Page 41 of Resisting my Roommate

When the pink ball shoots back up into the ball return, I reach for it, but Jude stops me before I can pick it up.

“Starting with a better ball.”

I playfully frown. “But it’s pretty.”

“And it only weighs six pounds. General rule of thumb is to use a ball that’s the equivalent of ten percent of your weight, up to sixteen pounds. But beginners tend to benefit from using one that’s a pound or two lighter.”

“All the more reason to let me use the pink ball.”

He gives me a stern look, and damn if it doesn’t do things to my insides, my pulse increasing and the hairs on the back of my nape standing on end.

“Let’s try a twelve-pound ball, since it’s made for adults.”

He scans the balls in the return before heading over to a nearby rack. After a brief perusal, he returns with a purple ball.

“Sorry it’s not pink, but hopefully this will do. Give it a try and see how the weight feels.”

I take it from him and insert my fingers into the three holes. “Wow. My fingers actually fit.”

“Because this one isn’t intended for children.” He chuckles, and it sends my girly bits all aflutter. How can something as simple as a laugh make my body react like this?

But Jude’s laugh isn’t a regular laugh. Over the past few weeks that I’ve lived with him and gotten to know him, I’ve realized it’s not a normal occurrence, so when he does, it’s meaningful.

And it makes me want to hear him laugh more often.

“Now what?” I ask.

“Now you bowl. Let’s work on your stance.” He leads me toward the lane, the sound of rolling balls and clanging pins echoing around us.

“You can’t stay fully upright as you release the ball, which is what you did before. And it’s why your ball bounced. When you reel back, you need to bend down so the ball practically rolls out of your hand and onto the lane. Can I?” He arches a brow, his eyes raking down my frame.

“Sure,” I respond, nerves dancing in my stomach.

He stands behind me, placing his hands on my hips, sending a jolt of electricity through me. I try to push away any distracting thoughts, but it’s impossible when images of Jude bending me over his desk at work while he thrusts into me flood my mind.

Which is the last thing I need right now.

He keeps one hand on my left hip, extending his other arm along mine, placing his right hand beneath mine on the ball.

“Relax,” he soothes, his voice low and husky, hitting me in my core.

I draw in a breath, trying to follow his command, but I can’t relax when he’s this close, my breathing ragged, muscles tense.

“We’re just going to practice the motion right now, so don’t let go of the ball yet. Okay?”

“Okay,” I answer, my voice coming out at a slightly higher pitch than I expected.

“Start with the ball in front of you,” he begins, arranging me the way he wants. “Then as you pull back…” He moves my body, bringing my arm down and behind me, “you’ll step forward with your right foot.” He nudges my right hip with his and I step forward. “As you come forward with the ball, you’ll step with your left foot, bending low at the same time.”

He guides me through the motions, his body mirroring mine from behind.

“Lower,” he instructs when I try to remain somewhat upright.

In my defense, it’s practically impossible to concentrate when he’s standing so close, his body brushing up against mine in a way that makes me want to yank him into me so I can feel every hard ripple and defined edge.

“Like this?” I ask breathily, lunging slightly.

“Yeah.” I can hear the subtle tremble in his voice. “Like that.”

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