Esther and the cue

Esther steps to the table like the green felt belongs to her. The cue rests heavy in her palm, long, smooth, perfectly rigid. She lines it up, hips brushing the rail, and pushes forward slow until the tip finds its mark. The balls crack and drop. Each shot tightens something low in her belly. She feels the throb between her thighs every time the cue slides through her fingers, and the wet heat spreads before she can stop it. A few drops escape, tracing down her bare leg. She bites her lip, grins, and takes another shot anyway, slick cue gliding as the next ball sinks.