Page 33 of His Last Shot
She spins around. “What?”
“Your stance is all wrong. If you hit the cue ball standing like that, you’ll send it flying across the room.” With hesitation, I step toward her. “Line up the shot again.” She smirks at me and bends over the pool table, as Teddy Swims crooning voice fills the void. And, hopefully, masks my pounding heart.
I squeeze my eyes shut. A feeble attempt at trying to center myself. Stepping behind her, I hover my hands over her hips. With hope skating up my chest, I ask permission. “May I?” She nods. Nerves explode straight to my fingertips as I rest my hands on her hips. God, how do they fit so perfectly in my hands? I swallow hard.
A piece of dark hair curls at the nape of her neck as she glances over her shoulder, silent desire passing between us.
We don’t smile.
We don’t blink.
We only stare.
Slowly, she lets out a long, low breath and turns back around.
Man, did I feel that.
I shake my head, trying to get my mind under control, then shift her hips so that they are square to the table. “Now, bring your feet closer together. They are too far apart.” She does as instructed. “Okay, now bend your knee that’s closest to the table.”
“Like this?” she asks, but the question comes out squeaky.
I glimpse her feet, trying hard to avert my gaze from landing on her backside in those jeans.
Who am I kidding? I looked.
“Okay, great. Now, lower your back arm.” My fingers brush lightly against her skin as I place my hand on her upper arm. I give myself permission to let it linger there for a moment and then carefully lower it, lightly dragging my thumb along her smooth flesh. “You’re holding the cue too high.”
I study her bridge hand, and it’s good, but then she switches it. “How about my bridge? Does it need work?”
What a little sneaky thing she is. I smirk because her bridge was perfectly fine. Which means she wants me closer. A wave of happiness at the fact she isn’t pushing me away explodes in my chest. Instead, she's initiating this whole thing.
Leaning over the table, I press my chest against her back as I trail my hand slowly down her arm. My body pressed close, my arm brushing hers, fingers tracing the delicate curve of her arm.
I’m in heaven.
Goosebumps erupt all over her skin at my nearness, the air catching in her throat, her skin tingling under my touch. Her face is right there. The scent ofher,a light and airy coconut fragrance, washes over me as I lean. It’s making me unsteady on my feet.
She’s close. So close.
I whisper in her ear. “Your bridge was perfect the first time.” The fine hairs on the back of her neck rise.
“Was it?” she teases while changing her bridge back. I release my hand from her hip and tickle her waist. She wiggles away as she squeals.
We readjust our stance, hand on hip, chest to back, arm brushing against arm, cheek to cheek, you know. All the good stuff. “Now, line up the shot,” I instruct, redirecting our attention to the task at hand. Learning to play pool.
Sure. Let’s call it that.
“You want your tip to hit the cue”—I point to the center of the cue ball—“right there.”
“Got it.”
“Now, don’t hit it too hard. Just gentle enough to contact the seven ball.”
“No pressure, huh?” She grins.
“You got this,” I whisper back, my breath warm on her skin. Her eyes flutter close. Then I watch them zap open with intensity, focused, determined. She pulls back her arm and hits the cue ball dead center. It rolls down the table and connects with the seven ball. As my hand tightens around her hip, we both watch as the maroon ball rolls along the green felt and lands in the pocket.
Clank.
