Shining Victory (The Victory Series)

...“You could ask me out for a beer, old man.”

I shivered at his words. I longed to do just that. I wanted the pleasure of his company on a visceral level. My chest ached with it. How stupid did I dare allow myself to be?

Apparently, very.

The Corvette leaped forward as I gave it some pedal. “You play pool, puppy?”

“Better than you do. Dollar a ball?”

“Fucking hell! Do I look like I have money or something?” I did, but I wasn’t going to blow it on foolish bets.

“Nope. This piece of shit you drive screams welfare.” Levi snickered. “Okay, we’ll play just for fun.”

“Damn right. You’re probably a pool hustler.”

He fell silent again, brooding, or so I thought, and I wondered if I’d pushed some button, or if I’d insulted him to silence. Or, more likely, I’d guessed correctly and spoiled his fun. I put my mind on my driving.

Levi hadn’t suggested any particular establishment, so I headed to a place where I didn’t think I’d run into any of my buddies. My luck held. I didn’t recognize any of the vehicles in the lot.

My young companion held the door for me as we entered the pub, stepping into a quiet, smoke-filled room. The pool table just inside the door was free.

“Rack ’em, Levi. Will a draft be okay?”

He nodded as he deftly arranged the balls for the first strike. I paid for the beers and selected a cue. My own stick lay tucked in its case in the trunk of the Corvette, but I didn’t want to appear showoff-ish to Levi. The car already pushed that envelope far enough. Levi tossed a coin in the air.

“Call it!”

“Heads.” The quarter landed heads up. I lined up for the break and popped it. As luck would have it, the twelve and the fifteen balls dropped into the pockets. Levi glanced slyly at me from under his lashes.

“That means you have to get all the striped balls in the pockets before you can hit the little black ball in, Stacy James.”

I narrowed my eyes at him and ran the highballs.

“Eight in the side.” I tapped the hole I would shoot for with the cue, then drove the little black ball home. “Rack ’em, again, if you dare,” I challenged him.

Levi set up the table again while I sipped my beer. Something simmered just under the surface of his flushed skin. I moved to break and his hand covered mine. Our gazes locked for several seconds. He squeezed my fingers, and I released the cue.

“My turn, old man.”

“Okay, puppy. Show me what you can do.”

Levi lined up and made the break. The three ball dropped in the pocket. He surveyed the table and tapped a pocket. “One ball.”

The one dropped and he tapped another hole. “Two ball.”

Again, the ball dropped.

“Four in the far corner.” Levi tapped the cue ball. It bounced off the side and hit the four. The ball dropped.

I perched on a bar stool and watched him run the table, in order, until he missed the ten. He moved with effortless grace, cool and focused on the shots. I did my best not to stare at his ass, or the bump at the base of his zipper. When he missed the ten by scant centimeters, I spoke.

“Set it up and try it again.”

Levi nodded and reset the shot. This time, the ten dropped. He finished the table and tossed the cue stick on the vanquished field of play. I handed him his draft. He leaned against the bar and downed a few swallows. His burning gaze never left mine.

“So, Stacy James. Your place or mine?”...