Page 10 of Coach
And, hey, it was a decent ass and everything. But that was still super awkward with a stranger.
I rushed further down, feeling his arms moving around me, his chest near my back.
I blamed him for it.
His delicious nag champa scent harkened back to memories of wandering into a local new age store to buy bulk crystals for a craft project I’d been making for my teenage bedroom, his body warmth was much appreciated in the cold pool hall, and even his breath sent shivers across my skin.
It was all his fault that I missed one of the ladder rungs and started to fall.
Suddenly, one of his hands wasn’t on the ladder anymore because his arm was wrapping around my midsection, catching me and hauling me back against his chest.
Which, yeah, was doing absolutely nothing to distract me from the flood of interest rushing through my veins.
His arm was an anchor, his chest wide and strong. And his damn thumb was teasing at the underside of my boob.
Goosebumps prickled.
The air got too thick to breathe.
My heart? Yeah, it was doing some sort of freestyle.
We weren’t going to talk about a specific other part of my anatomy and its urge to grab this guy, pull him into the supply closet, and ease a very desperate ache.
“You alright?”
With your deep voice rumbling through your chest and into mine? With your warm breath on my ear? No, not at all.
“Yeah.” We were going to pretend my voice wasn’t all breathy. You know, for my own pride. “Thanks,” I added.
He was still holding me.
One second. Two. Five.
The cracking sound of the cue ball breaking the rack had us both jerking.
He released me.
I tried not to whimper at the lack of him and focused on stepping to the side and putting a little space between us.
“Thanks again,” I said, hoping my voice sounded stronger.
“Always a good day when I can save a woman—and a table full of people—from harm.”
I was about to open my mouth to say something when another man appeared at his side.
“Coach, you gonna introduce me to your friend?” he asked.
Coach.
Huh.
That was not the name I expected.
Unless it was a nickname. Or, maybe, a profession?
Instinctively, my stomach tightened and twisted.
“You’re pretty,” the man—tall, handsome, covered in zany tattoos—said.
