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some pretty impressive shots and if he won, I’d
have to remove a piece of clothing.
    Standing rules between Tank and I are this: in strip pool, we
played best of three. When one person lost two matches, the game was called and
the winner got whatever he, or she, wanted. I took a quick mental inventory
of what I had on. Jeans, sweater, tee shirt and not much more. Maybe he’d let
me take off my watch.
    He dropped his seventh ball no problem and my eyes widened when he
called and pocketed the eight ball, back left corner.
    There were still three of my balls on the table.
    I went to remove my sweater, but a tap on my arm stopped me. Tank’s
cue stick rested on my forearm and I followed the smooth line of the glossy
stick until my gaze reached his face. Amusement shone out of his eyes as he
shook his head and with the cue stick, pointed to my jeans.
    “You don’t get to choose. I’ll take off my sweater.” No way would I
parade around in my underwear. Not anymore.
    I slid my sweater off and draped it over the bar. So far, Plan C
was not working the way I envisioned and there was no Plan D. Maintaining
composure as best I could under the circumstances, I tugged my tee shirt back
into place.
    Because Tank won, I had to break. While I gathered the balls and
arranged them in the triangle brace, Tank leaned against the bar, crossing his
long muscular legs at the ankles.
    Easy for him to be all relaxed, he didn’t have to win two games in
a row. Stifling a big yawn, I took a firm grip on the cue stick.
    “I love that tee shirt,” I heard him say. “We bought it in Cancun.
Do you remember? That was the best two weeks ever.”
    Oh, I remembered all right. We went to Cancun for our honeymoon.
    Gritting my teeth, I concentrated hard and hit the white cue ball
dead center. When I’d finished with the follow-through, only one ball dropped.
The hit had been too hard.
    Tank was distracting me , not the other way around. Another
yawn stretched through me as I chalked my cue stick and walked around, checking
my options. He nursed his drink, looking like a guy who didn’t have a care in
the world. Looking like a guy who only had to win one more game. Those stupid
pills had better start working soon since I’d just delivered a lousy break.
    No matter which angle I tried, the balls were crowded too close
together and there was no way to get a clean shot. As much as I hated playing ‘dirty
pool’, I’d have to try and hook him without looking like I hooked him.
    Tank continued reminiscing. “Yup, Cancun was a good time, but
Connecticut… Now that’s a holiday I’ll never forget.”
    Whew, was it hot in here?
    “I loved roughing it in Connecticut.”
    I gulped a big mouthful of my drink, and sucked in some ice to cool
down. The heat intensified as I remembered how we ‘roughed it.’ After a long
day hiking Tank said I’d walked through poison oak and insisted on checking me
out, most thoroughly. While it turned out there had been no poison oak, not one
spot on my body had been left untouched, kissed, or caressed.
    “Tune him out,” I muttered. “He’s trying to side track you.” And
doing a good job.
    I rolled my shoulders in a vain attempt to loosen the muscles. We
both knew it was a stall tactic. Finally, I had the shot lined up, but my hand
was damp and the cue stick slipped, breaking the balls wide open. Not a single
ball dropped. Defeated, I stared at the brightly scattered balls like Napoleon
must have done with his troops at Waterloo.
    Tank pushed away from the bar and slid behind me, a solid package
of heated testosterone and muscle. One large hand was placed on either side of
my body, effectively boxing me in against the pool table.
    “Loosen your shirt babe, I think you’re time has come,” he drawled
against my heated cheek and dropped a kiss behind my ear.
    Ripples of anticipation careened through my midsection and there
wasn’t much I could do except watch in dumb horror while Tank moved around