A pause.
Though I can think of several things that I would enjoy more.
Oh god. What is he thinking of? There are any one of dozens of memories that he could be referring to. But I don’t get an answer because it’s his turn. He lands a strike, and I decide to answer first before he can get back.
I have a pretty good view from here too, you know.
Look all you want, baby girl. That ass is yours.
I feel my face flush red, and I take a long swig of my drink.
Don’t say things like that.
Me not saying them won’t make them less true.
A combination of anger and need rolls through me. Damn him for making this hard, and the fact that he won’t see that I’m doing this for both of us. Seriously. How can he be so blind? But I look at him and my body remembers being in those arms only a week ago, and statements like that make me want to go to him no matter who is watching.
I take my turn, slamming down a strike with angry determination. I’m amazed that I do. I’m a good bowler from all the times I’ve been with dad, but even I’ve never had a perfect game.
I don’t respond on the app. I’m not going to give him more fuel. But this time, when Bryce goes to take his turn, I can’t stop staring at his ass.
Mine.
That’s the word that’s echoing in my head now, damn him. Fucking hell.
He bends over way more than he usually does when he’s taking his turn, making the back of his jeans draw tight. And I know that he’s doing it on purpose. The need that goes through me is almost overwhelming. A whole week of missing him and wanting him and not even an hour in his presence is making me break down.
Fine. If I’m going to be miserable, then he’s going to be miserable, too. I undo the top two buttons on my shirt. Not so much that it’s scandalous, but more than enough to flash some cleavage at him if he’s looking for it—and I’m going to make sure that he’s looking for it.
When my turn comes up, I make a show of inspecting my ball, bending over the return machine right in his direction. He stiffens, and I keep my face cool and collected as I straighten and move to throw the ball with a little more swing in my hips than I had before. Let him get hard. Let him ache. Let him feel even a fraction of the agony that I’ve felt this week.
He lands a strike on his next turn and earns cheers. We’re both in the lead by far. On the way back, he meets my eyes with a smirk. I have to win. I have to. There is no other option. “You’re going down, Bryce.”
He laughs easily, “Keep telling yourself that.” His friends laugh too, and my dad, though I see my dad glance between us again like he’s trying to figure out what’s going on. He can try to figure it out all he likes. But me trying to beat Bryce at a game of bowling isn’t going to give away the secret.
To my surprise, Bryce grabs his ball from the return long before his turn and even mine. I don’t know why. He just keeps it in his lap. I’m trying not to stare at him and figure out what he’s doing. And to anyone else, the action might seem casual, but not to me.
He leans back in his chair, ball in his lap, and then I see it. His fingers. They’re stroking the ball, drawing tiny patterns over the surface—exactly the way he used to do after we’d finished with sex. We’d lay there in my bed and he’d trace lines on my back and I loved the tingles that would run all over my body.
It’s my turn now, and all I can think about are his hands on my skin and how much I miss that feeling and would do anything to have it again.
I don’t hit the strike. I only take down nine, and even with my second ball, I miss. I get some sympathy and pats on the back, but all I can do is glare at Bryce. He’s trying to mess me up. He simply shrugs with a smile, and I roll my eyes. And then I freeze.
Bryce is touching the ball again, but this time he’s not caressing it. He’s fucking it with his fingers. I’m the only one that can see his hand, middle finger thrusting firmly and deliberately into the ball as he stares at me.
Oh my god.
Heat rises up my body, and I think I’m going to explode. I don’t know that I’ve ever felt this angry and turned on and confused. The way his mouth tips up into a smile I recognize from the moments before pleasure tells me he knows exactly what he’s doing, too.