Free BILLIONAIRE BIKERS: 3 MC Romance Books by Kristina Blake

likewise winded. After I've chewed and swallowed my treat, I run my tongue along my lower lip to sweep the residual sticky sweetness away. I watch as a pair of dark, deliciously predatory eyes track the movement
    "Hey, save some of that for me!" Keating calls from across the table. "And by the way, it's your move, boss."
    "What are you getting from him?" I ask in a low voice as Flint moves to position himself by the cue ball. "What is this about? And why does he keep calling you 'boss'?"
    "It's no 'Captain Carter'," he allows as he leans his long body over the table. Yet again, he has failed to answer my question. Just when I feel like I am starting to finally get closer to the real Flint, he throws another wall up and pulls back from me.
    I study the man as he lines up his shot. My gaze trails down from his T-shirt to the straight edge of his bare, extended arm. I would expect tattoos, I think, but there is nothing save tanned skin roped with veins. I know for a fact he doesn't wear ink on his chest. Still, I can't help but wonder about the rest of his body.
    Flint thrusts forward suddenly, fast as lightning, and sends the cue ball shooting across the table to pocket his first solid. I watch, fascinated despite myself. These are two extremely skilled men. Despite my words, I never had a doubt that Flint could win this game if he wanted to. While Keating is a decent man in looks and manner, there is just something superior about Flint Carter; it's an undefinable quality that I can't quite put my finger on.
    Is it his money? I wonder. I am used to dealing with men of wealth and means in my old life, but none of them carried themselves with the same bearing as Flint, who, for all intents and purposes, has been disinherited by his own company. I suspect that he still might be a billionaire, but it seems somehow less important to him now than it must have been when he was first coming into his wealth.
    Maybe, at the end of the day, and despite his efforts to appear otherwise, he is just a good man—intelligent and charismatic and unafraid to take action, even when life's odds are stacked against him. And I know he's good, because he gave me a chance, didn't he? A chance to escape, to be free, without ever asking anything of me in return.
    It's Keating's turn. The number of pool balls still on the table is diminishing significantly. I watch as Keating chains and pockets three more. He is playing well…maybe a little too well. My eyes dart to Flint once more to glean something from his expression, but he is withholding. There is nothing I can do but watch and hope…but hope for what? For every one of my secret positive opinions of him, I feel as if I have three negative impressions. I'm so twisted and tangled up in my feelings for this man that I can barely see straight, much less follow the game. I'm sure the alcohol coursing through my veins isn't helping matters.
    Keating is nearly there. He has two balls left to go, and one of them is the eight. He misses his next shot, and I hold my breath as Flint resumes his turn.
    It's a good thing I am already holding my breath, otherwise it would have been stolen from me with the next sequence of events. Flint angles his body and fires away, repositioning himself from one side of the table to the next before the balls have even settled. One by one, they hurtle into the darkness of the table's pockets.
    I'm so confused, still dwelling on what it is I think I want, that by the time the game is over and Flint has won, I feel as if I have missed out on most of it. My head is spinning with how dizzyingly fast he has managed to throttle Keating.
    Keating retires his pool cue and raises his beer in salute to Flint's skills. I can't help but think he looks disappointed, especially when our eyes meet and he nods in assent of his loss. He's a hard man to read, but I have a feeling he wanted that kiss.
    "All right, boss. You won fair and square. Give me a minute. Actually, you can do me one better