Page 38 of Cold Mercy

Her eyes darken. Satisfaction flickers there, quick and sharp.

“Funny, I don’t remember leaving any blind spots. But I guess we’ll see how long you last there,” she whispers.

She’s looking at me like this didn’t scare her. Like, it actually did the opposite. Like, she enjoyed it more than she should have. That’s the fucking problem.

I should probably go touch some grass, remind myself who the hell I am, and why this is a bad idea. Because something in my brain is clearly misfiring, and I don’t like how fast it’s happening. But sitting here, with that look in her eyes, the tension wound so tight it feels alive, I can’t stop. I don’t want to, for God's sake.

That’s loss of control. I never lose control, never.

“Come on,” she says, stretching her arms.

“Where are we going?” I ask.

She’s already heading up the stairs, whiskey bottle in hand.

“To play pool. And don’t get ideas,” she throws over her shoulder, “you’re not my type, anyway.”

We step into a massive game room. The pool table could host a summit meeting.

She refills my glass and sets the rules.

“New rules,” she says. “If I win, you do something I tell you to. No arguing.”

“And if I win?” I ask.

She smiles slowly.

“Then I’ll do the same.”

“Fine by me,” I smirk. “Get ready to lose.”

She rolls her eyes.

We start playing. She focuses, or at least pretends to. Every time she leans over the table, her eyes flick up at the last second, catching mine instead of the cue ball. Like she wants to make sure I’m watching. Like she knows I am. How could I fucking not?

By the time we’re down to the last few balls, the world feels warm and heavy, the edges soft in a way I don’t usually allow. Too much adrenaline today, too little food, and too many emotions I’ve kept buried for years deciding to crawl back up all at once.

She bends over the table to take a shot and doesn’t rush it. Her back curves, slow and controlled, and her ass pushes back just enough to be impossible to ignore. It’s not accidental. Nothing about her ever is. I swallow, staring like a goddamn teenager who’s forgotten how to look away. My hands itch to touch her. To pull her off the table and see if she makes the same focused expression when she’s underneath me.

She straightens, finally, and I catch her eyes again. She sinks the final ball without ceremony.

Then she steps beside me, close enough that her shoulder brushes mine, casual but loaded. The contact sends a jolt straight through me, and I have to remind myself how to breathe like a normal adult man. Leaning against the table, she looks entirely too pleased with herself.

“Well,” she murmurs. “Looks like you owe me.”

“What’s the damage?” I ask.

She lifts her glass, rolling it slowly between her fingers, eyes on me in a way that makes my spine tighten.

“Strip.”

The detective in me is losing.

My only real thought is a visceral, predatory yes. A hunger to not just obey, but to turn this game back on her.

“Say that again,” I murmur.

“Relax,” she says. “Jesus, Reed. I’m not trying to get you naked. At least not tonight.”