Page 90 of Savannah Royals
Matt turns around to lean against the table. His blue eyes meet mine, fully open with his desire.
“Strip.”
The music from the phonograph swells in my ears. My stomach turns over.
Slowly, I reach for my hemline. I hold his gaze until the dress lifts over my head. As it flutters to the floor, I enjoy every second of shock on his face.
“Is…is that a pair of my drawers?” he finally asks, a muscle jumping in his jaw.
“It is.” I stand in front of him, smiling devilishly. I let him enjoy the view as I pose in my black brassiere, stockings, and his underwear.
He swallows. “Anything else under there?”
“Don’t know.” I shrug. “Guess you’ll have to find out. It’s still your turn.”
He glances back at the table. There’s a long shot down the right side. I take a different tack this time and drape myself over the pocket. I put my elbows on the table and lean in, giving him an eyeful.
To my complete delight, he misses the shot. The ball hits the corner and bounces from rim to rim twice before rolling out.
I smile, victorious. “Ready to lose your shirt?” I ask, taking the stick.
“I’m not holding my breath. You haven’t gottenanywhere so far.”
But I have all my options on the board, and he’s placed the cue ball perfectly outside the corner pocket. I grin and bend over, making sure to stick my ass out a little extra. He gets a good look at his own drawers as I gently tap my stick to nudge a stripe into the pocket.
He unbuttons his shirt and tosses it aside, revealing a sleeveless undershirt. The rounded swell of his bare shoulders is tantalizing.
“I’m about to go on a roll,” I warn.
I aim for the opposite corner and drop another ball. Matthew gives me a tiny, adorable smile before reaching back with one arm to tug off his undershirt from behind.
I take a moment to appreciate the sight, drinking him in. Two broad shoulders, the smooth planes and hard ridges of his chest, a smattering of dark blond hair trailing down, down, down…all the way down until it disappears under the waistline of his pants.
“Your trousers are mine,” I say, a little breathless. “And I’mreallygoing to enjoy taking them.”
There’s another across-the-table shot available, this time a side pocket. I don’t have the best angle, but the ball is right on the edge. The lightest tap will likely see it over.
I bend down and concentrate. Shirtless Matthew is highly distracting, but pantless Matthew would be even better.
I taste victory the minute I release the shot, grinning before the ball tumbles. I walk around the table to Matthew as his hands, obediently, go to his waist. I put my fingers over his, halting him.
“I won them,” I whisper. “They’re mine.”
I slowly unbutton his trousers, holding his gaze as I do. I brush my fingers against him far more than necessary before letting the pants drop to the ground. He steps back to kick them aside, and my heart stutters.
He moves his lips to the shell of my ear. “Can you finish?” he asks dangerously. “Or should I?”
“You’re mine.” I take a deep breath and try my hand at a ricocheting shot, a trick he could probably pull off. I miss.
He takes the pool cue without a word and lines up his next strike. Just before he releases, he flicks his eyes to mine. He holds there and slowly smiles. It’s heady, that smile. So heady, I hardly notice when he knocks down a ball.
Unceremoniously, I drop his drawers to the floor and step out, revealing silk French knickers. Matthew’s gaze traces over me. Hungry. Reverent. Head to toe, then back again. Everywhere his eyes linger, I feel the burn. Burning and burning and burning until I’m aflame all over. You’d think I was wearing the laciest and skimpiest of lingerie from the way he’s looking.
It’s still his turn, but he leans the stick against the table and slowly walks over to me, stopping scarcely an inch away.
“It’s your shot,” I murmur. “What’s wrong—afraid you won’t be able to finish after all, Matt?”
“I’m finishing the way I want to,” he growls. “Myself.”
