Page 53 of How to Ruin a Wedding

“Anything.”

“Anything, then,” I repeat. “Winner gets a wish. Anything is on the table.”

“Deal.”

“Deal.”

I move to the table, bending over. I turn and glance at Anders, whom I catch admiring the view.

“Are you going to help me?”

He positions himself behind me at an almost respectable distance, leaning over with one hand around my stomach to steady me. His other hand reaches for mine, tightening my grip on the cue stick.

I arch my back, pressing it against his front. I already feel him there, as if he was waiting for me, but when I grind myself deeper against him, he hardens even more. He muffles his groan into my neck, his body pressing against my ass, gripping my stomach tighter—as if he needs to steady himself before losing his balance.

His reaction snuffs out any lingering doubt that this thing between us is one sided. And the way he reacts to me—instinctively, helplessly—fills me with an unfamiliar confidence that spreads along with the heat flooding my body. My heart pounds against my chest; I feel it beating in my eardrums.

It awakens a wildness I didn’t even know existed within me.

“Sorry,” I say sweetly, grinding against him once more before pulling away. I position myself incorrectly and ask, “Is this better?”

His hands move from my stomach downward, to just below the top of my skirt, as he pulls me back against him, pressing me against his body. He’s so hard, and if he slipped a hand beneath my skirt—and I ache for him to—he’d find me wet, ready, and waiting.

Like an afterthought, he stills the pressure of his hands over my crotch and maneuvers us correctly. “Like this,” he says, his breath raspy and dark.

I hit the ball, and it moves fast this time, but I miss every other one in sight. I turn into him, lifting the cue stick until it’s pressed between my breasts. “You know, maybe a bet wasn’t the best idea.”

His gaze travels to my chest, so I lean in more, pulling at the fabric so it nearly slips from my breasts entirely. Anders tears his gaze away from my chest, then digs his fingers under the sides of my straps, lifting so the cotton covers the entirety of my nipples.

“I’m not taking the bet back.”

I hum, my hands traveling up his chest. “Okay, then.”

He swallows—I only know because his Adam’s apple bobs—and peels himself away to take his shot. It’s another point. If he keeps up this pace, the game will be over in minutes.

This time, I move around the table, away from him. From the angle I bend, he has a full bird’s-eye view of my chest. Even without looking up, I feel the heat where his gaze scans every exposed area of skin.

I take a deep breath, hold it, then smack my cue into the white ball, which hits a red ball into a corner pocket. “Oh,” I say, trying not to smirk. “I think I get it now.”

When I lean over again, Anders places a hand on the table. “What are you doing?”

“Huh?” I say, then laugh. “Oh, no, it’s my turn. You’re the one who said you’d only go once after a hit. I never agreed.”

I meet his gaze, and he catches on in seconds, lips pulling into a smile.

The next two minutes I spend smacking every ball I need into the pockets. I barely take a moment to position myself before moving on to the next shot. Only the eight ball remains.

I haven’t looked up once since my first shot. Though Anders is watching me circle the table intently—especially when I bend over directly in front of him, sinking the eight ball.

Finished, I turn, lifting myself onto the edge of the table, and press a kiss to the space just below the tip of my cue stick. I drop it on the table behind me and tuck my hair behind my ear.

“Well,” I say, “I think that’s game.”

I send a quick thank-you to the college ex-boyfriend who forced me to play beside him every Thursday night for seven months.

Anders crosses the small space between us, his knee separating my legs so his thigh presses against my crotch. I inch myself off the table, and the feel of his muscles against my center sends tiny fireworks exploding through my brain.

“You played me,” he says, and of all things, it sounds like adoration.