Chapter Thirteen
Playing with Fire
Banks
O’Malley’s is packed.
It’s a Knights bar—has been for years—and after a win, half the city seems to cram inside. The noise hits me the second we walk through the door: music blaring, people shouting, glasses clinking. Everything I hate about bars, concentrated into one chaotic space.
I should’ve said no. I always say no. Post-game drinks aren’t my thing. I do my job, I go home, I eat leftovers in silence. That’s the routine. That’s what works.
But Winnie asked.
And apparently, I can’t say no to Winnie.
We push through the crowd toward the back, where the team has commandeered a cluster of tables near the pool tables. It’s a little quieter here, a little less chaotic. Logan waves us over enthusiastically, nearly knocking over someone’s beer in the process.
“You made it! Banks actually showed up! This is historic. Someone take a picture.”
“No pictures,” I grunt.
I ignore him and scan the seating situation.
The tables are full. Every chair is occupied.
Zayden and Tori are squeezed into one side of a booth, Archer and his wife on the other.
Logan is perched on a stool that looks too small for him.
A few of the younger guys are standing, holding beers, but there’s nowhere for us to sit.
“Sorry, man,” Zayden says, noticing my assessment. “Place filled up fast. We can try to grab more chairs—”
“It’s fine.” Winnie is already moving toward the booth. “We’ll make it work.”
Before I can process what’s happening, she’s sliding into the small gap at the end of the booth and pulling me down next to her. But there’s not enough room. Not nearly enough room. I’m wedged against the wall, my shoulder jammed into the corner, my legs too long for the space under the table.
“This isn’t going to work,” I say.
“Sure it will.” Winnie shifts, trying to find a comfortable position. Her hip bumps against mine. Her thigh presses along the length of my leg. “We just need to—”
She stops, looks at the lack of space, then looks at me.
“Oh, just sit on his lap,” Tori says, like it’s the most obvious solution in the world. “That’s what I do when we’re cramped.”
“I don’t think—” I start.
But Winnie is already moving. Already repositioning herself so she’s perched on my thigh, her back against my chest, her body settled into the curve of mine like she belongs there.
This is a problem.
“There,” she says, adjusting slightly. “See? We fit.”
We fit. That’s one word for it.
Another word would be torture.
She’s warm. So warm. I can feel the heat of her body through my jeans, through my shirt, seeping into my skin like sunlight. She’s soft in all the places I’m hard, her curves pressed against me, her weight a solid presence on my lap.
My hands don’t know where to go. They hover awkwardly at my sides, clenching and unclenching, while my brain short-circuits.
“Banks.” Zayden is smirking at me from across the table. “You’re allowed to touch your girlfriend. She won’t break.”
Right. Girlfriend. This is what couples do. This is normal.
Except nothing about this feels normal.
I force my hands to move. One settles on her waist, fingers curving around the dip above her hip. The other rests on the table, gripping the edge like a lifeline.
Winnie leans back into me, her shoulder blades pressing against my chest. “Relax,” she murmurs, quiet enough that only I can hear. “You’re stiff as a board.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re not fine. You’re vibrating.”
Am I? I can’t tell. Every nerve in my body is focused on the points of contact between us. Her thighs on mine. Her back against my chest. The curve of her ass settled against my—
Don’t think about that.
Too late.
I’m becoming aware of something I really, really don’t want to be aware of right now. A stirring. A heat. My body responding to her proximity in ways that are completely inappropriate and entirely beyond my control.
It’s been a while. Years, actually, since I’ve been with anyone.
Sure, there was a string of one-night stands when I was younger, when the post-game adrenaline demanded an outlet, and I hadn’t yet learned to channel it elsewhere.
But somewhere along the line, I stopped being interested.
Women were too loud, too emotional. Their perfume too strong, their expectations too complicated. It was easier just to be alone.
I’d convinced myself I didn’t need it. Didn’t want it.
Winnie shifts on my lap, and my dick twitches against my thigh.
Apparently, I was wrong.
“You okay?” she asks, glancing back at me.
“Fine.”
“You sure? You seem wound kind of… tight.”
She’s right. I’m about as relaxed as a prisoner on execution day. “Sorry.”
“It’s okay.” Her voice is soft. “Just checking.”
Logan appears with a tray of shots, and for a moment, the attention shifts away from us. I take the opportunity to breathe. To try to get myself under control.
It doesn’t work.
Every time she moves—every tiny shift of her weight, every adjustment of her position—I feel it. The friction. The warmth. The maddening, excruciating pleasure of having her body pressed against mine.
I shouldn’t like this. I don’t do closeness or cuddling. But God help me, I like this. I like the weight of her. The smell of her hair—something citrusy and clean—filling my nose every time I breathe. The way she fits against me like she was designed to be there.
My free hand moves without my permission, sliding from the table to her thigh. Just resting there. Casual. The kind of touch a boyfriend would give without thinking.
She tenses slightly, then relaxes. Covers my hand with hers.
The contact sends a jolt through me. Electric. Dangerous.
“So,” Tori says, leaning across the table with a wicked grin. “This is the first time I’ve actually seen you two together. Like, together together.” She gestures at us. “It’s cute. Who knew Banks could do cute?”
“I don’t do cute,” I say.
“You’re literally cuddling your girlfriend in a booth right now. That’s the definition of cute.”
“We’re not cuddling. There aren’t enough chairs.”
“Keep telling yourself that.” Tori grins.
Winnie laughs, and I feel it vibrate through her body into mine. My hand tightens on her thigh involuntarily.
She shifts against me, and I have to bite the inside of my cheek to keep from making a sound.
My blood is running hot, rushing south, and there’s nothing I can do to stop it.
I’m hardening against my thigh, trapped beneath her weight, and if she moves again, she’s going to feel exactly what she’s doing to me.
She moves again.
Her body goes still.
For a moment, neither of us breathes.
Then she turns her head slightly, just enough to catch my eye. There’s a question there. An awareness.
I lean in, my lips brushing her ear. “Sorry. Just ignore it and it will go away.”
It’s a lie. It’s such a lie. But it’s the only excuse I have.
She’s quiet for a beat. Then, “Right.”
She nods slowly, and something in her posture changes. She stops holding herself so carefully. Stops maintaining that millimeter of distance she’d been preserving. Instead, she melts into me.
Her back presses fully against my chest. Her hand slides over mine on her thigh, fingers intertwining. She tips her head back, resting it against my shoulder, exposing the curve of her neck.
I could kiss her there. The thought surfaces unbidden, and once it’s there, I can’t get rid of it. I could press my lips to that soft skin, feel her pulse flutter under my mouth—
“You two are disgusting,” Logan announces cheerfully. “In the best way. Seriously, Banks, I didn’t know you had it in you.”
“Had what in me?”
“Affection. Human emotion. The ability to touch another person without looking like you’re in pain.”
I should have a comeback for that. I don’t. My brain has been reduced to static and sensation.
Winnie’s thumb traces circles on the back of my hand. Slow. Idle. Like she doesn’t even realize she’s doing it.
I’m going to die. I’m going to die in this booth with a beautiful woman on my lap, surrounded by my teammates, and the coroner’s report will say “death by sexual frustration.”
Archer raises his beer. “To Banks. Finally joining the land of the living.”
“Hear, hear,” someone echoes.
“‘Bout time you were happy, man,” Zayden adds, and there’s something genuine in his voice. Something that cuts through the teasing. “You deserve it.”
I don’t know what to say to that. I’m not happy. I’m confused. And aroused. And completely out of my depth. But sitting here with Winnie warm and solid against me, her fingers laced with mine, her laughter ringing in my ears…
I could be happy. Maybe.
If this were real.
The thought is like a splash of cold water. I push it away, bury it deep, focus on the physical instead. The pounding of my heart, the ache pressing against my zipper, the primal, visceral want that’s been building since she sat down.
Winnie turns her head again, her lips close to my ear this time. “Is this okay?”
“What?”
“This.” She squeezes my hand. “Me. On you. I know it’s a lot.”
It’s not enough. That’s the problem. I want more. I want to pull her closer, tighter, feel every inch of her body pressed against mine. I want to bury my face in her neck and breathe her in. I want—
“It’s fine,” I manage.
“You sure? Because I can move—”
“I said it’s fine.”
My voice comes out rougher than intended. She goes quiet.
Shit.
“Sorry,” I mutter. “I just—it’s been a while. Since anyone…”
I trail off. Since anyone what? Since anyone touched me like this? Since anyone made me feel like my skin was too tight and my blood was too hot and my whole body was screaming for something I can’t have?
“I get it,” she says softly. “We don’t have to—I can move—”
“No.” The word is out before I can stop it. “Stay.”
She stills and looks at me over her shoulder.
“Stay,” I say again, quieter. “Please.”
Something shifts in her expression. Something warm and dangerous. “Okay,” she whispers. “I’ll stay.”
She settles back against me, and I let myself have this.
Just for tonight. Just for a few hours. I curl my arm around her waist, my palm flat against her stomach.
I let my nose brush her hair, breathing in that citrus scent.
I let myself pretend this is real—that she’s mine, that this is my life, that I’m the kind of man who gets to hold a woman like this and keep her.
The conversation flows around us: laughter, stories, and the clink of glasses. I contribute nothing, but for once, I don’t feel like an outsider. I feel like part of something. Part of a team. Part of a couple.
Part of her.
Winnie’s hand finds mine again under the table. She interlaces our fingers and squeezes.
I squeeze back.
And for one perfect, dangerous moment, I let myself believe it could be real.