Hate Me (34 page)

I quickly calculate the number of articles of clothing it will take to get him naked. Two shoes, jeans, sliders, t-shirt, jacket, watch, maybe sunglasses. Seven. For me, two boots, two thigh highs, skirt, top, underwear, bra, necklace, bracelet, and, if I wear my mittens, that’d be twelve. Pretty good odds.
 

“Sure, why not? But I’m leaving my mittens on if you get to keep your glasses on.”

“You can even put your coat on, if you want.” He waggles his eyebrows.

I roll my eyes. “Don’t tell me you’re as good at pool as you are at every other sport?”

He shrugs. I start to move away from him, eager to get started, but he grabs me tightly and kisses me hotly, his stubble rough against my chin.

“No sampling the goods just yet,” I say. “You have to win first.”

He gives me a smoldering look, then says, “You’re so going down.”

I think about how I went down last night. “Is that what we’re playing for?”

“What?”

“Going, um, down?” I say, glancing at his pants and thinking that if he says yes, I’m going to cheat.

He pushes he glasses back into place, covering his eyes. “Sounds fair to me.”

“This isn’t poker. Your eyes aren’t going to give your hand away.”

“I think you like the glasses.”

“I like the whole package,” I say, then gulp, realizing what I just said.
 

“You like my whole package, huh?” he teases.
 

“You talk too much. I’ll rack,” I say as I line the pool balls up. “You break.”

He bends down, slides the cue across his fingers, and blasts the balls apart, sending two in, both stripes.

“Oh, you can’t do that,” I say.
 

“Can’t do what? Be awesome?”

 
“No. If you sink two balls of the same kind on the break it’s illegal. You have two options. Replace a solid with the stripe or just add one back to table. Which do you want to do?” I say, messing with him. I hold both striped balls in my hand, rubbing my thumbs across them for effect.

He licks his lips, looking at me like I’m a snack. “Leave it off the table, and I’ll only make you take off your shirt.”

I shrug. “That’s cool.” I slide my silky sweatshirt over my head, tossing it to the ground.
 

“Red, corner pocket,” he says, effortlessly sinking another and stifling a grin. “Take off your skirt.”

Shit. I’m in trouble.
 

“No one said that you get to choose. I’m taking off a mitten.” I pull if off and toss it on the table.

He takes two big strides, his face now close to mine, and says very seriously, “My score. My choice. Take off your skirt.” Then he takes my mitten and throws it into the other room. He pushes me back against the pool table. “You lose that one for disobeying. Time for me to shoot again. You’re going to be naked in no time.”

He quickly sinks another ball.

“That didn’t count. It’s supposed to be my turn,” I quickly say, grabbing his cue stick from him.

“No, it’s
mine
.”

“Nope. You just made a bunch in a row. It’s my turn.”

“Since when? Have you never played pool before? You have a pool table.”

“Yeah, because I thought it would be fun for parties and stuff. Guys like to play pool. And I’ve played. Sort of. A few times.”

“And how did you do?”

“Honestly, usually when I got to play, I’d shoot a few times, and my boyfriend would make me quit.”

“Because you were so bad?”

“No! Because he said all his friends were looking up my skirt. He was a gentleman.”

“He the gay one?”

“Shut up!”

He squints at me. “On second thought . . .” He slowly pulls my other mitten off. “Leave the skirt on.”

“You know, it’s also probably illegal to play strip pool without doing a few shots.” I’m feeling strung out. Like a crack addict badly in need of her next fix. Plus, I’m nervous.

And freaking excited.
 

And nervous.

I already said that.
 

“So, what did you do at parties when you weren’t playing pool?”

“Well, once my ex got drunk enough that he didn’t care what I did, then I’d dance on the bar.”

“Were you drunk?”

“Naw. I’d have a few shots, have some fun, but that was it.”

He pushes his chest tightly against mine, half kisses and half licks my cheek, and says, “Don’t go anywhere.”

I watch his godly hotness stride over to the bar.

I mean, imagine it. A demigod. Hot, buff, golden boy, wrapped in a designer motorcycle jacket. It’s like one of the gods plucked us from the sky and placed us together.
 

The. Most. Perfect. Boy. For. Me.
 

But, curse Aphrodite and her vindictiveness, they thought it would be fun to put us together under the worst possible circumstances. I knew she shouldn’t be the goddess of love. More like the goddess of spite.
 

Bitch.

Aiden hands me a double shot of tequila.
 

“Nice pour,” I say as we clink glasses and drink.
 

“Well, I'm hoping you'll dance on the pool table for me later.”

“I’ll dance on the pool table for you now.”

“No way. You're just trying to avoid the inevitable. Me whipping your ass."
 

I really need to start plugging my ears when Katie reads me the naughty parts from her erotic romance novels, because I don't want to lose the game, but the first thought that popped in my head was
Forget date me, love me, and adore me. I want spank me, attack me, fu
—

“Are you gonna shoot now?”

“Hmmm? Oh, yeah.”

I remember that he made me keep my skirt on for a reason. Maybe I can use that to distract him.
 

I lean way over the table, knowing my skirt is totally riding up.

Aiden has shifted to my side of the table. He even sits in one of the low slung leather chairs to get a better view.
 

I move my hips from side to side, pretending to get comfortable in my stance before I shoot.
 

I turn around and catch him staring at my backside. “Shouldn't you be standing up and making sure I don't cheat?”

He glances up. “No, I can see the table just fine. Shoot already.”

“I can't decide which ball to hit.”

He stands up and leans against my back, bending over me, his hips touching my ass in an attempt to line up a shot.
 

I almost whimper.

“Hit that one right there into the corner. But hit it softly so the cue ball doesn't follow it in.”

I slide the cue across my fingers and completely miss the ball.
 

“Shit.”

“Looks like you lose again.”

“No. That was a—I don’t know what it's called—but it's like when the volleyball hits the net. I get a do-over.”

“I shouldn't be helping you,” he says as he leans back over me, guiding the cue for me. One of his legs is between mine, I'm bent at the waist, and I’m trying not to close my eyes and just sigh.
 

He slides the cue gently though my fingers, sinking the ball cleanly in the pocket.
 

“We did it! Got it in the hole,” I say excitedly, but all of a sudden pool seems as sexual as basic construction. “I mean, I sunk it.”
 

Oh, gosh. Sticks. Balls. Holes. Hitting it hard. Breaking. A boy totally made up pool.
 

Aiden doesn't move even though my shot is clearly complete. He keeps me bent over the table and kisses my neck. “What do you want me to take off?”

“Since you illegally helped me, you have to take off two things.”

“No way.”

“Fine. I'll compromise. Take your jacket and shirt off, but then I'll let you put your jacket back on.”

Surprisingly, he doesn't argue. He slides out of the jacket, hands it to me, and pulls his shirt over his head. Luckily for me, he does this slowly, and I get a clear view of flexing muscles.

He looks hot shirtless but when he slips his jacket back on, I about have a spontaneous orgasm.
 

Like, if that were possible.
 

I admire him for a few seconds; even lay a few kisses across his chest.
 

Then I remember I have another shot.
 

And, suddenly, I'm very motivated.
 

I find an easy to make shot and line it up, really focusing.
 

As I shoot, my cue gets hit from behind and knocked out of my hand.
 

I turn around to find Aiden wearing a smirk.
 

“Tough shot,” he says. “My turn. You know, you should’ve put some chalk on the tip. It works better that way.”

Oh god. There's another one.
 

And now I’m wishing I could chalk his stick.
 

“See?” he says as another ball falls in the pocket. “Hmmm. Skirt for sure, this time, although, I will say the view was nice. I can see why even your gay boyfriend would be jealous of that view.”

“I swear to god, if you ever meet him, he's not out. And I promised to tell no one.”

“You didn't tell me. I guessed. Skirt.”

I roll my eyes, unzip my skirt, and let it fall to the ground.
 

He surveys my pink and black lace and says, “It’s halftime. Do you want another shot?”

“Please.”

We down another shot and then he says again, “It's halftime.”

“Pool doesn't have a halftime, silly,” I tell him.

“Our game does.” He hits a couple of buttons on my phone, which has been playing through the speaker system, switching over to a very appropriate song about bad boys. “Get up there and dance,” he says as he takes a seat.
 

“I can't. These heels would tear up the felt.”

He stands back up, grabs the cue, and quickly sinks two more shots. “I’ll take the boots, Boots.”

He picks me up, plops me on the table, unzips my boots and slides them off my feet, leaving me in my thigh highs, bra, panties, and jewelry. Then he holds my hand to help me up on the table.

Ha!

Dancing in a cage for a bunch of horny drunk guys did end up helping me out later. I'll have to tell Cooper that.
 

I look at Aiden's hungry eyes.
 

Uh, maybe not.
 

I move slowly and sexily to the song, close my eyes, and let myself go.
 

Touching my chest, my hips, and totally caught up in the beat.
 

When the song ends, I hear Aiden say, “Eight ball, center pocket.”
 

He shoots the eight ball between my legs and wins the game. Which means I get to . . .

Aiden takes my hand and helps me off the table. His lips immediately land hard on mine, and I can feel how much he liked my dance.
 

I reach for his pants.
 

He stops me.

“Panties. I win,” he says as he rips them off me, sets me back up on the pool table, and sinks his head between my legs.
 
 

Oh my god.
 

His mouth. The source of his power.
 

That magical tongue is . . .

And the scruff is . . .

Infusing the rest of me with love potion, I think—no that tongue is very capable of inducing lust because . . .

Just because.
 

Or maybe he’s cursing it.
 

Ruining this part of me like he ruined my lips.
 

And the scruff is . . .

When someone gets in trouble, Grandpa always says they got a good tongue lashing.
 

This gives a whole new meaning to that phrase.

And I
so
want trouble.

I'm making promises to myself.
 

To always dance on the pool table for him.
 

To always suck at pool.
 

To . . .
 

Holy shit.
 

I grab his hair, because I can't help it. I let out a sound that’s almost a scream.
 

Every bit of cool is gone, and all I can do is react to the way he's rocking my body.
 

Thank god I don't have close neighbors.
 

I also pray to the gods that Garrett didn't put in any video surveillance. Or else, somewhere in Indiana, someone is getting an eyeful.