Whatever Reilly Wants...

He shifted his gaze to her and felt his throat close up. Her blue eyes looked wider tonight. Her mouth looked edible. Her tanned, smooth skin was the color of warm honey and looked just as lickable.

Oh, man.

She was watching him with a curious expression on her face and he really couldn’t blame her. Hell, they’d been hanging out together for a couple of years now and he’d never stuttered around her before. Just like he’d never taken the time to notice that her breasts were just the right size to fill a man’s palm.

Damn it.

She held her cue stick in her left hand. Idly, she slid her fingers up and down the slim, polished wood, trailing her touch delicately enough to drive him insane by wondering how those fingers would feel on him.

“Man, get a grip, Reilly.” His voice was thick and his muttered whisper was soft enough to be buried beneath the onslaught of rock music pouring into the room. At least, he hoped it had been.

He really didn’t want Emma knowing that he was getting hard just watching her.

It’s just the bet.

That’s all it was.

He was hard up.

Frustrated.

Walking the fine edge of sanity.

But man, she looked good.

“How long’s it take to rack some balls?” she asked.

Connor winced and shot her a quick look. “A little patience goes a long way.”

She laughed and the deep, throaty, full sound of it, rippled over the conversations in the bar and danced to the rhythm of the music. It seemed to reach for him and grab him by the throat.

“You?” she asked. “Patient?”

Her fingers were still caressing the cue stick and he had to force himself to look away. But meeting her gaze wasn’t much safer. Had her eyes always been that color of blue? Sort of summer skyish? He gritted his teeth.

“I can be patient when I have to be,” he countered. Like now. It had been a long month. The stupid bet with his brothers was making him crazy. But he was patient—even if Emma didn’t think so. And he’d make it through the next two months.

As long as she didn’t bend over again.

“Yeah?” She tilted her head, and that fall of hair swung out past her shoulders. “How are you at pool?”

He lifted the rack off the triangle of balls, hung it on the hook at the end of the table and forced a nonchalant shrug. “Take your best shot and let’s find out.”

She nodded slowly. “Twenty bucks a game.”

“High stakes.”

“What’s the matter?” she asked, a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. “Scared?”

Well, that helped. His dignity won out over his hormones. “Hell, no. I can take you.”

“Really?” she said softly. “And just where did you plan on taking me?”

She didn’t wait for a reply. Instead, she bent over the table, lined up her cue stick and drew it back and forth between her fingers while she aimed her shot.

Unfortunately, this gave Connor way too much time to appreciate the view of her breasts, practically spilling out of her tank top.

His body went to DefCon 2.

And he suddenly knew just where he’d like to take her.

A back room.

A flat surface.

On the damn pool table.

Crap. He rubbed his face and damn near slapped himself. He wanted Emma. Now. More than he could ever remember wanting anything else in his life.

The only thing that stopped him was he was pretty sure it wouldn’t have worked. Just because he was acting like a slobbering horn dog didn’t mean she was feeling the same thing. And the only thing worse than falling off the wagon and losing the bet would be trying to lose the bet and having Emma tell him thanks but no thanks.