Page 184 of Lost Then Found
She glides past me to take her shot, cue balanced casually in one hand. Doesn’t even look at me. Doesn’t have to. She knows she’s got my full attention.
The denim top shifts as she leans over the table, shoulder blades rolling under soft skin, the slope of her back catching the light just right.
She lines up and sinks the next shot without blinking. Doesn’t say aword—just moves around the table like she owns the damn bar.
I brace one hand on the edge of the table, cue in the other, jaw tight. Watching her run the table feels less like a game and more like foreplay.
She crouches again, and this time, her voice floats over her shoulder. “You always this quiet when you’re losing?”
“Hard to focus,” I say, dry.
She glances up, eyes glinting. “Maybe you just need more practice handling pressure.”
I watch the tip of her tongue swipe across her bottom lip before she leans into her final shot. Cue slides through her fingers, precise and steady.
Ball drops. Pocketed clean.
She straightens and tosses the cue on the table with a little too much satisfaction. Hands on her hips. Chin high. That smug, knockout smile aimed right at me.
“Looks like you’re mine, Wilding.”
I drag my eyes over her slowly, from those bare shoulders to the spark in her eyes that says I’m already in trouble.
And I fucking love it.
I step in close, breath catching just a little. “Yes, ma’am. Do your worst.”
She doesn’t wait for me to catch up as she strides through the bar toward the women’s bathroom like she’s dragging a leash I never saw her slip around my neck. My pulse is hammering low and tight and I swear I’m already halfway gone by the time she pushes open the door.
Two girls at the mirror freeze, mascara wands in the air. I step in behind Lark, crowding the doorway, voice quiet and clipped.
“We need the room. Ten minutes.”
They blink. One stutters something under her breath, but they’re gone before I can say it again—heels clicking against the tile, the door swinging shut behind them.
Lark turns slowly, leans her hips against the edge of the counter. Her mouth curves, just barely.
“Get the chair.”
I don’t even ask which one. Just find the first metal one by the wall thatI see and drag it inside. The legs screech against the tile. I kick the door shut again and flip the lock.
“Sit.”
I do. No smartass comments. No games.
She steps in close, eyes locked on mine like she’s already made up her mind. Her fingers skate over the buttons of my shirt, slow and unhurried, dragging over each one like she’s savoring the moment. One. Then another. And another. The fabric parts under her touch, and I just stand there, heart thudding, completely at her mercy.
When she finally pushes it off my shoulders, her palms drag across my chest—warm, steady, and not in any kind of rush. She doesn’t let go right away. Just lingers there, hands splayed over my skin like she wants to memorize the shape of me.
And fuck, if she asked me to drop to my knees right now, I would.
Then her gaze drops.
She stares at the thick line of my cock pressing hard against my jeans. Doesn’t touch. Just tilts her head and licks her lips.
“Your pants. I want them off.”
I lift my hips and strip them down, rough and impatient. Jeans and briefs shoved to my knees. My cock kicks up, flushed, leaking, heavy against my stomach. She stares at it for a long second—like she’s sizing up the challenge.
