Page 27 of Outlaws' Single Mom
As soon as the last fry is stuffed in Logan’s mouth like a hamster, he’s out of his seat. I start to pull a twenty out of my wallet so he can buy credits, but Jackal stops me. “We’ve got it.”
“Be careful, he’s not a cheap date,” I warn.
They take off, Logan’s gangly legs pumping while the men keep up with easy strides, Lash throws a wink my way over his shoulder.
Stiff nudges my foot with his boot. “We’re good, right? You and me?”
“Yeah, totally.” I dip a fry in my milkshake and suck the salty ice cream off before chewing. “The other night was just…” Was just the first time in over two years that I’ve had an orgasm involving someone else and it was from humping on the couch. That’s totally not an embarrassing thing for a grown adult. “Fun.”
I dip a second fry, but before I can eat it, he leans over and steals it straight out of my fingers with his mouth. His beard tickles my hand, and his hot tongue flicks over my thumb. “Hey!”
“Hmmm, not bad, but I think it would be better with chocolate.”
“Obviously not,” I scoff. “It’s too many flavors. More is not always better.”
“Sometimes it is, though. Come on, I haven’t played pinball in years.” He takes my hand and tugs me out of the booth.
We get a card from the desk and fill it with credits. The pinball machines are lined up against a wall away from the room with the arcade machines. They’ve got six of them, and they all seem to have a theme, like superheroes or aliens. I have no idea where to start.
“I’ve never played pinball in real life,” I admit. “My Dad’s computer had a pinball game, but it’s probably not the same.”
“It’s the same general idea. All of these have different tracks, and if you pay attention, they usually tell the story of whatever the theme is. Pick one.”
I look at the line of mostly identical looking machines and my eye catches on one that looks like a shipwreck with a treasure chest and a pirate flag. “That one.”
“Okay. Let’s give it a shot.” He puts the card in the machine and it lights up, playing a jaunty fanfare.
“Ye’ll ne’er get yer filthy mitts on me treasure, yarr!” a gravelly pirate voice announces confidently as lights race around the complicated track under the glass.
This is cheesy as heck. I look over the table, trying to figure out what all the little doodads are supposed to do. “I know the basic ideas with the flippers, but if it’s more complicated than that I’m in trouble.”
“First, get in position. You wanna be stable and with your shoulders relaxed, ready to react.” He puts his big hands on my hips and shifts me into position.His hands are warm, even through my jeans, and the way his touch lingers is more than friendly.
“Okay, show me.”
His hands don’t leave my hips as he steps up right behind me, so close that I can feel the heat of him on my back. “It’s all about the timing. I’ll help you get the feel of it.” Reaching around me, he places his hands over mine on the sides of the pinball table, so that his fingers can push mine to hit the side buttons. He traces his fingertips over my skin and speaks with a quiet husk into my ear that gives me goosebumps, “The buttons are real sensitive, so all you need is a light touch.”
“You sound like you have a lot of practice.”
“I have enough.” He takes his right hand off mine. “Pull the plunger, real smooth, just the right tension… and when you’re ready, release.”
How is he making pinball sound sexy? The resistance is stronger than I expect, but I pull the knob back as far as I can get it and let go. It slams into the little spring and a steel ball shoots up the right side to start bouncing around. Lights flash, bells ding and the voice yells, “Ye shivered me timbers, arr!”
“Quick, fingers back on the buttons.”
Right. I grip the sides of the table, and immediately Stiff covers my hands again. He draws a sharp breath like something just hurt.
“You okay?”
“Yeah, just my arm, it stings sometimes. Nothing to worry about. Old injury.” He pushes closer to see over me, and my mind goes blank, remembering what he felt like beneath me on the couch.
The ball comes rolling down towards the flippers, speeding up as it comes closer. “It’s?—”
“All timing. Just hit it—-now.” His finger pushes my finger, and the flipper catches the ball just before it vanishes into the gap at the end of the table. It launches back up at full speed into a metal ramp that carries it around a spiral, slamming open a little door before falling into what looks like a wooden barrel.
The game yells, “Right in me best barrel o’ rum? Ye’ll pay for that, landlubbers! Yarr!”
I barely notice. A new ball pops out from the launcher, but how am I supposed to concentrate with Stiff right up behind me like this? He plays likea pro, and I’m just along for the ride. Every movement he makes launches the ball, via my fingers, into a new spot that makes the machine spin, ding or mock us with its fake pirate voice. But also every move presses him against me, and it’s very, very distracting.
