Shane (Damage Control 4)

“And why?”

“Why what?”

“Why did you kiss Jesse?”

Oh, right. Let’s rehash the whole sordid tale, shall we? “I thought he didn’t care one way or another.”

“For kissing?”

“For intimacy. For sex. Like me. I mean, it’s just a physical thing. Two bodies rubbing together. It’s only skin-deep.”

“So sex means nothing to you?”

Weird how this got him talking. Can’t remember the last time I heard Shane string so many words together. His dark, almond-shaped eyes are intent on me, and man, those are some damn pretty eyes. I know girls who’d kill for such long lashes.

“Not really, no.” I cock my head at him. “Why, does it mean something to you?”

“No. Fuck no.” He shakes his head vehemently.

Okay… Glad we cleared that up. Strange, though. I’ve never seen Shane with a girl—well, apart from me, and we’re just friendly. Nothing more.

Not from lack of wanting on my part, of course, but he never looked interested. I’d think being casual about sex would mean being with a different girl every night, fucking her brains out, then moving on.

But I really don’t know much about Shane, or what he does when he isn’t shooting pool with me.

And all this deep thinking has made me thirsty.

“I know what we need.” I stand up, smooth my short skirt down, and hey, is it me or did his eyes just flick to my legs? Hey, a girl can dream. “How about a drink?”

***

Yeah, the vodka hit just the spot. I grab the bottle from the low table and wave it at Shane. “Another?”

He lifts his glass, and I pour some more, then put it down and reach for the soda to mix it with. He knocks the pure vodka back before I even lift the can.

Whoa.

Worse still is the fact he looks sober. His expression is as guarded as always, those pretty eyes flat like dark water.

“How about we play a game?” I pour myself another drink and take a sip, my back finally loosening.

“Game?”

“Yeah.” I reach up, take out my hair tie and shake out my long hair, and I catch his gaze on me again. Crap, I can’t tell if he’s drawn to me or is just waiting for my reply. “Like truth or dare, or—”

“I don’t play games.” He slams his glass on the table and stands up, unfolding that long, muscular body, and Christ, is it my fault I want to lick my lips in appreciation?

Or lick him, every inch of exposed, smooth skin. Then undress him and lick some more.

“Not true” I say absently. “You play pool with me sometimes.”

He hesitates, then crosses over to window and draws the curtains shut. “That’s different.”

I study his broad back, the way his waist dips in to narrow hips and a sexy, strong ass. “Not really. You do it for fun.”

“In pool I control everything. It’s my skill that sinks those balls, not luck.” He turns back toward me, but his gaze is bent inward. “I like that.”

Curling up on the sofa, still in my long coat, I nod. That makes sense about him. I’ve felt that before, that he’s happiest when nothing surprises him, when he has control. He even has his long hair in a ponytail when he plays and rolls his sleeves up. Leaves nothing to chance.