Saint rolls his eyes, plucking his nasty habit out of his mouth. “Why?”
“I’m awful at it!” I huff, dramatically crossing my arms across my chest.
The steering glides underneath his grip as he allows the truckto pull itself forward. “So am I, so we can be awful together.” He grins at me and the butterflies in my stomach lose control. It’s as if they had all been resting in their cocoons, waiting for the perfect moment to set themselves free.
“Fine.” I grumble out. “But if I win, you quit smoking.”
His eyebrows raise with surprise as a gravelly laugh slips its way out, carrying smoke with it. “What do I get if I win?”
His hand reaches over, gently stroking against my thigh while I debate on the answer. Each touch sets my skin on fire. “What do you want?”
Saint’s strokes pause and his hand creeps over to the middle of my legs. “This,” he whispers, gently pushing against my pussy.
My desire for him has me spreading my legs further apart, one knee touching the center console, the other resting against the door. “You don’t need to win for that.”
A pleasant “mmm” rumbles through his chest as he drives into the parking lot. A vintage sign reading ‘Sweetheart Lanes’ hangs above the door. The light pink lighting glows on the off white building. The colors remind me of the vivid peach I had bitten into my first full day back home. The cozy memories wrap around me, holding on to me tightly as Saint walks around the truck to open my door.
“Then how about this?” He questions as he picks me up from where I was sitting. His fingers press against my back entrance as he eyes me curiously.
A shutter rolls through me at his touch. The idea had never once crossed my mind, and the thought of his pierced length entering there sounds so foreign. “If you win by a landslide!”
He sets me down and we spend a moment taking each other in. Both of our goofy grins would perfectly align if they were placed side by side. Everything about this man is soperfect to me.
“Deal?” He questions, jutting out his hand for me to shake. He sounds more serious than ever and the idea of taking this little game to that level has my adrenaline boosting.
My hand firmly shakes his back and I do my best to give him a stern look. “Deal.”
The interior of the bowling alley looks like it has never heard of the word ‘renovation.’ A light blue carpet with colorful little squiggles takes up the majority of space, with cheap wood paneling bordering the actual lanes. Bright fluorescent lights shine off of the waxed flooring as it patiently waits to be used. The teenage attendant looks half asleep as we walk up to him.
“How many players?” He asks, sounding as if he’d rather be anywhere else. His eyes stay glued to the video playing on his phone.
“Thirty seven!” Saint announces with an absurd amount of confidence. I do my best to stifle the chuckle as the poor kid's eyes bulge out from his head.
“No, I'm just kidding. Just two.” The sense of relief in the teen is visible as the stress drops from his shoulders. He wipes his forehead and types something into the little machine.
“Shoe size?”
Saint peers over at me, giving me the space to answer first. “Size five please.” My voice comes out light, a sad attempt to keep the humor buried.
“And a size eleven.” Saint adds on.
Our size difference leaves me blushing as the kid walks off to grab the shoes. He’s got almost a foot on me in size, and if I had to guess I’d say he weighs close to double what I do. It makes my heart swoon.
“What’s got you smiling?” He pokes.
My hands instantly cover my face as I answer, “you could literally tear me apart. And something’s got to be wrong with me because I think that’s so hot.”
He hums as he takes me in. “Would you like that, Nova?” Saint leans in until he’s able to whisper in my ear. “I could devour you.”
I bite my lip to keep any sounds of pleasure from escaping. My thighs clench together, attempting to appease the need growing between them. A pulsing sensation forms in my clit. Saint’s eyes watch me with need. His jaw tenses as he fights to keep his hands off of me.
“Anything else for you guys?” The kid calls out as he drops the worn down red shoes onto the counter. The laces on both pairs are beyond frayed, leaving little yellow strings falling around the top. Scuffs mark up the sides and I’m almost certain the sole of one is peeking out.
“No, that’s all! Thank you!” Saint drops a twenty into the barren tip jar and turns before he can see the boy's face light up. I admire his generosity, but I keep quiet as I follow him over to the bowling area.
We sit next to each other on a plastic bench. It had been lined with fabric that seems as if it once held more color than an art studio. Now, due to the consequences of aging, it feels dull. Bits of yellow and pink still shine through, but most of the pattern has been rubbed away from years of use. Now it’s almost entirely grey.
Saint and I fight against the battered shoes, stretching the tongues out in order to slip our feet inside. He makes quick work of getting them on, while I continue to battle with the laces who had seen better days. The threads split apart as I try to shove them through the metal ring.
