Page 13 of Blocked Score

I brush past him, walking to the cue racks. “We’ll see.”

We pick up our cues, rack the balls, and a couple minutes later I show Lane that, no, aim and accuracydon’ttranslate from hockey to pool.

“Shit,” he murmurs as I sink the eightball into the side pocket to win this round. “Let’s go again.”

Concentration lines his face as he takes his first shot. His competitive nature is coming out.

Lane doesn’t like to lose, and he’s not used to it. That’s clear.

Too bad for him, because he does again.

His jaw drops when I decide to show off a little, sinking my final ball with a trick shot into the furthest corner pocket.

I wiggle my hips. “Darn, wasn’t this ass of mine supposed to get kicked?” I tease.

The set of Lane’s jaw goes hard, his gaze ticking below my waist. Something tells me he’s imagining doing other things to my ass than kicking it right now.

He pulls his gaze back to my eyes. “How the hell did you do that?” he asks. “And more importantly, why the hell do I suck so bad at this?”

I grin. “Your form’s all wrong. Here, I’ll show you.”

I set up a striped ball and the cue ball a distance from it on the felt surface of the table. I tell Lane to get into position as ifhe were about to try and sink it into the corner pocket, but then to freeze.

I sidle up to him to adjust his posture. From the first contact, sparks skate across my skin. I’m so close to him that waves of warmth roll off his muscle-wrapped body, and his clean but masculine scent swims in my nose. It’s a heady, intense feeling that leaves me tongue-tied for a second.

“You need to straighten this arm,” I tell him. It’s only after the words leave my mouth that I realize how much gravel there is in my voice. “And bend lower.”

The muscles straining against the back of Lane’s shirt pull tighter, and the muscles sitting at the height of my thighs do the same.

He follows my directions. The movement only brings us closer, our hips touching while I’m angling my torso toward him to correct his form.

His frame is big, powerful, and sculpted. I swallow past the dryness in my throat.

My gaze travels the length of his left arm, the long limb rippling with lean muscle. To correct his posture, I place my left hand above his wrist and my right hand at the crook of his elbow. Tendrils of heat rip through me from where our skin makes contact.

“Like this,” I breathe out, my voice shaky with the stutter of my heartbeat.

He lets me reposition him. A small laugh tickles my throat as I consider how backward this scene is. Traditionally, a guy would be using this as an excuse to feel uphisdate.

Too badthisguy sucks at pool.

Lane gives me a sidelong look. “What’s so funny? I’m notthatbad, am I?”

I grin. “No comment.”

I consider how Caleb, my ex, would never let me do this. Coaching him on how to shoot pool in public? He’d view it as emasculating.

Clearly, Lane’s immune fromthatinsecurity.

“Keep your left arm like that,” I tell him. I round behind his frame. A feeling of awe surges through me at the wide expanse of his back and the broad axis of his shoulders. “Now, put your right arm like this …”

His muscles roll under his warm skin when I take hold of the spot just above his elbow to guide him.

As he moves, his elbow brushes against my hip bone, and every muscle in my core clenches. A tight, needy ache erupts low inside me. When I pull in a steadying breath, I find out my nipples have gone so hard and sensitive that heat prickles over my skin when they scrape against the fabric of my bra thanks to my chest expanding.

I try to clamp down on the reactions, willing my body to have some semblance of self-respect. Yeah, this guy is hot, but sheesh, don’t let him give you an orgasm in the middle of the pool hall just from a brush of his elbow.

“Alright,” I say, my voice still breathy, “don’t pull too far back, and don’t push too hard.”

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