were tight, bought before she’d added the extra muscle. She tossed them with the shoes, shook her head to get the long part of her hair out of her face, and said, “Next?”

The hint of a smile on his mouth, but the fire burning in his eyes told a different story. This was the center all the way. Also, he had an erection she couldn’t possibly not see, and it was giving her shivers.

He said, “Come over here and break.”

She did it, but didn’t get a single ball into a pocket. He didn’t comment, and she got out of his way while he took his shot. Carefully and deliberately, the way he did most things. He sank the ball, and then he sank two more, but when he said, “Five ball in the corner pocket,” it bounced against the bumper, rolled almost all the way to the pocket, and stopped.

“Sucks to be you,” she said, and chalked her cue. Then she walked around the table, wriggled her way up onto the edge so she could make the shot, said, “Three ball in the side pocket,” and took it.

The ball went in.

So did the next one. But when she went for the seven ball, trying a trick shot that involved lying practically face-up over the table and shooting behind her back, she missed.

He did nothing despite her alluring display, just said, “Five ball in the corner pocket. Again.” And sank it. And on the TV, the announcers ran an endless replay and talked about pass interference.

She said, “You know, inmyfantasies, things happen faster.”

He glanced up at her, then said, “Six ball in the corner. This isn’t your fantasy, though.” And made the shot.

When he’d lined up the next one, she said, “Tell me this isn’t just going to be you watching me play half-naked. Maybe I’m getting cold. Also, don’t you have to go to practice in the morning? It’s almost ten-thirty.”

“Pretty mouthy, aren’t you?” he said. “For a girl who knows she’s in trouble?” And made the shot.

By the time he was saying, “Four ball in the side,” she was so keyed up, she was trembling. The game was heating up, a fight had broken out, and the referee’s whistle was blowing. But when he missed, she took her shot.

She scratched.

Owen sighed as the cue ball went into the pocket and said, “That’s a foul.”

“Yep,” she said. “Your turn.”

“No,” he said. “New rules.”

She eyed him sidelong, so aware of her thong and how he could probably tell it was already wet, as much as he’d watched her leaning over the table. The soft fabric of the T-shirt abraded her nipples the tiniest bit, but maybe that was because they were so hard. It felt like all her nerves were exposed, as if all he’d have to do was blow on her to light up every one of them.