Page 71 of Ruined Vows
I lean close, my eyes are locked on hers. “I never lose,” I murmur.
We play fast. It’s brutal. Every shot is a dare. Every look, a line drawn and redrawn. I can’t tell who’s winning and who’s losing. Who can keep score when her beautiful face fills the room? And her smile?
It’s only for me. And I’m lapping it up like a hungry pup.
The game is heated with barbs exchanged. It’s not lost on me that every man in the room has their eye on her. But after a few pointed looks from me, they know better than to eyefuck my woman.
Bianca lifts her beer and tosses back like it’s been her vice for years. I watch the way her throat works when she drinks, the way her lips glisten, and worship the bottle, and I know—this is her comfort zone.
She’s not a socialite who’s in it for the glitter and champagne.
This. The noise. The competition. The shadows. The rugged men with unsavory pasts are her world.
And when we get to the parts of me that most people run from? The darkness, the silence, the stillness?
Sheleans in.
I’m already off my game as her breasts are on display. It takes all my willpower not to pull her into my arms and claim her here, on the pool table. I will my cock to play dead. But he’s not listening to me.
It’s impossible to stay focused with her in the room. And the way she’s moving around me like she owns me?
I love it because she does, even if she doesn’t know it, yet. But I’m sure she’ll catch up to me.
She lines up her shot, and her hips are angled just enough to be distracting, and I swear she knows it. She’s playing with fire.
“Eight in the corner pocket,” she says, casually confident.
I take my cue.
I lean against the wall behind her, arms crossed. “That’s the one you scratched on last time.”
She turns her head just enough to throw me a look. “You gonna hover, or are you hoping I bend over again?”
“Not hoping,” I smirk. “Just enjoying the view.”
She rolls her eyes, sinks a stripe, then misses the next.
Well played, my little Kitten.
“You know,” I say, stepping into position, “I think I finally figured you out.”
“Oh, do enlighten me, Freud.”
“You play like someone who’s used to getting her way… but only after she earns it.”
She sips her beer and watches me sink two solids like it’s foreplay. “And you play like someone who doesn’t care who’s watching, as long as theylose.”
“What can I say? Winning looks good on me,” I smirk.
“Cocky looks better onme,”she counters.
We finish the game neck and neck—she scratches the eight-ball, and I grin, lining up the eight-ball, and sink it clean.
I win.
She tosses her cue onto the table. “That table’s crooked.”
“You’re a sore loser.”
