“Your turn.” He waggled a shorter club in my direction.
I shook my head and continued to sip my drink. “Why don’t you go a few more times? I’m still trying to figure out how to do this.”
“Watch the master and learn,” he said.
It was obvious he was genuinely enjoying himself, which I found annoyingly cute.
He placed another ball on the tee and did the knee bend wiggling thing again, which drew my eyes to the muscular curve of his ass. Dude butts didn’t usually do it for me, but I was checking his out instead of watching where the ball went.
“Got it?” he asked, when an “E” flashed back up on the screen.
“Oh, was I supposed to be watching your swing?” I set my wine down and stood to join him. “I was way too busy staring at your ass.”
He raised his eyebrows in mock outrage, putting a hand over his mouth as he set a ball on the tee for me. Then he went back to the table, giving me room to attempt this golf thing.
I tried to mimic what he’d done, lining up with the ball, spreading my feet apart and bending my knees as much as I could in a curve-hugging pencil skirt. I was scared I was going to fall off my heels if I swung too hard, so my plan was just to pull back a little and give it a whack instead of attempting a proper golf swing. It couldn’t be any harder than swinging a paddle at someone’s ass, could it?
It worked. Mostly. I managed to hit it out onto the green, watching it fall and bounce into a hole. It hadn’t gone in the direction I’d intended, but I discovered this was a pretty forgiving game.
“How’d I do?” I asked as I turned back to the table.
“Absolutely no idea,” he said with a mischievous grin. “I was far too busy staring at your ass.”
“Some coach you are…”
It was surprisingly difficult not to flirt with him, but I wasn’t even sure I should be resisting. The idea I had of a fake relationship was far different from the reality. Where was the line?
We alternated turns a few times, but after my third pathetic swing, he wouldn’t move to let me past when I tried to switch places with him.
“As gorgeous as you look in that skirt and heels, who wears stilettos to play Level Golf?”
“I thought it was the name of a bar or something! The itinerary said drinks at Level Golf!” I said defensively. “I didn’t know we wereliterallyplaying golf!”
He barked a laugh. “Why don’t you just take them off?”
I glared. “Because they’re the source of my dark power.”
I wasn’t having the first pictures that would hit the tabloids be of me sloppily walking around barefoot in public like a drunk sorority girl in Vegas.
“Suit yourself.” He shrugged, motioning for me to stand in front of him by the tee.
I complied, hyper-aware of his sudden nearness. When I lined the club up, he wrapped his arms around me, placing his hands over mine. Even though I was wearing heels, he towered over me.
“Seriously? We’re doing this move?” I was defensive about how good it felt to have him pressed against me.
He murmured against my ear, “Just focus on the ball. Can you spread your feet any wider?”
“Not without taking my skirt off.”
“Is that an option?”
I nudged my ass into his balls in answer. But when he pressed back against me in return, there was nothing playful about it. I could feel his hardness against me and wanted so badly to grind into him.
He gave me quiet instructions, but I was consumed by the feel of him enveloping me—the rumble of his deep voice, the powerful lines of his body, and how desperately turned on I was.
He demonstrated a proper swing with his arms guiding mine, knocking the ball significantly farther than I had been able to alone.
“Whatever,” I muttered, arching into his nearness. “I really just needed you to help me balance so I didn’t fall off my shoes.”
