BOONE #3
So I start grasping at mental straws. Fast.
Think of something else, anything else—soggy cereal. Cold showers. Roadkill. That time I accidentally drank curdled milk straight from the jug because I was too tired to check the date.
Still doesn’t help.
Grandma’s feet in orthopedic sandals. That weird rash I got from lake water. A clogged sink full of wet food and hair—
Jesus. Pull it together.
None of it works. Because she shifts again, tucking one leg under the other, and now there’s even less skirt and more thigh and I think I just blacked out a little.
I take another sip.
She looks at me, all casual and sweet like she doesn’t know she’s absolutely ruining me. Like she isn’t the reason I’m listing moldy leftovers in my head just so I can try to walk out of this booth without my dick announcing itself to the entire bar.
I bite down on the inside of my cheek, hard.
Her hand clamps down on my forearm. “Let’s go. I want to kick your ass at pool.”
I let out a dry, strangled laugh. “Yeah. Okay.”
Sure. Let’s do that. Let’s go walk through the bar with a very obvious problem in my pants.
She doesn’t even wait. Just grabs my arm and starts hauling me to the back, her drink in one hand, her confidence in full swing.
“Come on, cowboy,” she throws over her shoulder.
And all I can think is: I cannot stand up like this. I cannot stand up like this. Oh fuck, I’m standing up like this.
I adjust my shirt. Subtly. Casually. Panicking inside.
I trail behind her, drink in hand, jaw clenched tight enough it’s starting to ache. That skirt is a goddamn problem—riding up with every step, showing off skin I’ve already memorized and still can’t stop looking at. She moves like she knows I’m watching. Like she wants me to.
She’s halfway across the bar before I realize I’ve slowed down just to take her in.
I’m not the only one. Heads turn. Eyes linger. Some asshole near the dartboard doesn’t even try to hide it—lets his gaze slide right down her legs and stay there.
I close the space between us, every step steady. Controlled. I don’t need to make a scene to make a point. I just need her close. My hand brushes her lower back, just enough to let her know I’m here. Just enough to let every other bastard in this place know she’s not on her own.
Not tonight .
Not ever, if I have anything to say about it.
“It’s cute you think you’re gonna win,” I murmur, stepping in behind her as she lines up a shot, cue already in her grip.
She glances back, one brow arched, a knowing smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth. “Confidence looks good on me.”
I take the cue from her hand, slow enough that my fingers brush hers. “Let’s make it interesting.”
Her eyes flick to mine. Curious. Cautious. Game. “How interesting?”
I lean in. Close enough to catch the hitch in her breath. My hand skims her thigh, sliding beneath the hem of that little skirt she should’ve known would drive me insane. My grip settles on her hip, steady and sure, and I let my mouth drop to her ear.
“If I win,” I say, voice low and even, “we head to the bathroom. I lock the door. And I get my hands—and mouth—on every inch of you.”
She shifts, barely. Like the idea isn’t offending her at all. “The bathroom? ”
“Private enough,” I say, squeezing her hip. “And fast. I’m not in the mood to wait.”
She studies me like she’s trying to catch me bluffing. “What if someone walks in?”
I shake my head once. “They won’t. And if they do, they’ll be too late.”
Her teeth sink into her bottom lip like she’s considering something dangerous. “And if I win?”
I pull back just enough to meet her eyes, steady as ever. “Then I’m yours. Do whatever you want. No rules.”
She stares a beat longer. Then crosses her arms like she’s sealing a contract. “You’re either overconfident or really into public sex.”
I grin. Slow. Certain. “Maybe both.”
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 the diner.
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, nowhere near 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.”
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 a word—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 that I 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.