Balls of Steele
Remington leaned over her,
using the age-old excuse of needing to guide Laura in the proper
handling of a cue stick. “Like this, Miss Holt.” He laid
his hands on
hers, deliberately standing so that he could smell her hair.
She bit her lip in a half-smile, rather liking the way his body fit with hers as they leaned against the table. His hands were warm and made her nerve-endings zing where they touched. Schooling her grin into her regular, more serious expression, she asked, “Like this?” A quick thrust of the stick sent the ball rolling oddly across the table where it tapped a red-striped ball and spun away.
“No, no. Try it again. This time, aim for the blue one over there. If you sink it, you can name your forfeit.” He knew she couldn’t resist a challenge and would now at least give the shot a fair attempt.
Her good mood had her laughing at his dare and she shoved an elbow into his ribs to give her some room. “Okay, let me try.”
A wiggle of her hips had him stepping abruptly backwards and taking a long pull from his bottle of British ale. He preferred this little out of the way bar because of the variety of beers they stocked. This one wasn’t too bad. He grinned at her inept moves. There was little he liked more than a pretty girl in a bar whom he could dazzle with a few tricks and have his fun “showing” her the way to play nine-ball. And since the pretty girl in question was Miss Holt--whom he’d dragged to this smoky little dive after their movie--it was, all in all, turning out to be a perfect evening.
Laura stood up, and Steele smirked while she chalked her cue. She was stalling. But with a sudden smooth shift, she had the cue stick sliding expertly through her fingers. The blue ball didn’t have a chance. Neither did the green-striped one on the other side.
Narrowing her eyes, she walked the length of the table and dropped three more before moving on. When the table was clear and the eight ball rolled into the far corner pocket, she handed him the stick. “I think I've got it, Mr. Steele.” A sly grin worked its way across her face before she could suppress it.
Damn, he liked her. Arranging his face into scowl that he didn’t feel in the slightest, he crossed his arms and snorted at her audacity. “I believe the term for that is ‘hustling,’ Miss Holt.”
With a fair attempt at an Irish accent, she shot back, “Sure and ye can complain all ye want. But pay up, Mr. Steele.”
Dubiously, he eyed her. The scowl became real. There was no telling what she might spring on him. “What’s my forfeit?”
Laura pondered the question for a moment. “Oh, I’ll make it easy on you. … How about a kiss--"
“That I can do, Miss Holt.” He wiggled his eyebrows and leaned in to do that very thing.
“--and you have to be at the office by eight-thirty in the morning every day next week,” she finished with a gleam of pure triumph.
With his lips near hers, he stopped, exasperation written all over his face. “You fight dirty, Miss Holt.”
“I think you learned a valuable lesson this evening, Mr. Steele.”
“Not to underestimate a woman?” As if he ever did with Miss Holt.
“Never play pool with a math major. It’s all about angles and the proper application of force.”
He grinned broadly and closed his left arm around her slim waist so that her body touched his from breast to knee. “I’ve got the angle, Miss Holt.” He stroked her cheek with his right finger and tilted his head a fraction. “Now let’s see about the proper application of force.” He pressed his mouth to hers while her eyes danced with laughter.
29 May 2009
She bit her lip in a half-smile, rather liking the way his body fit with hers as they leaned against the table. His hands were warm and made her nerve-endings zing where they touched. Schooling her grin into her regular, more serious expression, she asked, “Like this?” A quick thrust of the stick sent the ball rolling oddly across the table where it tapped a red-striped ball and spun away.
“No, no. Try it again. This time, aim for the blue one over there. If you sink it, you can name your forfeit.” He knew she couldn’t resist a challenge and would now at least give the shot a fair attempt.
Her good mood had her laughing at his dare and she shoved an elbow into his ribs to give her some room. “Okay, let me try.”
A wiggle of her hips had him stepping abruptly backwards and taking a long pull from his bottle of British ale. He preferred this little out of the way bar because of the variety of beers they stocked. This one wasn’t too bad. He grinned at her inept moves. There was little he liked more than a pretty girl in a bar whom he could dazzle with a few tricks and have his fun “showing” her the way to play nine-ball. And since the pretty girl in question was Miss Holt--whom he’d dragged to this smoky little dive after their movie--it was, all in all, turning out to be a perfect evening.
Laura stood up, and Steele smirked while she chalked her cue. She was stalling. But with a sudden smooth shift, she had the cue stick sliding expertly through her fingers. The blue ball didn’t have a chance. Neither did the green-striped one on the other side.
Narrowing her eyes, she walked the length of the table and dropped three more before moving on. When the table was clear and the eight ball rolled into the far corner pocket, she handed him the stick. “I think I've got it, Mr. Steele.” A sly grin worked its way across her face before she could suppress it.
Damn, he liked her. Arranging his face into scowl that he didn’t feel in the slightest, he crossed his arms and snorted at her audacity. “I believe the term for that is ‘hustling,’ Miss Holt.”
With a fair attempt at an Irish accent, she shot back, “Sure and ye can complain all ye want. But pay up, Mr. Steele.”
Dubiously, he eyed her. The scowl became real. There was no telling what she might spring on him. “What’s my forfeit?”
Laura pondered the question for a moment. “Oh, I’ll make it easy on you. … How about a kiss--"
“That I can do, Miss Holt.” He wiggled his eyebrows and leaned in to do that very thing.
“--and you have to be at the office by eight-thirty in the morning every day next week,” she finished with a gleam of pure triumph.
With his lips near hers, he stopped, exasperation written all over his face. “You fight dirty, Miss Holt.”
“I think you learned a valuable lesson this evening, Mr. Steele.”
“Not to underestimate a woman?” As if he ever did with Miss Holt.
“Never play pool with a math major. It’s all about angles and the proper application of force.”
He grinned broadly and closed his left arm around her slim waist so that her body touched his from breast to knee. “I’ve got the angle, Miss Holt.” He stroked her cheek with his right finger and tilted his head a fraction. “Now let’s see about the proper application of force.” He pressed his mouth to hers while her eyes danced with laughter.
29 May 2009
Steele
Holting On
Steele
Holting On
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