Free Far Gone by Laura Griffin Page B

her break shot, conscious of his gaze on her body as she leaned over the table.
    Despite being rusty, she managed to sink a couple of solids. He followed up with a few impressive bank shots. After a five-ball run, he missed a curve shot and turned it over to her.
    Another mistake.
    She got down to business, nailing a long-rail bank shot. She studied the layout and planned her next move.
    “Who taught you to play?” he asked.
    “My granddad.” She leaned over the felt and sent him a sharp look. “He never let me win, though. I had to earn it.”
    Jon watched her from the corner. Something in his gaze reminded her of the night at the Broken Spoke. She shouldn’t be getting so comfortable, not with the fed investigating her brother. But she had that flutter in the pit of her stomach, and she felt the alcohol kicking in.
    She sank another solid before tapping one of his stripes.
    “Oops.”
    Jon chalked his cue, watching her. She reached for her beer, used it to cool her throat as he mulled his strategy. The next shot was all power. It made a sharp crack that sent a jolt of heat from the top of her head to the soles of her feet.
    He studied the table for his final shot. “Corner pocket,” he said, leaning over.
    He killed it. Then he looked up at her.
    He didn’t gloat. But the look on his face told her she would have been much, much better off if she’d stayed in her motel room pecking away at her computer.
    He took her cue and replaced it on the rack. He replaced the chalk and watched her as he dusted his hands.
    “I owe you dinner.” She shrugged into her jacket, putting an end to the evening.
    They drove back to Maverick without talking. Tension hummed in the truck cab between them, and she spent the drive gazing out at the inky desert. Clouds were out tonight, so there was little to see besides a few ranch houses here and there.
    He pulled into the pitted parking lot and slid into the space beside her Cherokee. Without a word, he came around to her door.
    She was out before he reached it, digging through her purse for the keycard.
    “Thanks for the drinks,” she said.
    He looked down at her, and her skin tingled in response. She read his intentions right there on his face—he wasn’t shy about it—and her heart started drumming as his palm slid under her jacket and came to rest at her hip. She took a step back, but his grip tightened. His other hand came up and cupped the side of her face, and she held her breath as his thumb grazed the corner of her lip.
    His gaze met hers. “What really happened here?”
    “I bit it.”
    He dipped his head down and his breath was warm against her temple. “You’re lying.”
    Her heart skittered, and then his mouth was on hers, warm and stinging against her swollen lip. The heat of him surrounded her. He smelled faintly of the desert air and the beer they’d been drinking, and she felt the warm slide of his hands as they splayed over her back beneath the jacket to pull her against the firm wall of his body. So much power, right there for her to touch. She let herself melt into him, knowing it was a bad idea, knowing she should step away, but she didn’t want to yet. She combed her fingers into his hair and kissed him with the same pent-up longing she felt coming from him, and the thrill of knowing he wanted her spread through her body like fire. The night air was cold against her cheeks, but his arms were warm and strong, and his hot mouth melted away all her resistance, all logical thought. He pulled her up on tiptoe, and she strained against him, tasting him, giving herself a last heady moment of intoxication before she loosened her arms and forced herself to step back.
    He looked down at her, breathing hard, just as she was, and she could hear the pounding of her own heart as she retreated farther and his hands dropped away. He searched her face as she leaned against the door, feeling cold.
    She didn’t say anything. She was afraid if she opened her mouth, she’d