Page 148 of Rising Heat
Then his thumb shifts once against my hip, barely a movement at all, and whatever fragile thread of concentration I’d managed to hold onto simply snaps.
I lower the cue onto the table with as much dignity as I can salvage.
Mack’s hand lingers for another second before he steps back, and the cool air slipping into the space between us feels entirely too personal.
“Another round?”
The Buick isn’t the only thing running hot on the way home, my body immediately starts offering up information I did not request.
The warmth still sitting low in my stomach, the lingering awareness of my own legs—the heat that has nothing to do with the bourbon and everything to do with the way I could feel his hard length through his jeans when he had me bent over the pool table like he didn’t care if the whole bar watched our foreplay.
I press my thighs together instinctively, then uncross them a second later because the motion suddenly feels like a confession.
When I glance at him, it’s supposed to be subtle. Just enough to look without really looking.
A completely useless strategy, apparently.
“Something wrong?”
I look over just in time to catch his mouth threatening a smile.
“Nope,” I feel my cheeks warm. “I’m great.”
“You seem jumpy.”
“Just excited to get home. I mean…”
His smirk widens by a fraction.
“Not enjoying the company?”
“No. I mean…yes…”
I huff out an exasperated breath.
“Do you always do that?”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“That.” I point vaguely in his direction. “You make me say things out loud that you already know the answer to.”
He glances at me.
“Maybe I like hearing you say it.”
My pulse jumps.
We roll to a stop at a red light, and for the first time since we left the bar, he angles toward me in his seat.
I look up to meet his green-eyed gaze.
“Do you?” I ask. “Or do you just like proving a point?”
He leans toward me just an inch, but it feels like gravity pulling me in.
Which feels like a dangerous realization to have while trapped in a moving vehicle.
“Why can’t it be both?”
