L. A. Witt - Rules 1 - Rules of Engagement (2 page)

Blood pounding in my ears, I leaned over the table. Just as I took my shot, someone bumped into me from behind, and the cue ball whizzed past the nine with room to spare. I cursed under my breath.

The pool shark caught the cue. “I’ll let you shoot that one again.”

“How kind,” I muttered, looking over my shoulder to glare at the intruder while I reached out to take the cue ball.
The ball landed gently in my palm, and the soft warmth of his thumb grazed the side of my hand. I looked at our hands and then at him, and I instantly knew that it was deliberate. I shivered and closed my fingers around the cue ball, exhaling as we broke contact.

He swallowed, eyes still locked on me as if daring me to look away first. “Your shot.”

“Thanks.” I almost choked on that single word. Clearing my throat, I set the cue ball back in its place on the table. Glancing behind me to make sure no one was going to bump into me this time, I set up my shot.

No one touched me, but my hands were still unsteady from that unnerving exchange, and in spite of lining up the perfect shot, the nine bounced off of the side and came to rest in the middle of the table. Sighing, I stood and looked at my opponent.

“Your shot,” I said.

He nodded, smirking.
Cocky bastard.
I couldn’t believe he’d managed to psych me out, that I’d fallen for his head games and let myself get too rattled to take such a simple shot.

His eyes flicked around the table, looking for just the right shot, probably calculating every possible outcome from every possible angle, analyzing the game the way a chess player did. As he did, his fingers drummed the side of the table, and I’ll be damned if there wasn’t just a hint of unsteadiness in his hand. I furrowed my brow, focused on his hand, trying to decide whether or not it was just my imagination.

The drumming stopped.
The trembling didn’t.
And when I looked up, he was looking at me.

This time, when I swallowed hard, I was sure his eyes followed the ripple down the front of my throat. The tip of his tongue swept across his lips, and he quickly looked away, focusing on the game. I stood back from the table, turning my eyes towards the scattered balls but not actually looking at them.

Whatever he was doing, it wasn’t a game. It wasn’t an attempt to psych me out. If anything, he was struggling as much as I was to stay focused.

“You’re up.” His voice startled me.

Looked around the table, I mentally tallied the score. Four stripes left, three solids, and the eight ball. Christ, he’d managed to drop four while I wasn’t even looking. Maybe he wasn’t as distracted as he let on.

I knocked two in before I scratched. Then he dropped one before missing. Then I got one more. All the while, we avoided each other’s eyes, focusing on the game.

The crowd around us had thickened. From some of the murmurs, people seemed impressed that I was giving the nameless pool shark a run for his money, but others noticed—as I did—that his technique was faltering. He wasn’t playing the way he usually did, the way he had when he stomped Josie and her cowboy predecessor.

I wondered if any of them felt the puzzling tension that didn’t seem to have anything to do with the game at hand.

 

“Fuck,” he muttered as the cue ball followed the two into a corner pocket. He fished it out and handed it to me.

This time, I let my fingertips brush the heel of his palm, and he sucked in a breath. In spite of how stuffy and hot it was in the club at that point, I was secretly glad I’d chosen to wear a long-sleeved shirt. Any less, and everyone in the club would have seen the goose bumps he raised on my arms.

I pocketed the eleven, and the score was even: we each had one left besides the eight ball.

I missed.
Then he missed.

Cursing under my breath, I took my next turn. Neither of us were playing nearly as well as we could, but why? What the hell was going on?

I focused on the cue ball, but movement at the opposite end of the table caught my eye. My breath caught in my throat as I looked up just in time to see him take the chalk away from his cue and blow the excess off.

Fucking hell, what is the matter with me?

Forcing myself to concentrate, I knocked the thirteen in. He pursed his lips and raised an eyebrow. The eight ball was sitting in front of the side pocket. It was an easy shot. He knew he was toast.

Assuming I could convince my hands to work, that is. I tried to shoot him a smug look, was just about to talk some shit, when the tip of his tongue swept across the inside of his upper lip. Without thinking about it, I did the same, and he looked at me just as I did. The nervous ripple that ran down the front of his throat turned my knees to water, and the sudden ache below my belt told me
exactly
what this tension was all about.

I tried to breathe. Tried to focus on my shot. Tried to comprehend that it was a
man
having this effect on me.
“Eight ball, side pocket.” My mouth was dry. I concentrated on the cue ball, focused on it, tried to think of anything other than the pool shark and the hard-on he was giving me. Thank God I’d not only worn a long-sleeved shirt to cover up the goose bumps, but I’d left it untucked, which I hoped was enough to save me some embarrassment.
I took the shot, and the eight ball dropped.

The crowd around us broke into cheers, applauding me for beating the pool shark and ribbing him for allowing his streak to be broken. He shook his head in disbelief and picked up the money from the end of the table.

“Good game,” he said. “Fucking good game.” He handed me my winnings and then extended his other hand. “Brandon Stewart.”

“Dustin Walker.” I shook his hand. In the same instant that I let my thumb run across the back of his hand, he did the same to mine. We both tensed and then released each other’s hands and cleared our throats.

“Anytime you’re up for a rematch,” he said, holding my gaze with what seemed like an unusual amount of effort for someone who was usually so cocky. “You know where to find me.”

I swallowed. “I may take you up on that.”
He gestured at the table. “Ready when you are.”
“Actually, I’d better get going,” I said. “But I come here a lot. If I

see you again, I’ll gladly take you up on another chance to wipe the floor with you.”

 

He smirked and winked. “Anytime. Any place.”

We shook hands again. Then I finished my beer and headed for the door, trying to figure out what the fuck had just happened.

A
S
I
stepped outside, the cool air hit my lungs and my face, nearly knocking me off my feet. The club was always stuffy, but it was the area right around the pool table that had become unbearably warm.

Over and over, I relived that game. The looks. The way he touched me. The tremor in his hands. I had never had that effect on a man, at least not that I was aware of, and no man had ever had that effect on me.

What the hell?

It was barely ten o’clock, but I had to get out of there. One more game would simply have been too much. There was no way I could play another game, or even breathe, in Brandon’s intense presence.

I dug my keys out of my pocket and clicked the remote to unlock the doors.

“Hey, Dustin!” Brandon’s voice straightened my spine and stopped me in my tracks. I turned around. He was walking quickly but casually. Not in any hurry but certainly not out for a lazy stroll. He had a black leather bomber jacket on now, his hands in the pockets. When he caught up to me, he said, “That was an impressive game.”

“Likewise,” I said, trying to breathe.

 

We stood in silence between my car and another for a long moment, avoiding each other’s eyes again.

He cleared his throat. “Look, um,” he paused. “There’s a tournament this weekend. Eight ball.” He wetted his lips, sending a shiver up my spine. “I, uh—”

“Oh,” I said. “Well, I’ve never played competitively.” He smiled. “You should give it a try.”
“Maybe I will. Are you going to be playing?”
“Hell yeah.”

“Maybe I’ll just come watch.” My cheeks burned as I realized what I’d just said. “The game. Watch the game.”

He laughed softly. “I know what you meant.”
“I’ll think about it.” Extending my hand, I added, “I should go.”

“Yeah, me too.” He met my eyes as he shook my hand. “Just thought I’d let you know about the tournament. I forgot about it while we were in there.”

“Thanks,” I said.

His hand was still clasped in mine as we looked at each other in silence. I doubted he came out here just to tell me about the tournament. I wanted to ask why he’d tracked me down, but I couldn’t remember how to speak.

And I couldn’t take my eyes off of him.

Movement drew my attention to our hands, and I thought he was releasing mine, but instead, he turned his hand, grasping mine the same way he would if we were arm-wrestling, and pulled me towards him.

He caught me by surprise and knocked me off balance. I stumbled forward, he stumbled backward, and in a heartbeat, he was backed against the other car, our hands still clasped together between our chests, my other hand braced against the car beside his head. Our hips were separated by a sliver of space, but his knee just barely touched the inside of mine.

Neither of us breathed. Neither moved. The only sound between us was the muffled creak of his jacket when he finally drew a breath. I swallowed nervously, and he did the same. Whatever tension had developed between us in the club was nothing compared to the electricity crackling in the air now.

“Sorry,” he whispered. “I didn’t mean to throw you off balance.” “It’s okay.” I paused, furrowing my brow. “What did you mean to do?”

He laughed, his cheeks darkening a little. Meeting my eyes with a shy expression, he said, “Just satisfying a little curiosity.”
My eyebrows lifted. “About?”

“I wondered what you would do.” He held my gaze, but I could tell he was nervous. Much more nervous than he’d been during the game. Probably more nervous than someone like Brandon was accustomed to being. He licked his lips, that simple, subtle gesture making my cock twitch.

Jesus, Brandon, what are you doing to me?
“Was this what you expected?”

“I didn’t know what to expect. I still don’t.” His fingers moved slightly against mine, as if his hand wanted to tremble but couldn’t because of my grasp. Taking a breath, he whispered, “Your shot.”

My heart pounded. Something in my mind told me that this was my cue to step back, to break the awkwardness of the moment and return us to a safe, somewhat comfortable distance between two—I thought—heterosexual men. But I didn’t move. I didn’t know what to do.

He sucked his lower lip into his mouth for a second, licking it quickly. I suddenly wanted to taste his mouth, to know what his tongue felt like against mine.

Avoiding his eyes, drawing back only slightly, I started to speak but then hesitated. My cheeks burned.

 

“My back’s against the wall,” he whispered unsteadily. “All you have to do is step away. Let go and step away.”

Swallowing hard, I looked him in the eye. “You don’t want me to back away, though, do you?”
He shook his head.

Barely whispering, I said, “What do you want me to do?” “I want—” He hesitated. “I want you to do what feels right.”

I leaned closer to him, inhaling slowly and catching his musky, masculine scent. Goosebumps prickled my skin and my knees threatened to buckle as I brought my hips closer to his. We both gasped when my erection brushed his. I was shaking now, overwhelmed by him, by this moment.

Our faces were close enough that I could feel the heat radiating off of him. When he exhaled, his breath was warm on my skin, and it was all I could do to stay standing.

Finally, I managed to say, “Your shot.”

“Tell me what you want.” The vibration of his voice thrummed in the tiny space between his lips and mine.
“You know what I want.”

“You’re right, I do.” His lips touched mine, and I couldn’t take the distance anymore: I kissed him, just my parted lips against his. We were still for a moment, just breathing each other. When he tilted his head slightly, his chin brushed mine, and the rough texture of his lightly stubbled jaw emphasized the warm softness of his lips.

His tongue parted my lips. As the kiss deepened, I shifted my balance, letting myself sink against his body as I took my bracing arm off of the car. I slid my arm around his waist and moaned softly into his kiss as he pressed his hips against mine. We explored each other’s mouths, and I let myself get lost in his embrace, in
him.