Chapter 14 #2
I chalk the tip of my cue as Jake prowls around the table like a lion on Animal Planet.
Lord knows what he’s looking for, but he spots it a moment later and gives a satisfied nod.
He lines up his shot, and the break cracks, sharp and clean, although it’s barely heard over the Rolling Stones song flowing through the speakers.
The balls scatter across the felt, and two with stripes drop into corner pockets.
Not a bad opening shot.
“Your turn.” Jake waggles his brows at Kennedy. “And try not to tear the felt.”
She flips him off, then twirls the cue stick like she’s a damn Jedi. As she gets situated, surveying the layout like it’s a puzzle, I can see the disaster unfolding. She’s holding the cue way too high and loose to do anything but injure someone—most likely herself.
“Not like that,” I mutter, low and gruff. “You’ll hurt yourself.”
She bristles, ready to argue, but before she can, I step in close, chest brushing her back, hands covering hers to adjust her grip. Her fingers are small, smooth against my calluses. She stiffens briefly, then softens, relaxing into the position.
“Dominant hand here,” I instruct, guiding her. “Other hand makes a bridge.”
She tilts her head, trying to follow, but her eyes keep darting to one side. I lean down, my mouth close to her ear, and force myself to keep my tone steady. “Kennedy. Are you listening?”
“No,” she admits unabashedly. “I’ve never noticed that tulip tattoo on your arm before. It’s pretty.”
I want to say thanks, it’s my mom’s design, but the words get stuck in my throat.
She shifts, turning to get a better look at my outer forearm, but I move a hand to her hip, stopping her. “Bend at the waist. Keep your eye on the cue ball, not the one you want to hit.”
She sighs but tilts forward. I could move my hand now, but I don’t. I like the way the heat of her radiates into me too much to let go.
“Like this?” she asks, glancing at me over her shoulder. The dim lighting over the bar coupled with the way she’s nibbling her lower lip and waiting for my approval causes all kinds of scenarios to run through my head, not a single one of them PG.
“Good,” I cough out. “Just don’t muscle it.”
“Says the guy who throws his body in front of frozen rubber discs for a living.”
“Those frozen rubber discs just paid for your drink, sweetheart,” I say. The unfamiliar teasing tone catches me off guard, but when amusement flickers in her eyes, I go with it.
“And who’s fault is that?”
“Eyes on the table,” I tell her, thumb brushing over her knuckles before I can stop myself. “See the shot? Corner pocket.”
She squints down at the cue. “The one that looks approximately seventeen miles away?”
I hum. “Trust me.”
Rather than argue with me, which I’ve learned is an enjoyable hobby for this woman, she nods resolutely and takes the shot. The ball moves, hitting nothing until it bounces off the side. At least it didn’t knock a striped ball into a pocket.
“Could’ve been worse,” I say.
She straightens and turns to me. “Wow, such high praise.”
Lips twitching, I lean in and lower my voice so only she can hear. “Compliments will help me convince everyone I’m into you.”
She huffs. “First, I was being sarcastic because ‘could’ve been worse’ is definitely not a compliment, so please work on that,” she counters. “And second, I think the way you bent me over the pool table was a highly effective way to convince people you’re into me.”
Not knowing what to say, because I’ve never encountered a woman who feels more like a force of nature than a person, I just stare, my heart thudding heavily against my sternum.
“Speaking of which,” she continues, completely unflustered as Tyler takes his shot, “What’s your PDA approach? I’ve been meaning to ask.”
I frown. Why would she care? “That’s more of a forward and defenseman thing than a goalie thing.”
She peers up at me, her expression matching mine. “What?”
“If you’re asking about my approach during the power play, nothing really changes for me. I’m more alert for breakaways, but if the puck is in the offensive zone for a while…”
She blinks at me rapidly, like she’s confused.
“Why are you looking at me like that?” I grunt. “You’re the one who asked about PPA.”
“I most certainly did not. I asked you about PDA. As in public displays of affection. Not whatever the hell PPA is.”
Oh, well, fuck me.
“Power play assist,” I say, dragging a hand over the back of my neck.
“Okay, well, I’m glad you have an approach for that, but if I’m being honest, I don’t particularly care what it is.”
“When are you ever not honest?” I mutter to myself.
My shot is an easy one, but I take my time chalking the cue, hoping the flush in my cheeks fades before I have to turn back around.
It’s not that I haven’t thought about Kennedy in that way.
I definitely have. I’ve thought about her in plenty of ways—thighs spread while I taste her, heels digging into my back as I thrust into her, breasts filling my hands as she rides me.
I just hadn’t thought about the implications of it.
I take the shot, pocketing the ball, and Kennedy claps for me, completely unruffled by our conversation.
“So?” she asks, poking me in the chest.
“So what?”
“So are you touchy feely? A hand-holder?” She scrunches up her nose, the freckles bunching together. “Or are you going to slobber all over me like a Great Pyrenees? I need to know what I’m signing up for here.”
I take a slow sip of my drink to center myself, then finally meet her eyes. “Why are you assuming I slobber?”
Her brows creep closer together, her eyes narrowing. “I just need to know what to expect. You’re lucky I didn’t flinch or judo-chop you when you grabbed my waist earlier. I’ve taken self-defense. I could’ve hurt you.”
I study her for a moment, unable to decipher whether she’s teasing me or genuinely asking. “You’re overthinking this.”
She groans. “You’re underthinking this.”
In the short time I’ve spent with Kennedy, it’s clear she’s the kind of person who needs to talk things out until there’s a resolution.
But I don’t have that kind of patience.
Instead of answering, I tuck a strand of hair behind her ear and let my fingers graze her jaw. I lean forward an inch, and the mood between us shifts.
Eyes locked with mine, she whispers, “What are you doing?”
I tilt my head slightly, my voice low and teasing. “Showing you my PDA approach.”
Her breath catches, but she’s not the kind of woman who lets a man have the last word, so she recovers quickly. “I don’t remember asking for a demonstration.”
Slowly, deliberately, I trail my hand down to her throat—not gripping, just resting—my thumb brushing against the edge of her jaw.
Her blue eyes, always so expressive, dart to my lips, and she subconsciously wets her own. The bar around us fades until there’s nothing but the thundering of my pulse in my ears and the feel of hers beneath my palm.
I don’t know what my endgame is here. To kiss her? Prove that if people are going to buy this, buy us, she needs to be comfortable with me in her personal space?
She’s the one who closes the distance, pressing her lips against mine in a move that catches me completely off guard. It must surprise the hell out of her, too, because she tries to pull back almost immediately.
I find my footing quickly and tighten my hold on her throat, tilting her head and teasing the seam of her lips with my tongue.
That initial hesitation, like she acted on impulse and doesn’t know what to do now that she’s here, vanishes as she opens for me.
Our tongues dance, her mouth warm and sweet from her drink.
She clutches the front of my shirt, fingers twisting the material.
Heat floods my body, the sensation pulling a groan from me. Though the noise quickly turns to a chuckle, because it occurs to me now that she’s trying to control the kiss.
Not today, sweetheart.
I nip her bottom lip and suck it into my mouth before soothing it with my tongue.
I’ve never been one to luxuriate in kissing, preferring to skip ahead to the good stuff, but there’s no way I’m rushing this, and oddly enough, sex isn’t on my mind.
All I can focus on is Kennedy’s soft skin under my palm, the taste of her, like honey whiskey, and the way she’s tugging my shirt, urging me closer.
I drag my callused fingers to the back of her neck, deepening the kiss, but a loud whistle startles me, followed by cat calling, putting an end to our impromptu public display of affection. Smiling, I pull back.
Kennedy’s blue eyes flutter into view, and in them there’s no embarrassment or self-doubt. Just hunger.
“Okay, so you’re cool with PDA,” she comments, her voice throatier than usual. “Noted.”
My lips quirk up. “Apparently so.”
In truth, I’m not big on it. Never felt the need to perform for an audience like I have something to prove. But with Kennedy? I have a feeling I’ll use every excuse in the book to touch her, even if it’s just a hand on her hip or my fingers brushing hers.
“Are you ready to get back to the game?” Jake tries to keep a straight face as he leans against the table. “Because as fun as that halftime show was, I don’t think I’ve ever seen Cameron kiss anyone, and it’s really throwing me off.”
Kennedy’s body vibrates against mine as she laughs. “Reid, you sucked at pool well before you witnessed that. Am I up?”
I shoot my teammate a look, daring him to make a comment about how she may be up, but she certainly isn’t the only thing up at this pool table.
“Yep,” Tyler replies, flashing her a smile.
She extracts herself from my arms and circles the table, studying it with a furrowed brow. She bites her lip uncertainly, then glances at me. “A little help?”
The game drags on. Every time it’s her turn, I’m there, hands on her hips, tapping her elbow, murmuring corrections. She doesn’t remember half of it, too busy watching my mouth when I say, “follow through,” while I’m too busy pretending not to notice.
Tyler lines up for the winning shot and sinks the eight ball with a flourish, and Jake cheers loud enough to wake the dead, as if he had anything to do with it.
“Tough loss,” he says with a shit-eating grin.
Our solid 2—the blue one—sits there alone, the only ball left un-pocketed.
The irony isn’t lost on me. It’s just one more blue ball that won’t be getting any action tonight.