Page 36

He would live in the bloody penthouse. Naturally.

I wander slowly from room to room in Matt’s apartment.

It’s a large place for one person. Bigger than Paul’s city flat.

The ceilings are high, loft-style, the walls decorated with graphic geometric prints.

Some of the wallpaper is brushed with light metallic accents, wealth glinting in the periphery. It’s tasteful, if not entirely subtle.

I pass through several rooms before finding Matt’s pool table, and I smile, running a finger along the thick mahogany edge. There’s a credenza in the corner, topped with a glittering array of bottles and decanters. Remotely, I peruse the labels. There are some good ones here. Expensive.

Not that I’m surprised.

I sink down on a velvet couch, staring at the pool table. My eyes trace the craftsmanship as I think about Matthew, about him trusting me to come here for the first time, unsupervised. I think about his bedroom, a few paces down the hall. I imagine his bed, him in his bed…

I swallow a shiver. Love and desire make good bedfellows.

Finally, I think about Matthew at the hospital. The quick, self-assured movement of his hands. The casual flick of his hair. The concern and attention in his blue eyes.

Love rises, rushing in. Deep and unrelenting. An undertow I can no longer fight.

I make a decision.

I cross to the pool table to rack up the balls. I grab a crystal decanter of whiskey and put my lips directly to the mouth, sucking it down. Then, whiskey still in hand, I steal into the back hallway. I drag my free fingers along the patterned wall, tracing gold, until I reach his bedroom.

A large, four-poster bed dominates the space…or perhaps just my attention. There’s a discarded white undershirt on top of the sheets, likely one Matthew slept in. With a solid thunk , I place the decanter on the bedside table, then pull the undershirt over my dress.

I cross to the closet and slip two button-up shirts from hangers.

I put them both on. Then a jacket on top.

I repeat the layering technique on my bottom half.

Finally, I select a discarded fedora to complete my look.

Grabbing the decanter and taking another sip, I return to the room with the pool table and chalk up the stick.

There’s a phonograph on an end table in the corner, so I aimlessly select a record and set the needle to spin.

As the notes of a classical requiem fill the air, I settle in to wait.

The distant rattle of the front door announces his arrival. I hold my position, leaning on the table.

“Kat?” he calls.

“Back here.”

His footsteps echo from room to room, searching for me.

When he reaches the doorway, he pauses. His white physician’s coat is slung over one arm, the buttons of his shirt undone at the collar.

“Kat? What…what are you wearing?” He squints and walks closer, tossing his coat over the arm of the velvet love seat.

“I want to play pool.”

“Okay…are we playing in the arctic?” He gestures to my getup and laughs.

“No.” I give him a small smile. “But we’re going to play my way tonight. It’s a little different from our usual game.” I hold his gaze, trying to make the suggestion clear in my eyes.

“Oh really?” Intrigue flashes. “And what way, pray tell, is that?”

I cock my head. “The way that gets me exactly what I want. One piece of clothing at a time.”

A long silence. Nothing but eye contact, promise, and unfathomable desire between us. Swelling with every breath, with every pining note from the phonograph.

“That sounds like a dangerous game, Katarina.”

“I certainly hope so.”

“All right.” He licks his lips. “Let me layer myself up, and we’ll get started.”

“No.” I grab his suspenders, stopping him. “You don’t get to put on another stitch of clothing. This is the only way it’s fair.”

“It doesn’t seem fair.” He bats the brim of the fedora for emphasis. “Though I do have home-field advantage. My table, my balls.”

I reach down and boldly place my hand over his crotch. “ My balls tonight, I think.”

He kisses me. Fiercely. So fiercely, I almost abandon the game entirely and yank him onto the table here and now.

“I’ll break,” he whispers, pulling away to pick up the pool cue.

He spots the crystal decanter of whiskey on the edge of the table.

Sees my lipstick marks on the mouth. He keeps his eyes on mine as he swallows his own big sip.

Then he bends over the table and fires off a smattering break.

A solid ball rolls into a side pocket in the scattering. Matt leans on the table. Expectant.

“Don’t get too excited.” With a laugh, I swipe off the fedora and flick it at him. He catches it midair, then tosses it to the ground.

“I’m only just getting started, Katarina. I have a lot of ground to cover.” Briefly, he eyes my ridiculous layers, then turns his attention to the table. He takes aim at another solid and drops it into a nearby pocket .

I bend over obediently and unbuckle one of my T-strap heels. A moment later, the remaining shoe is discarded as well, and I up my strategy. On stocking feet, I walk behind him as he lines up his fourth attempt. I wrap my arms around his middle, my hands teasing the waist of his pants.

“Kat,” he warns. “That’s against the rules.”

“My game, my rules,” I murmur and press my lips to his earlobe. I gently nip him as he takes the shot, firing just a hair wide. I let him go, and he snorts, no longer amused.

I score my first stripe in the side pocket, and Matthew wordlessly unhooks his suspenders. His pants drop tantalizingly low on his hips as I bend over again and focus. Every turn is valuable. I have the option of another easy shot, and I knock it down. He pulls off a shoe and tosses it aside.

I peruse the table. My choices are harder now. I sigh and fire off a long pass at the corner pocket, but the ball hits the edge and bounces away. A little reluctantly, I hand the cue to Matthew.

I lose three more articles of clothing in quick succession as he drops solids four, five, and six. I shrug, and his jacket comes off, followed by the long pants under my dress, and finally, the first of his button-up shirts.

On my next turn, I take Matt’s second shoe. Unfortunately, when I bend again to aim, he comes behind me and uses my own trick against me. Predictably, I miss.

I turn to mock glare at Matt.

“I don’t have much left.” He gestures to his shirt and trousers. “I need to play good defense.”

He only has one solid on the table, and the ebony eight ball sits right outside a corner pocket, just begging to be dropped. His gaze darts, calculating angles.

“Looks like a tough shot,” I comment, flippant .

“You’re undervaluing both my skill and motivation.” He walks around the table until he’s satisfied. “I’ve been waiting for this moment since the words ‘strip pool’ first slipped from your beautiful mouth.”

“Your patience astounds me.”

“It shouldn’t. I’m so jealous of those other fellas, I could snap their necks.”

“I thought you liked Abe,” I tease.

“He will never play this game with you again. From now on, it’s mine .”

He fires off his shot. The cue ball whips across the felt, rebounds on a wall, and taps his target. The solid rolls slowly, teetering on the edge before dropping into the pocket.

I exhale in disbelief and slowly unbutton the last shirt. I’m standing before him in only my dress and his white undershirt now.

The eight ball looms.

Matthew shakes his head, smiling. “Eight ball. Corner pocket.”

He knocks it down seconds later, and just like that, the first match is over. I hesitate, making sure his eyes are on me when I reach below my dress. I pull off the pair of his swim shorts I’d concealed underneath.

He curses under his breath. “Are you hiding my entire closet in there?”

I laugh. “As much as I could fit.”

While Matt reracks, I take a fortifying sip of whiskey. I pass the bottle to him as I break. I’m hoping for a good, clean shot that will drop a ball, but I’m disappointed. Handing over the pool stick feels like signing my own death certificate.

Matthew eyes the table, assessing the layout of the balls. He selects a solid in the corner, a close-range shot, and taps it in with ease. Sighing, I pull off his undershirt. I’m officially down to basics now. The dress will have to go next.

He points to my one remaining article of clothing. “That’s a beautiful sight, Katarina. ”

I’m forced to rely on my fallback, scooting behind him again. I slip my hands under his shirt and trace my fingers over his bare stomach and chest.

“It’s not going to work this time,” he tells me, shaking his head. “I want it off. All of it.”

“We’ll see.” I tug the top of his shirt aside and plant a kiss on his shoulder, then move up his neck.

He inhales, exhales. When I pause to check the table, he fires. The solid ball drops into the pocket.

Matt turns around to lean against the table. His blue eyes meet mine, fully open with his desire.

“Strip.”

The music from the phonograph swells in my ears. My stomach turns over.

Slowly, I reach for my hemline. I hold his gaze until the dress lifts over my head. As it flutters to the floor, I enjoy every second of shock on his face.

“Is…is that a pair of my drawers?” he finally asks, a muscle jumping in his jaw.

“It is.” I stand in front of him, smiling devilishly. I let him enjoy the view as I pose in my black brassiere, stockings, and his underwear.

He swallows. “Anything else under there?”

“Don’t know.” I shrug. “Guess you’ll have to find out. It’s still your turn.”

He glances back at the table. There’s a long shot down the right side. I take a different tack this time and drape myself over the pocket. I put my elbows on the table and lean in, giving him an eyeful.

To my complete delight, he misses the shot. The ball hits the corner and bounces from rim to rim twice before rolling out.

I smile, victorious. “Ready to lose your shirt?” I ask, taking the stick.