Page 24 of My Office Rival (Keep Your Enemy Closer #2)

CYNTHIA

“ K eep your arm loose and take a few practice shots first. It also helps to picture the path of the ball before you shoot.” Jason’s voice was slightly rough, but other than that, he had no reaction to my words from just a moment earlier.

I bent over the table, skin tingling, as I realized Jason could probably see right down my shirt. Whatever. Use it against him. The cue was awkward, heavy. My arm was the opposite of loose.

“This doesn’t feel right.” I popped up. “The cue feels really unnatural.”

“It usually does the first time.” His voice was annoyingly reasonable.

“Little help?” I asked. He took one hesitant step forward, and I froze. Was I asking him to touch me? No going back now. Winning was still more important than anything.

The heat of Jason’s body licked against my spine as he stepped behind me, though he very carefully placed his hands on either side of me.

“Can I touch your arm?” He murmured, and I shivered at his tone. This was his bedroom voice, soft and silky.

“Yes,” I breathed .

He slid his hand along my upper arm and murmured into my ear, “Keep this arm loose. It’s a sport, just like any other. You have a ready stance for baseball and boxing. This is the same.” He ran a finger down my arm, and I barely stopped myself from pressing back against him.

“Breathe.” His exhale was hot on my neck. Relax. It was impossible with him this close.

“Okay. Good. Now see the red ball there? That’s your best shot right now.” His voice was low, seductive, sliding along my skin. I swallowed hard.

“It is? But it looks like the blue one would be easier.”

“Nope. Follow my line of sight.” He bent over me and pointed out his sight line. His arm brushed against my shoulder, and I tensed. I was caged by his body against the table, and it felt so good. Delicious and forbidden. Like decadent chocolate cake.

“If you hit the red ball right, the rebound should set you up to get the green ball and then maybe the blue ball, if you execute it all correctly.” His damp exhalations feathered over my neck.

“You want to hit it in such a way that the cue ball only moves as much as you want. A solid hit means the cue ball doesn’t follow the ball you’re aiming for.

That takes practice, but that’s the goal.

The point of pool is about planning and control.

” He emphasized the last word and heat flared in my belly.

Why did he have to say that? It’s like he knew I would be reminded of our night together, about his craving for dominance.

Was he trying to turn me on? I turned to look at him and saw his expression was casual and focused on the table.

Okay, so this is just Jason being Jason. Got it.

“All right. Let me give it a shot.” I bent over the table and he stepped away quickly.

“Easy,” he murmured. “Keep your arm loose, take a practice swing. Good girl.” He breathed the last words out and I clenched my thighs together.

On your knees like a good girl. My hand shook as I lined up my shot.

Careful, careful. I slid back and hit the cue dead on. The blue ball went into the pocket.

“Yes!” I pumped my fist in the air and turned to see him grinning .

“I knew you could do it.” He held his hand out for a high five, and I smacked it harder than necessary.

“All right, now try to sink the green ball. You’re a little off target, but I think you can still sink it.”

I circled the table, and he followed. I eyed my shot and bent over.

“Hold on.” His hand landed on mine. “Take it slow.” He stepped in, still so careful. “Can I touch your back?”

Yes. Please. I wanted to beg. But instead, I just nodded.

His palm was a brand on my lower back, and I was suddenly drowning in lust. He feathered his thumb over the gap between my sweater and my jeans, just the barest movement, and I so badly wanted to push back into him.

His voice was rough when he spoke. “Don’t rush.

You need a better line of sight with the ball.

” He pressed me down gently and I bit back a sigh.

“There you go. Breathe out. Try to keep your arm steady.” I couldn’t focus with his possessive hand on me.

My heart was thumping in my chest, and I swung too hard, glancing the cue ball and causing it to spin to the side.

“Ugh. I guess my beginner’s luck is over.” I turned and saw him smirking at me.

“You did great.” His quiet approval sent a little frisson of delight through me. “Now watch and learn.”

He turned and analyzed the table, then sank one, two, three balls in quick succession.

His hands were strong and sure, and his confidence in his skill was apparent.

His careful distance, his controlled reactions.

It so badly made me want to grab his attention, mess up his self-control.

I was like a little kid with a blank canvas and a giant can of paint—all I wanted to do was ruin his neat perfection.

He cocked his head and then took his time sinking another ball. As he rose from the table, he gave me a cocky grin and I rolled my eyes.

“Why are you so good at this, anyway?” I asked.

His smiled dropped at my words. “I used to play a lot.” He grabbed his beer and took a long swallow .

“Okay, so here and there in college?” I couldn’t help but press him. I wanted to understand the mystery that was Jason Elliott.

“For money,” he responded shortly.

I raised my brows, waiting for more, and he sighed.

“I needed the money when I was in school. I bartended throughout college and law school, but it wasn’t always enough.

I spent a lot of time at dive bars when I was younger and I started playing pretty young.

I got good.” He shrugged, but the casual movement couldn’t hide how tense his shoulders were, how tight his eyes were.

He really hates talking about this . “You know Blue and Gold downtown?”

“One of my favorites. Margo and I once spent Christmas Eve there.”

He gave me a half smile. “I used to play there all the time. I started offering to play people for fifty dollars, then a hundred. One hundred bucks for just fifteen minutes. It paid better than being a lawyer does now.”

“More fun too.”

At that, he laughed. Finally. “Yeah, it was fun sometimes, but it got old.” He ran a hand through his hair, mussing the shining gold strands.

“But you grew up playing? Did your foster parents play?” I knew nothing about him and I suddenly craved any drop of information I could get my hands on.

“No. They didn’t.” His expression shuttered, and he set down his beer.

We played the rest of the game in silence, Jason handily winning.

He played with a ruthlessness and intensity that I was familiar with from our conference calls and negotiations.

He didn’t offer any more tips, didn’t put his hand on my back again.

He drove me home in silence, and I wondered what I had done wrong.