Page 63 of Whiskey Throttle
That does it. I snatch an arrow off the wall, holding it awkwardly while trying not to look like a complete novice, even though I am.
“Oh, I’ll be good. I’ll be so good it’ll bruise your fragile little ego.”
He comes closer, too close, adjusting my arms with a slow patience that feels anything but innocent.
“You already shattered my fragile little ego when I creamed my pants.”
No malice, just a hint of amusement. I forgot I made him do that. Something I should hold over his head like he does with my tennis abilities.
“Stance first. Feet apart. You’re stiff.”
“Tell me again how bad I am and see what happens, pretty boy.”
He grins. “I’m counting on it, my little sinner.”
His hands slide to my elbows, lifting them. He’s behind me now, close enough that I feel the warmth of him everywhere.
“Anchor the string here.”
His voice drops lower, affecting me as I am him. He guides my hand to the corner of my jaw.
“Keep your back straight. Elbow high.”
I swallow hard.
“I’m not going to lie. This is kind of sexy.”
His mouth lowers to my ear, and his tongue traces the curve of my ear.
“I know. Now aim.”
I breathe, then release. The arrow flies and hits the outer ring of the target with a satisfying thud.
“Not bad.”
I toss him a look.
“Not bad? That’s better than your first tennis serve.”
“That’s a bold claim for someone who just grazed the outer edge.”
“It’s my first time.”
He steps back, grabs a bow of his own, and lines up with the stall beside me.
“Let’s settle it then.”
“Oh, it’s on.”
We shoot and tease each other. He talks shit every time I miss the center, and I gloat every time I get closer. It’s ridiculous and sweaty and absurdly sexy, especially when he lets out a dramatic groan after I hit a near-perfect shot.
“I swear you’re cheating.”
I smirk.
“Or maybe I’m just naturally better than you think.”
He lowers his bow, setting it on the stall rack, eyes gleaming.
