That low, deep declaration of his did something to her insides. Heat crawled up her cheeks. She ran her tongue across her suddenly dry lips. “O-one game, then.”
“Let me get you a drink. Water? Tea? Beer?”
Brea shook her head. “Nothing. I also wanted to thank you for the thoughtful birthday gift you left me at the salon yesterday. I’m sorry I wasn’t there, but I got it this morning. The wine was a lovely gesture.”
He finished off his beer, then cocked his head at her. “You don’t drink, do you?”
“Not much, but I’m looking forward to trying this.” One of her fellow hairdressers who was a wine enthusiast had assured her it was a more than decent bottle.
Pierce led her deeper into his house. One wall was floor-to-ceiling windows. Movement outside hinted at trees in the yard, swaying in the dark. The adjacent wall was covered in white subway tile with dark grout. Over that he’d hung ten identically sized bright graphical pieces of art—skulls, poker cards, crossbones, masks, and the like—in two perfectly straight rows. Black modern furniture went with the vibe. A big vase of yellow daisies sat on top of a round, glass-top table, adding the lone homey touch. The living room was flanked by floating stairs with an angular steel railing that probably led to his bedroom. Beyond that lay a big pool table with a red felt top. His kitchen, with cabinets stained a warm, mid-tone brown, hugged the far wall.
The place seemed so him—vivid, sexy, contemporary, unexpected.
“This is really nice.”
He smiled. “Thanks. I bought it a few months back. Gutted and rebuilt it.”
That impressed her even more. “You did an amazing job.”
Pierce grabbed a cookie from the plastic container and tossed it in his mouth. In fascination, she watched his sharp jaw work and his Adam’s apple bob. Even the way he chewed dripped masculinity. It did something wicked to her when he closed his eyes.
“Hmm… Your cookies are delicious, pretty girl. I knew they would be.”
The low dip in his voice nearly made her melt. “I like to bake them.”
“I’m going to love eating them.” He licked his full lips. “I’ll do it all night if you let me.”
He definitely wasn’t talking about anything she whipped up in her kitchen.
She blushed. “Let me know when you run out. I’ll be happy to make more.” She turned for the door. “But I really should go.”
He blocked her path. “You promised me one game, remember?”
“I don’t know how.”
“I’ll teach you.” He set the cookies and his empty beer aside, then sauntered closer. “Stay.”
She probably shouldn’t…but Brea couldn’t resist. “All right.”
Pierce gathered up the colorful balls on the table and racked them in a triangle, arranging each in numerical order. When he’d finished, he lifted the rack away, settled the plain white ball in front of the triangle’s point, then grabbed a cue. “Do you know the object of the game?”
“To put your balls in your pockets?” When he laughed heartily, Brea realized her blunder. Her face seemed to heat to a thousand degrees. “I meant to shoot the balls you’ve chosen into their assigned—”
“I know what you meant. And you’re mostly right.” He grabbed the blue cube on the rim of the pool table and chalked the tip of the cue. “I’ll explain along the way. Take this.”
She wrapped her fingers around the stick he proffered in her direction. “Now what?”
“Bend over the table, behind the cue ball…”
Brea did, more than vaguely aware of her shorts creeping up her thighs, dangerously close to the under curve of her derrière, then glanced over her shoulder. “Like this?”
He tore his gaze away from her backside, then frowned. “Damn, you really are a little thing. You might have to stand on the tips of your toes to get your arms on the table for a good shot.”
She did, feeling the muscles in her legs tighten and her butt lift in the air.
“Yeah.” Pierce’s voice sounded rough. “Like that.”
Brea glanced back. She didn’t want to notice that the bulge behind his jeans had grown…but she’d be lying if she said she didn’t. The notion that a man like him found her attractive made her feel a little feverish and giddy.
The man is only after you for a piece of ass, Cutter had warned.
She straightened and turned—only to find him suddenly plastered against her body. She gasped, automatically setting her hands on his chest to put space between them. But he was like solid stone under her touch.
Pierce’s hands dropped to her hips. “Would you rather do something besides play pool?”
Yes, please. “No. This is fine.”
His fingers tightened on her. The heat of his touch penetrated the khaki twill of her shorts. Suddenly, she found it hard to breathe.
“Then turn and bend over the table again.” He waited until she complied, and Brea was achingly aware of his body heat bracketing the backs of her thighs, of the sexual stirrings his closeness roused. “You’re right-handed?”
“Um, yes.”
“With that hand, hold the cue about five inches from the bottom. Now place it near your hip. Don’t hold it so tight. You want to be relaxed but controlled. Good. Align your body with the cue ball. This will help your aim. Exactly. With your left hand, make a V with your thumb and index finger, like this.” He demonstrated. “You’ll balance the tip of the cue in that crevice.”
Brea watched, acutely aware of the veins bulging in his forearms, the size of his hands, the length of his fingers, the hair dusting his knuckles.
Then he took hold of her hips again. “Spread your legs, pretty girl.”
Her stomach tightened. “Why?”
“Your feet are too close together. You’ll find it hard to stabilize when you take your shot. Go on. Yeah, just like that. Now lay the rest of the fingers of your left hand on the table and make a bridge for the V to rest on. You got it.”
“Now what?” she asked.
Brea only half listened to his answer.
