3. Pool Balls and Blue Balls

Chapter three

Pool Balls and Blue Balls

Georgie

I'm not quite sure if it's cute he lied about being a pool champion or offensive that he thought I wouldn't notice.

"You ever heard of a spin shot?" Alfie wiggles his eyebrows.

"When you make the ball spin?" I guess.

"See, most people think it's about the ball, but really, it's about the stick." Honestly, that should have been my first clue, the fact he kept calling the cue a stick.

"You're going to want to set up your shot . . ." He lines up the cue on his hand. "And instead of shooting it straight, you give it a little twist. "

He does exactly that and the entire thing flies out of his hand and across the table. It knocks into three balls, none of which are the cue ball or the object ball he was aiming for.

"It's a pretty advanced move." He laughs confidently. His utter lack of embarrassment makes me all warm and fuzzy.

"Even for a champion like you?" I tease, holding my cue in front of me.

He leans back against the table and places his hands between mine on the cue, then he tugs me toward him.

"Let me tell you something, Miss Georgie." He gives me a crooked smile. He pulls me between his legs. My thick thighs feel right at home between his.

"Tell me what?" That he's not really a champion?

He sidesteps out between me and the table then wraps his arms around me to grab the cue. "That you're setting up your shot all wrong."

His breath flutters on my cheek as he's curled around me. My heart jumps at the feel of his body pressed against my back.

One of his hands wraps around mine on the cue as he leans us forward. My ass backs into his pelvis and— woah, Nessie.

Nessie like the Loch Ness monster because lord, that boy's got an anaconda and half in those jeans.

He stretches forward, continuing to fold over me. I feel like I could catch on fire with the heat burning between my legs at the feel of the absolute log pressing into my cheeks right now. He guides me to set up my hand as a bridge on the table then glides the cue back.

"See, it's less of a slide and more of a thrust." In sync with his instructions, his hips rock forward, and I'm pressed into the table with a shallow gasp. Ironically, this shot was one of my best and sinks a ball into a corner pocket.

"Seems like you're my lucky charm." I giggle and move my hips in a flirty, little wiggle. I hope he knows it's a " please keep grinding that firehose on me" wiggle and not a "back off" wiggle.

I assume I'm in the clear when he hums a soft, gratified moan and tightens his hand around mine to line up another shot.

"We'd have a better angle if we moved," he whispers.

Even though it's a statement, I hear the question in it. "I don't want to move," I whisper back, and my cheeks heat at my boldness.

"Yeah?" he asks excitedly, as if he didn't expect me to stay.

I turn my head slightly to meet his eyes. There's a look of pure adoration in them. And it makes me feel a little . . . smitten.

He couldn't play it cool if he tried, and I like that.

I really like that.

"Mm-hmm." I nod then ask coyly, "Who wouldn't want to be taught by a ‘billiards master champion?'"

"Oh, uh . . ." He unwinds his arms and steps back, and I turn around bashfully.

Was it something I said—oh my god, is it my breath??

"This is embarrassing," he begins and pinches the bridge of his nose. "I thought it would be more obvious by my horrendous playing, but I'm not actually a champion."

"No, really?" I can't help but laugh. "Alfie, I knew you were joking when you called the cue a ‘stick-thingy' and the triangle rack a ‘whatchamacallit.'"

"Oh, I see." He laughs and closes the distance between us again. He backs me up against the table, and I notice a smattering of freckles as I look up at him. "Really, I was setting up a reason for me to help you with your shot." He grins devilishly. "You feel mighty fine in my arms, and don't even get me started on what that dump truck was doing to lil Alfie. Making me wanna split you like a goddamn log."

" Little?! There's nothing little about that. " I gape, going right passed the log comment, then slam my dropped jaw closed. What is it about this man that makes me speak out of my arse? It's like any and all filters go up in smoke around him.

He chuckles and rubs the back of his neck with a shrug. "Ah, noticed that, did ya?" He lifts a single brow while taking a swig of his beer.

A scorching blush burns through my chest and face as I nod. "Kinda hard not to notice someone trying to pole vault off my bum."

" Pffff—" He laughs with a mouthful of beer that ends up sprayed all over my front. "Oh, shit!" he exclaims in horror and looks around, panicked.

I'm still blinking beer out of my eyes when he, finding nothing in our vicinity, decides to pull me across the bar. He shoves the bathroom door open and drags me inside, only dropping my hand to rapidly pull half a tree's worth of paper towels from the rack.

He begins frantically dabbing me all over—neck, breasts, face, arms. "This wasn't quite how I pictured the first time you felt me up going."

That seems to snap him out of his fluster, and he gives me a mockingly apologetic smirk. "Of course, m'lady. I am not giving these marvels the respect and attention they deserve."

He drops the wads of paper and sets his hands on my hips. "Let me rectify this travesty immediately," he says, trailing his palms up my waist.

My body lights up under his touch. I'm hot all over.

His hands caress the underside of my breasts, and suddenly I'm cupping his face and hungrily pulling him toward me. Our lips collide and our tongues mingle in a careless dance. It's not neat or sweet, but it feels damn good.

He groans into my mouth and picks me up by the hips. I hop off the ground as he lifts me onto the counter. But we never stop sucking face, and I'm about as coordinated and graceful as a newborn giraffe, so my knee ends up slamming into his crotch.

He doubles over with a punchy exhale so quickly that I'm not fully seated yet, and my second knee comes up and hits him in the face.

"Oh my god!" I scream, horrified by the bludgeoning I've just given him, and jump down.

"I'm alright," he croaks, holding one hand up while still bent over, his other hand propped on his thigh.

"Oh my god, oh my god, I am so sorry," I babble uselessly.

He attempts to straighten with a poorly-concealed grimace. "Honestly, I'm good." He's utterly unconvincing but still tries to turn back on the charm. His voice is ragged as he forces a laugh. "Where were we?"

He looks up at me with something that could maybe be described as a wink, and I gasp. "Alfie, you're bleeding ."