Dirty Sweet Wild (Bad Billionaires 2)

“To answer your question,” I said, clearing my throat, “the guy who owns this place is a veteran. So is his son, who’s the guy behind the bar. It’s mostly vets in here. That’s why I come.”

Now it was Gwen’s turn to frown. “So a bunch of guys with something in common come here to sit alone and not talk to each other. Do I have that right?”

“You don’t know very many veterans, do you?” I said. “We don’t talk about anything. Ever. Especially important shit. A night of not talking is our idea of bliss.”

“Fine.” She leaned forward, across the table toward me, lowering her voice, oblivious to what the pose did to her incredible tits inside her shirt. “As long as none of them drop their pants for me.” She gave me half a smile. “Again.”

I took a sip of beer. “I didn’t drop ’em all the way the first time.”

She blinked, and her pupils went dark as she remembered the two of us on my sofa, my cock inside her, just like I did. The moment stretched out, the air between us so thick I could have put out my tongue and tasted it. And in that second, I forgot everything that was wrong. I just was, a guy with a beer and a crazy sexy woman and a half-hard dick in his jeans, on the edge of something that excited me and didn’t scare me in the least.

Her gaze traveled down my throat, my shoulders, my chest, and back up again. “I like you,” she said, still leaning forward, her voice practically a whisper. “We should have some more sex.”

I sent a pointed look down to her chest in return, then raised my eyes to hers again. “There’s a pool table in the back.” I watched her eyes go wide, and then I said, “You want to play some pool?”

“Naughty,” she said, but her eyes flashed, and I learned something: This woman was competitive. “You know I’m going to beat you, right?”

My pool skills were average, but I wasn’t about to tell her that. “You can try.”

“Okay, beard man,” she said, sliding out of her seat. “You’re on.”

Chapter 9

Gwen

He was driving me crazy. Every time I won at pool, he’d win the next game, so we were neck and neck. I did not do well with neck and neck. I did well with winning.

“You’re doing this on purpose,” I said to him after our sixth game, when we were three and three.

“I’m not,” he argued. “I’m trying to win.”

“Well, try harder,” I told him. “Or less hard.”

He gave me a look at that, and we went back to playing again.

A few of the guys in the bar drifted in and out of the room, watching us. They didn’t say much; they seemed happy to just be spectators. I was used to being watched by men, but this was differe

nt, and it took me some time to realize why. They were looking at me, which was fine, but none of them were leering. Because they all assumed that I was with Max. That we were a couple.

And maybe they were watching me, but I wanted to watch him. Max Reilly had a presence, a way of moving, that I’d never seen in any other man. He wasn’t quick, or lithe, but he was powerful. Strong. His walk was distinctive, slightly off-kilter, though he wasn’t limping like he’d been the day I’d met him in front of his door. He didn’t move a lot, just like he didn’t talk a lot. When it was time for me to take my shot, he just leaned his hip against the high-top table in the corner, his fingers idly drumming on his pool cue, and waited.

That dark hair. That dark beard, cut close to his jaw but a little scruffy. He had high cheekbones under there, and a nice mouth that had kissed me just the way I liked it. His intelligent eyes watched me steadily, but gave nothing away.

And I was slowly going nuts. I was jumpy in my skin, skittish, painfully horny. I wanted his hands on me, but he wouldn’t do it. I wanted to fuck him, but I didn’t know exactly how to get him to agree. Should I be seductive? Flirtatious? Direct? Or should I back off and wait?

Is this what it’s normally like for guys? I wondered to myself as I watched him circle the table, looking for his shot. I think I understand them better now.

And for that hour, I forgot about everything. I forgot about Trent and my money problem and my back rent and the images I’d seen when I’d Googled IED. I forgot that he wasn’t my type and there was no way we belonged together, even for a game of pool. I just watched him and looked for signals, like any ordinary woman on a date would do.

He bent to take a shot and I leaned over his shoulder, trying the direct approach. “Gutter it, and I’ll sleep with you.”

He glanced at me, his brow furrowed, then looked back at the table. “Nope.”

And he sunk it, the bastard.

I had a second beer, but Max only had one. When he won the seventh game, breaking our tie, I took the last swig of my beer and put down my cue. “Fine,” I said.

Max watched me, his body suddenly still. “We done?” he asked.