How to Ruin a Wedding(47)

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.

“I did,” I say, nails digging into the edge of the table to keep from climbing on Anders. “And I believe you said if I did exactly what I did to the bartender to you, you’d give me your bank account number. You can text it to me.”

He throws his head back and laughs so freely that my heart is the one setting off tiny fireworks now. When he settles, he brings one hand to my neck, lifts until his thumb is under my chin.

“You are so incredibly beautiful,” he whispers.

“I just scammed you for your bank info, and you’re complimenting me?”

“I’d like to do far more than just that.”

I suck in a breath. “Anders.”

“Lucinda.”

“You’re drunk.”

“And you’re sober,” he counters, his hand reaching under my skirt, pressing against the skin of my thigh, higher and higher until he reaches the curve of me. “But you still want me. Like I want you.”

My pulse speeds up enough that I worry Anders is going to give me an actual heart attack. I press my hand against my chest, rubbing the skin there as if it’ll slow the beating. “This is . . .” I struggle to speak as he moves his hands around to my ass, pulling me against his thigh so that my wet panties press against his leg. The relief and pleasure the pressure gives slips a moan out of my mouth before I can stop it. “Messy.” I moan again as Anders’s fingers dig into my skin, positioning me to ride his leg once more.

“It doesn’t have to be,” he says, leaning forward and flattening my body against his, moving in a hard, patterned rhythm.

“You’re drunk.” I feel the need to say it again, but the words are pathetic whimpers timed with every grind of our bodies. My center throbs, each pulse jolting through my entire body, desperate for more. “Let’s revisit this when sober.”

My vision grows hazy, tiny lights bursting at the sides, like lost planets trying to find the right orbit. It feels so good. My panties are drenched enough that Anders’s jeans will be soaked through. But the thought of stopping feels impossible. I don’t want to stop. I need to stop. I can’t stop.

“Excuse me.” A woman’s voice jolts through the mind-blowing pleasure running through me. Anders barely pulls away; I turn my head to see the girl, wide eyed, in front of a man. “It’s, um, our time slot at the table.”

“Oh my God,” I say, slamming my palms against Anders, who barely budges. I nearly fling myself off him. “Sorry, really sorry,” I tell them, pulling my skirt down and rushing toward the exit as fast as my shaky legs will take me.

Mindless lust is what that was. Now I feel like someone dunked me under a bucket of ice water. Dummy. A horny, deprived dumbass is what I am.