“You’re in last place, yet you wanna showmehow to play better?”
“I know my put-put skills don’t show it-”
“You call those skills?”
“However,” the glare I’m given is good natured, “I have been trained by some of the best golf coaches out there – including Cooper Copeland’s secret weapon to winning so many charity tournaments.”
“Then why aren’t you playing better?”
“You ever think that maybe I’m letting you win?”
“No.”
“And you’d be correct because I’m not.” New rounds of laughter echo throughout the space. “Sports just aren’t something I’ve ever been good at.”
“I like that you’re willing to admit that.”
“I like that you’re willing to keep fake dating mein spiteof that.”
“Maybe evenrealdate you depending on your coaching skills.”
Yet again laughs flood the room displaying to Wheeler – who thinks I didn’t see him skeptically watching us in the far distance – that we are the couple we claim to be.
Is it Crusher crazy that all thisfeelsreal?
That Ilikethat it feels real?
That I want it tokeepfeeling real?
HowDeep Space Ninedisturbed does it make me if I’m falling this fast for a guy I barely know?
“Show me.” Sweetly insisting is attached to a small wiggling of my hips. “Show me how to get a hole in one on a single stroke.”
J.T. audibly groans louder as he slides behind me. “You’re making this harder for me on purpose, aren’t you, Beloved?”
“You should always be hard for me, Imzadi.”
His hands land firmly on my hips and gently tug me backwards to physically reiterate the words he purrs beside my ear, “You mean like this?”
Gasping gets him groaning.
Pressing tighter against me.
Passionately.
Possessively.
I honestly cannot get enough of him holding me like I’m his and only his.
“The thing to remember with short courses like this is that the key to winning is controlling the speed.” I mindlessly melt against his bright blue, button down, Crusin’ The Galaxy cloaked torso. “You wanna position yourself to take an angle that avoids the tough terrain aka the uneven ridges of his nose.” Gently being guided over just a fraction has me granting him a barely audible sigh. “Next, you wanna grip the putter securely here,” J.T. uses his hand to gradually inch one of mine lower, “and,” his hold sensuously shifts the other, “here.”
The heat and heavy weight of his breath against the shell of my ear buckles my knees.
Causes them to knock into one another.
Clamp together in hopes of ignoring the increasing ache between my thighs.
Sulugivemestrength.
