Page 48 of Wild Fire

“What if I miss?”

“You won’t,” he says.

“But I always miss,” I say, my voice shaking because it’s taking way too much concentration to try and focus on anything but how his dick feels against my ass right now, and how his body molds to mine.

“What’s your favorite color?” he asks, moving the stick lightly across my knuckles. It’s a strange sort of combination of gentle and firm that I can’t explain, but it feels good in a way that is beyond words. I can smell his smokey-cedar scent mixed with the bitterness of beer, and the heat radiating off of him.

“B-blue,” I say, as he whispers in my ear.

“Do you trust me?” he asks.

Something about the way he asks feels different. It’s not so much a demand or even a question, but like a promise. A vow.

“Yes,” I say without hesitation. “Of course, I trust you.”

How could I not trust a man who pulled me from a burning building and saved my life? How could I not trust the man who stepped in to protect me?

“Hold tight.” He presses against my stomach. “Take a deep breath.”

I do as he says, and then let it out just like he says. “Aim for the blue.”

I set my gaze and position my stick, my heart in my throat.

“For every ball you score, I will make you come.”

My entire body flushes with heat, and I swear, my body moves of its own accord. I hear the snap and crack of the balls splitting, racing across the table.

Click.

Click.

Click.

I blink as AJ chuckles, smacking my ass lightly, and I stand up straighter, nearly dropping the pool stick. He pulls out not one, not two, but three striped balls.

“How…”

“Told you that you wouldn’t miss,” he says, grabbing his stick.

I watch with bated breath as he takes his stance, props his round ass out, squares his shoulders and sets his gaze on his target before he glances up at me.

Click.

I realize that as he stares at me, he’s already hit his target.

And scored a shot.

Jesus, that is so fucking hot.

He sets the pool stick down as I set my stance, square my shoulders, and choose the red, this time. It goes into the pocket easily.

AJ and I play two more games, of which he wins all three, but I can’t help but feel like I’ve still won, somehow.

“Well, this was fun,” I say as we exit Reed’s; the cool autumn air kissing my skin. AJ hunches his shoulders forward as he slides his hands in his jeans pockets.

There’s a weird tension between us, and my head feels dizzy, though I know it’s not the alcohol. I think it’s just him.

“I’ll walk you,” he says. The words are firm. Solid.