Michelle laughs. “You mean the group chat I’m not a part of.”
“You’re in the better one. Most of our messages consist of asking where each other are. ‘Folkwhores’ sounds better, anyway.”
“I agree,” I say, laughing at the ridiculous name Ken came up with for our group chat with Michelle.
We all turn at the same time to the horrendous noise that’s coming from their boyfriends.
Miles is supposed to be leading the night with the first game being beer pong, but he seems to be engrossed in terribly singing‘Sign of the Times.’ Wren’s watching him adoringly from beside me and Michelle watches Xavier add in his own ad libs, both of the boys standing, swaying with each other. Evan is sitting, shaking his head at them, but I can tell he’s laughing.
I love my friends and I love that they are happy, but there might be the tiniest bit of me that’s a little jealous. If I could get over the first trials and tribulations of an adult relationship, maybe I’d be just as happy as them. I’m fine on my own most of the time. Solitude has always been my thing. I enjoy being independent and doing things on my own. In fact, I hugely prefer it. Still, there’s that tiny part of me that wants what they have. To always have someone in my corner. Someone on my team who’s not going to make me feel like less than.
I take the opportunity to slip away to the other side of the huge room towards the pool table. I’ve always wanted to know how to play, but it’s one of the things that my brothers failed to teach me. No matter how many times they explained it, I still couldn’t get it.
I settle next to the empty table, my back away from the hysterical screaming that’s known as Miles’ singing. I pick up the cue, feeling it in my hand before settling it down, aiming it towards the white ball.
My first shot is terrible, and I laugh at myself, feeling pathetic. I’m about to put the cue back down, ready to walk away from something I’m not perfect at the first time, but then I feel a heavy weight behind me, pressing into my back.
Almost instantly I can tell it’s him.
My ass is perfectly nestled into his crotch, so I try to ease myself up and stand straighter. His huge hands come around mine, caging me in as he slowly runs them down my arms. The movement is so light, but I’m wearing a red short-sleeved corset top and jeans, so each brush of his hand feels like an inferno against my skin. He clasps his hands over mine on the cue, his breathing steady while I can hear my heart rattling against my ribcage.
“Evan?” My voice no longer sounds like my own. His proximity, his smell, the conversation we had the other day about him wanting me. No answer was an answer enough. I just have no idea how to go about it now.
“Hm?” The noise travels straight from the back of my neck where his mouth is to the space between my legs. I can tell he needs to clear his throat. His voice is slightly raspy and deep and just the sound sends goosebumps across my arms. I shiver under his touch, which only causes me to back up into him more, feeling something very big and hard beneath my ass. I can’t tell which one of us gasps.
“What are you doing?” I ask. I could guess, but words and all coherent thoughts are failing me right now.
“Showing you how to play, Angel,” he answers simply. Like I guessed, his voice is low and raspy, the sound settling in my stomach. His hands tighten over mine for a split second before relaxing, but still holding them. I swear I can’t even see my hands now. It should be humanly impossible for him to be able to play piano with hands that big.
Stop thinking about his hands, you perv, no matter how hot they look.
Think with your head, not your tits.
“I can figure it out on my own,” I say, my voice wavering.
He tuts. “You can’t be showing the opposition weakness already. Come on, sweetheart. You know better than that.” I’m getting sick of these new nicknames. This one especially. What’s worse than that is the way it lights me up inside.
“Why are you helping me?” I ask when he’s not even showed me how to play yet, his hot heavy hands just hold onto mine.
“We might be playing against each other, but it would be downright embarrassing watching you struggle for the sake of a silly competition,” he answers, laughing a little. He’s testing me. It’s payback for what I did the other day. It has to be. I knew it was risky touching him like that, hoping that he’d crack. That’s the only reason he’s touching me so close now.
“For the sake of competition,” I mutter back to him, trying to get as comfortable as I can with him this close to me.
“Now,” he instructs gently. “Can you let go of the cue for me? You’re holding it too tight.” I take a deep breath, doing as he asks, and I let go of it, dropping into his hands.
“Good girl,” he murmurs.
I don’t even have time to process those two words and the cobwebs I get in my stomach before he readjusts the cue in my hand, my grip looser, my right hand closer to the tip while my other rests somewhere closer to the top.
“Okay, now hold it like this.”
He takes a step back and I take a step back too, giving myself a second to breathe. It doesn’t do anything to relieve the tension because I can still feel his handseverywhere. He places his hand on my lower back while nudging me in the back of my knee a little, urging me to lean further forward and I do.
I like being in control. I like being the one who makes the other person unravel, but for some reason there’s this struggle between us where, depending on the situation, I end up being subservient to him and I actually listen to him. Like now.
I’m leaning over the table and his body heat is all over me, his front pressed into my back and my ass finding its way nestled into his lap again. His gigantic, veiny hands are covering mine again, adjusting my fingers one by one until they’re in a position he’s satisfied with.
It shouldn’t be that big of a deal. Itisn’tthat big of a deal, but his hands look so good. He instructs me to hit the white ball from the position it’s in, lined up next to the other balls. I hit it and his hands never leave mine.
