Page 86 of Face Off
“You can do it,” I tell him, and I hand him a cue off the wall.
He sinks in a solid and motions me forward. “Have you ever played?”
“No,” I say, but it’s a blatant lie. My dad taught me when I was six and could barely see over the table. “Will you show me?”
“Sure. Come here.”
I maneuver around until I’m standing in front of him. There’s barely any room in this corner, but he doesn’t back up.
I don’t push him away, either.
“What should I do first?” I ask, and his eyes bounce to my mouth.
“Turn around. Face the table,” he says, and I spin. “Lean forward.”
I bend over the edge, my forearms on the felt and my hips behind me. The curve of my ass brushes against the front of his jeans, and he inhales sharply.
Maverick rests one hand on my waist and the other on the cue, on top of mine. He crowds my space, his chest against my back, and there’s nowhere for me to go.
“Which pocket are you aiming for?”
“The far corner,” I tell him. His thumb rubs over my knuckles, distracting me, and I swallow.
“Good choice. Pull the stick back and line up your shot.”
I nod. “Like this?”
“Perfect Emmy,” he murmurs, and it’s like I’ve touched a live wire.
Every part of me ignites, and I’m electrocuted by the deep rasp of his voice and the heat of his body on mine. His cock presses into me, half-hard, and I’m transported back to Chicago.
His praise and the mumbled words in my neck. The way we slotted together so perfectly and the feel of his body under mine.
“Now what?” I whisper.
“Now you hit it.” His mouth brushes against my ear. “Can you do that?”
“Yeah,” I breathe out, and I pull back the cue.
Years of playing does nothing to help me. Not when I’m disoriented as hell and turned on by his hands. The ball knocks off the side of the table and spins away from the pocket.
“That was a great try,” he murmurs, and the hand on my hip slides across my stomach. It’s so soft, I might have dreamed it. “You’ll get it next time.”
“It’s your turn.” I look at him over my shoulder, and his eyes are as dark as night. He’s watching me, and when I bite my bottom lip, he drops his head back. “Unless you don’t want to play.”
“I want to play. I want to play very, very badly.” Maverick squeezes his eyes shut and taps my hip. I think we both understand that he’s not talking about pool. “Maybe this was a bad idea.”
“Yeah. Maybe.”
I step away from him, but he grabs my elbow and spins me to face him. Our chests knock against each other, and he cups the back of my head.
“What superpower do you wish you had?” he asks, and I blink up at him.
“Why are you asking me about superpowers?”
“Because it’s distracting me from thinking about bending you over that table and fucking you into the felt. From sitting you on the edge and eating you out. These are things I’m not supposed to think about, but I am. And it’s driving me insane.”
“Oh.”I lick my lips, and his eyes track the glide of my tongue. “Since we’re not talking aboutthat, if I had to pick a superpower, it would be flying. What about you?”
