Page 63 of Force a Date

HUDSON

After I dropped Olive off, I thought it’d be a smooth night where I could just drink my beer, have a few shots of Jack, and watch the guys make assholes out of themselves while playing pool.

I did all that.

And I did it well with a buzz and not a fucking care in the world.

Until Olive’s body type showed up bent over an adjoining pool table with a guy showing her how to use a pool stick.

I had to blink a few times.

I mean, I did have quite a few shots, knew I had to slow down because I had to drive home, so I thought I was just imagining shit because she looked hella sexy in that fucking dress tonight and, begrudgingly, I will more than likely rub one out to the thought of her later.

It’s fucking ridiculous.

Or was.

Was, as in, she’s in shorts that ride all the way up her ass and those perky globes of tits are about to spill out of a pink tank top.

She smiles as the guy—some twenty-year-old prick—whispers something in her ear. I can only imagine what because I’ve been that guy once upon a time. And I can create what I’d be saying to her right now so she’d come home with me.

My blood boils and my buzz is fucked.

Glancing over at Miles, he’s stumbling around the table, focusing on the pool balls as though there’s more of them on the table than there really are. Winslow is already half in the bag and gone, so he’s no fucking use.

And Devin…he’s fucking drawing a new sketch out on a drink napkin and, if I interrupt him, he’s going to ask me a million and one questions.

I should let this go.

Honestly, I knew she was a bad idea—keeps being a bad idea—but that fucking body is just something I can’t get over. Her mouth is something I want to shut up in several and multiple different scenarios but don’t because it just gives me a reason.

A reason to do what we did again and again with an excuse. Memories of fucking her against the drywall with the word daddy off her lips as she half-ass became submissive to me was hot as hell. I’m not into the Dom-sub thing but getting her to want me bad enough to listen while still keeping that big mouth on her was enough for me.

I didn’t want a doormat. And fuck knows I need a kick in my ass from time to time with how I bottle up and disassociate, but she’s someone that can get too close, too quick, and too much.

Contemplating my options, I observe the way she makes her next play and she’s doing it all wrong. The way she’s putting the end of the pool stick, how her back isn’t straight and she’s not lining up the balls right.

Rookie shit.

Shit, ole boy over there isn’t even contemplating correcting her because he has one goal.

And so do I.

Sliding off the barstool that’s next to the high-top table, I don’t bother telling the boys where I’m going because I won’t be gone long. She’s not spending her fucking time with Ryan Reynolds over here while he whispers how good he’s going to fuck her when I’ve already done that.

She needs someone with good intentions and a job.

Not a green polo shirt and khakis.

Liv bends over again on the other side of the table with her new accessory bowed over her frame where his groin is lined up with her ass. And it’s not until my fingers curl along the edges of the red felt of the pool table that Liv’s blue eyes flick up to mine.

Then she mouths, “Shit.”

“Sweetheart,” I drawl, holding her gaze as she slowly straightens her spine. Getting her new friend to back off. “I thought I tucked you into bed already.”

Liv immediately hands over her pool stick to the dude that’s been so graciously showing her how to play the game and rounds the table.

“What are you doing here?” she mutters low enough to be heard over the music but as though she doesn’t want people to see her speaking to me.

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