I give the cue ball a smart tap, sending it hard into the 11, just left of center. The 11 cuts off to the right, spinning directly into the side pocket, landing with a satisfying thump. Without pausing, I sink the 13 and 14 as well.
“Uh oh,” Sebastian says, softly. “I think I’m in trouble.”
I miss my next shot by an inch. Sebastian takes his cue and surveys the table. Quickly and smoothly, he sinks the 2 and the 4. His large hands are steady as he spreads his fingers across the felt, stabilizing his cue. He only has to give the ball a glance to calculate his angle.
He’s incredibly precise, and incredibly sure of himself. He sinks the 1 and the 5 as well, before missing the 3.
I hadn’t realized that I was holding my breath. I know that if I miss any more shots, I probably won’t get another chance.
Scowling, I approach the table like it’s a battleground. I picture where the cue ball will land after each shot, making sure I’m not going to strand myself. Once I’m certain of my strategy, I sink the 10, the 12, and the 15 in rapid succession.
Now only the 8-ball is left. It’s pressed up against Sebastian’s 3. They’re both rather close to the left corner pocket. I’m afraid that I’ll knock them in together, if I’m not careful.
Very carefully, I take aim. I split the balls apart, knocking the 8-ball into the pocket, and nudging the 3 aside. The cue ball rolls a little too far, trembling at the edge. If it falls in too, I lose the game. But it stays put.
I pluck up Sebastian’s hundred-dollar bill and tuck it into my bra.
“I win,” I say.
“I think I just got sharked,” Sebastian says.
“It wouldn’t be the first time,” I say.
Men always overestimate their skills. And underestimate mine.
“Should we go one more?” Sebastian says.
“Double or nothing?”
“I’m not sure you have any money,” Sebastian says, with a cheeky smile. “Other than what you took from me. What about...for every ball I sink, you take off a piece of clothing. And I’ll do the same.”
I scoff, shaking my head at him. It’s a transparent ruse.
On the other hand...I can’t resist the temptation of humiliating him further. I’d love to win a game while he stands there in his boxer shorts.
“Alright,” I say. “But I break.”
“You broke last time,” Sebastian points out.
“Take it or leave it.”
“I’ll take it,” he says, his voice low and intent.
Sebastian racks the balls again, and I take my position on the other end of the table. I break, though not as cleanly as last time. None of the balls go in the pocket.
They’re evenly disbursed, with no real advantage between solid and stripes. I take solid this time, because the 3-ball is practically in the side-pocket already. I nudge it in with a little tap to the side, then throw a look at Sebastian.
“That’s one,” I say.
“Fair enough,” Sebastian says.
Crossing his arms in front of him, he grabs the bottom of his black t-shirt with both hands and pulls it over his head. I can’t help staring at this maneuver as he bares his long, lean torso, deeply tanned and rippling with muscle. He’s even more fit than I expected. His shoulders and chest are thick and full, his abdominal muscles are cut all the way down. A trail of dark hair leads from his bellybutton into the waistband of his jeans. My eyes follow it all the way down...
When I snap them back up again, he’s grinning at me.
“Like what you see?” he says.
I toss my ponytail back over my shoulder contemptuously, then face the pool table again.
I don’t know if it was the sight of Sebastian, or my own haste to keep playing, but I miss my next shot. Worse still, the cue ball rolls into the pocket, so Sebastian can position it wherever he likes behind the line.
“B`lyad!” I swear in annoyance.
I’m even more annoyed by Sebastian’s smug expression as he takes his spot at the top of the table. Without even aiming, he sinks the 10.
“Your turn,” he says.
He means my turn to strip, not to play. Irritated, I slip off my left shoe. It’s a Manolo Blahnik and I don’t fancy putting my foot back into it, if I get my soles dirty on the dusty concrete.
Sebastian sinks the 12 as well.
“Can’t have you standing lopsided,” he grins.
I take off the right shoe. Now my heart is beating fast. I had planned to run the table, not put myself on the receiving end of a streak. I can’t believe I missed.
Sebastian puts the 15 in the corner pocket.
Frowning, I pull the elastic out of my ponytail so my hair falls loose around my shoulders.
“I’m not sure that counts as clothing,” Sebastian says.
“Yes it does,” I hiss.
“Whatever you say.” He sinks the 14 easily.
Fuck.
I should have worn a lot more layers before I agreed to this game.
Slowly, I reach behind me and unzip the back of my dress. It’s an electric blue minidress, which didn’t cover much to begin with. It’s about to cover a whole lot less.
I pull down the shoulder straps, letting the dress fall to my feet in a puddle. Now it’s Sebastian’s turn to let his jaw drop.
His reaction is, at least, satisfying. He looks mildly stunned, like he just received a blow to the head. He doesn’t even pretend not to let his eyes roam over my body in my black silk bra and panty set.
Hopefully my figure will have a similar effect on him, and he’ll miss his next shot.
Instead, the opposite occurs. Sebastian faces the pool table with a new level of focus. Before he was playing around — now he’s dead serious. He wants to win this game.
His next shot is tricky. With my solids in the way, he doesn’t have a clean shot. He has to bank the 9 off the wall to sink it in the side pocket.
He hits the ball slightly off-center, and for a second I think he’s going to miss. But it hits the edge of the pocket and falls in.
Silently, Sebastian turns to face me.
I don’t know why I’m so nervous.
I didn’t mean for the game to go this far.
I’m suddenly aware how tall he is, especially now that I’m not wearing heels. I’m aware that we’re alone down here, in this dimly lit space, with the music thumping so loudly overhead that no one would hear us. Sebastian’s eyes look dark and deeply shadowed.
A bet is a bet.
My hands are trembling as I reach behind me to unclasp my bra.
“Wait,” Sebastian says.
He crosses the space between us in two long strides. He looks down into my face. He hasn’t touched me yet, but I can feel the heat coming off his bare chest. I’m pinned against the pool table, no more room to back up.
“You don’t have to strip,” he says.
I lick my lips. “We made a deal.”
“I don’t care,” he says. “I want something else...”
I look up into his eyes, seeing the flecks of gold in the brown irises, seeing how thick and dark his lashes are.
“What?” I whisper.
He brings his lips down to mine.
He kisses me, with a mouth that is warm and tastes slightly of salt and lime. His lips are even softer than they seemed against my wrist, but the kiss isn’t soft. It’s deep and hungry.