How to Ruin a Wedding(46)

I lean on the side of the table. “This feels like a humiliation ritual.”

He smiles. “I won’t go again.” He reaches for me, positioning me by the white ball. “Even if I get a stripe, I’ll just hit it once. We’ll go back and forth.”

“Oh, so you want to prolong my suffering?”

“I believe in you,” he says, rubbing a hand over the small of my back—and it’s more of a distraction than encouragement.

“That makes one of us,” I say, and I hit the ball at an angle that causes the stick to slip from my fingers.

When I turn to face him, he grips my cheeks. “No more frowning.”

“This is my resting face.”

“It most definitely isn’t.”

“You stare at my face enough to know if it isn’t?”

At that, he spins me around to look at the table. His hands wrap around my waist, his fingers resting on my belly underneath the fabric of my shirt. Anders bends slightly and positions the stick in my hand. “First,” he says, his lips brushing my ear as he speaks, like each vowel is a hidden kiss against the skin, “your body should face the direction of the cue.” He uses his knee to bend me over more. “And you need to reposition your fingers. Only use your index and thumb to form a bridge for the cue to rest on. Gives you better control.”

I swallow to combat my dry throat, trying to focus on his instructions, but his fingers caress mine, and he positions them so delicately around the stick. All I can focus on is the feel of his large palms on my flesh—think about how they would feel over more sensitive places.

“Practice,” he whisper-kisses into my ear, moving me—and us—so that my fingers travel up the stick in a way that sends my imagination spiraling. “You don’t have to strike it until you feel ready.”

He’s entirely too close and not at all close enough. Each time Anders gets near to me, physically and emotionally, my first instinct is to welcome it, welcome him into my life like I’m writing his name in damp sand. Then a wave of logic smacks into me, sweeping his name away before it can be permanently imprinted on my heart.

“You’re”—I clear my throat—“very near. We don’t have to play up the act.”

He hums in my ear. “No acting here,” he says softly, “but if you need a reason, Valerie’s bartender friend keeps glancing our way.”

“And why is that?” I can’t help but ask. “One of your many flings?”

He chuckles, and the sound sends a dizzying warmth through me. “Don’t be jealous.”

“I’m not,” I lie.

His lips lightly press into the skin below my ear. “Ready?”

I can only nod. When he moves away, I genuinely try to focus, but my grip is shaky without his guiding touch, and I miss the white ball entirely. I sigh, then face him again.

“You know, it’s unhealthy of me, but I do better under pressure.”

He cocks his head slightly. “Do you?”

“Want to make a bet?”

“You,” he says, pressing the side of his cue stick to my chest, “want to make a bet against me?” He presses it to himself. “At pool?”

“Yes.” I keep my chin up. “If you help me a bit more.”

When he doesn’t say anything, I breach the space between us. “The look you’re giving says you don’t think any amount of help will make a difference.”

He grips my chin between his finger and thumb. “I just don’t want to take advantage of you.”

I most definitely want him to take advantage of me.

I know that thought remains in my head. Yet, the way Anders gives me a once-over makes me think he heard it loud and clear.

My fingers hook into his belt loop, and I pull him even closer. “Are we betting or what?”

“What would you like, Lucinda?”

“What are you willing to do, Anders?”

“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.