Pot the balls

Billiard. That slow game men pretend is about angles and geometry. But look closer. She leans across the green felt in nothing but skin and a smile, her hips angled just enough to make the cue glide true. Blonde hair spills forward, brushing the rail, and every shot pulls the fabric tighter over her thighs. He watches. Misses. She laughs, low in her throat, and bends again, back arched, ass offered like an invitation. The white ball cracks. The colored ones scatter. She loses the next point and drops to her knees instead, mouth opening around him while the table waits, untouched. He grips the cue, then her hair, and finishes across her lips in three hard pulses. She swallows what she can, wipes the rest with her thumb, and racks again.