God, his hands were burning.

The restless heat had little to do with anything practical and everything to do with the infuriating inches separating them. He just needed to touch. Needed to feel her.

She was a damn supernova in his perpetually dim world, and not in some sappy, birthday-card way – though he'd rather swallow broken glass than admit that aloud. No, she was... a fucking force of nature, the kind of blinding light that made him want to squint and turn away, for his own good.

He wanted to look the other way, to maintain that vital space, but his gaze was a goddamn heat-seeking missile, forever locked onto her warmth, her infuriating, irresistible softness. It could damn well bring a man like him, a man carved from years of grief and grit, to his knees just for a single, forbidden taste.

Supposedly, it was just a celebration for the werewolves they'd just finished off, another notch on their belts. But she... hell, she looked like she'd stepped straight out of a goddamn wet dream, amplified tenfold. Low-cut jeans that hugged every sinful curve, a black top that barely skimmed above her navel, and, the final goddamn kick in the teeth, his necklace – the one he'd worn since he was a kid – the little thief had the nerve to steal it and wear it against her bare skin.

She was leaning over the pool table, her focus a fucking joke as she miserably failed to sink a ball against some oblivious fucker who was too busy gawking at her to actually play.

And Dean? Yeah, he'd decided to drown his better judgment in a couple too many fingers of whiskey, his thoughts were a blurry, fucking horny mess.

So his hands burned, a desperate need to correct her godawful stance warring with the primal urge to just wrap them around her soft waist.

He pushed himself up from the bar stool, leaving a half-empty glass of amber liquid behind, the clink of it against the wood barely registering as he closed the distance between them in a few long, purposeful strides.

"You're doing it wrong, sweetheart."

The words were out, a low growl that rumbled in his chest, before his brain could engage. His hand splayed on the bare expanse of her abdomen, the heat radiating off her skin searing his palm. He leaned in behind her, her perfume – a sweet, intoxicating blend of something floral and something particularly her own – making his head spin.

"Press it softly," he whispered, his breath ghosting against her ear, his chest pressing against her back, a damn dangerous proximity. "Gotta take it smooth... like this."

He guided her hand, his stubbled jaw inches from her temple, and the cue ball rolled smoothly, sinking into the side pocket with a satisfying thwack.

"There we go." He grinned, the rough stubble of his cheek grazing her ear as she turned, her smile bright and unguarded. Their noses brushed, a fleeting, electric contact that felt like the damn world stopped spinning.

He knew he needed to pull back, to re-establish that safe distance, but his feet were rooted to the floor, his gaze locked on hers. God, he just couldn't. Not when everything he wanted was standing so close to him, so within reach, so full of possibilities.