Page 183 of Lost Then Found
She laughs once—dark and low—and picks up the cue I just set down.
“Hope you brought your A-game, Wilding.”
I did. And there’s no version of this where I don’t win.
She grabs the rack off the wall like she means business and starts setting up the balls, moving with that same quiet focus she uses when she’s at thediner. Efficient. Unbothered. Deadly. The wood’s worn, felt’s seen better days, but she lines everything up like it matters. Like she’s not just trying to destroy me in more ways than one tonight.
I lean against the table, cue in one hand, drink in the other, letting my eyes drag over every inch of her. Trying to keep my shit together. Not doing a great job of it.
She tucks the cue under her arm like it belongs there, leans over the table, and breaks clean. Loud enough to turn heads. One solid drops into the corner pocket.
She doesn’t gloat. Just throws me a glance over her shoulder—eyebrow cocked, mouth pulling into the kind of smirk that’s already costing me my concentration.
“I’ll take solids,” she says casually, like she didn’t just line that up like a damn pro.
I lift my drink to my mouth but don’t sip. Just watch. She circles the table, eyeing her next shot, hips shifting with every step. That skirt’s riding higher with every bend, every lean. My jaw flexes. My hand tightens around the cue.
She sinks the next one too. And another after that. Girl’s on fire. And she knows I’m watching her, coming apart in silence. She’s drawing it out—whether she means to or not.
I’m about one more shot away from losing what little patience I’ve got left.
She leans low over the table again—deep enough that her skirt hikes up, giving me a view that damn near undoes me. My gaze drops. I don’t even try to stop it. Lace. Skin. That curve of her ass that I had my hand on the other night.
Yeah. I’m done playing nice.
I set my drink down and move behind her, smooth and quiet. My hand slides up the back of her thigh, fingertips brushing warm skin until I find the edge of her underwear. I trace it. Just once.
She jolts mid-shot, the cue slipping. The ball rattles off the rail, nowherenear the pocket.
She whirls around, cue stick in hand, mouth parted like she forgot how to speak. “Boone!”
I shrug, no apology in sight. “You were taking too long.”
She swats me in the chest with the stick, not hard, just enough to make her point. “You’re an asshole.”
I grin. Slow. Sure. “You love it.”
Her eyes narrow, but I see the heat flickering under all that fire.
I step around her, lining up my shot, every nerve in my body still buzzing from the feel of her. I take the cue back, steady, deliberate, and sink the striped ball like I’m not completely losing my mind over the girl behind me.
“Your turn to watch,” I say without looking up.
Just as I line up my shot, cue steady between my fingers, Lark moves.
Not much. Just a step. But it’s calculated.
She leans forward across the table to grab her drink, the denim top she’s wearing pulling taut across her chest. No bra. Just smooth skin and curves that don’t belong in a bar full of drunk men and bad lighting.
It all belongs in my bed instead.
The overhead bulb catches on the slope of her collarbone, throws a glow down the center of her chest. She doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t rush. Just stretches a little farther, slow as sin, pretending like she’s not doing it on purpose.
My grip slips. The cue hits the felt off-center, ball skimming wide like it doesn’t know what the hell it’s doing. Same.
“Shit,” I mutter under my breath.
She straightens, takes a long sip of her drink, and turns to me with mock surprise. “Oops.”
