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It was something that the smile he got for saying that was almost as good as the kiss he craved but held back from taking.
It wasn’t until the following night at Pinstripes, when she got her fourth strike in a row, that it felt like he’d been had by the coupon caper.
“And that’s what you call a clover,” she said, taking a low bow like a courtier with a leg extended in front and then waltzing back off the pin deck to the lounge.
Two of her four strikes were flushes, where all the pins fell in the pit. “Luck of the Irish, Dalgetty.”
Not that Clan O’Connell was getting any. He fouled twice, stepping over the line and bowled more gutters than he wanted to count.
On his next turn, he took his ball, eyed the pins, stepped forward, crouched short of the line and bowled. Snake eyes. Bedposts. All of the pins down except the seven and the ten, standing at opposite sides of the frame. “Goddamn.” She won another game.
In the next, she bowled a cock and balls, leaving the one, five, eight and nine standing. And he bowled a spiller where the pins toppled in slow motion. And since when did bowling terms get so suggestive?
Squeeze, stroke, slick, slot, splasher, tickler, yank the shot.
Next up she got a love tap to knock down all but the two and eight to leave her with a double wood. He loved watching her address the ball, all her energy concentrated but loose and free so her shots had power and accuracy. And her ass looked incredible in her jeans.
His next shot was a ridiculous accidental hook that miraculously took out seven pins but knocked one out of reach of the sweeper.
“Dead wood,” she said, sliding over the bench to rest flush against him as he sat. They had to wait for someone to come and rescue that wayward pin. “You’re babying the ball and I don’t want to see you end the night as my sacrificial lamb.”
He shot her a look. He was holding back. Reluctant to put as much power into his swing as he could, lofting the ball too far down the lane, bowling creepers and powder puffs. And he was the less skilled player pitted against the equivalent of a kingpin. It said everything about his relationship with Flick.
“You could be a power stroker,” she said.
She’d gotten a sweat up and it’d made her flowery perfume get in his nose. He’d like to take her home and practice his tickler on her. “Remind me what that is.” He couldn’t remember what a tickler was either, but maybe she wouldn’t mind if he was tickling the parts of her that made them both feel good.
“A power stroker is a cross between a cranker and a stroker.”
He groaned and curled forward to rest his elbows on his knees and his face in his hands. “Dear Lord, stop saying those words while you’re sitting so close, right after you wagged that spectacular ass at me in those poured-on pants.”
She trailed a hand down his back. “Why? It’s a dead wood, we have to wait.”
Not from his perspective. Nothing dead in the wood department and no need to wait.
“A stroker is someone who has a smooth delivery and great timing, almost no hook, and a cranker is someone who has a great controlled hook and a powerful thrust.”
“Please stop.” Or he might be forced to powerfully thrust her into the nearest semiprivate place he could find. He sat around and eyed her. “This coupon arrangement. What if I want something off-coupon?”
“You mean not part of the daily deal?”
“I mean power-stroking you with all the cranking and tickling and hard wood you can handle.”
Her brows came down, her lips rolled inward. Fuck. He’d bowled another gutter, shut out. She brought her face close and said, “Your bed or mine?”
They barely made it to a bed. She asked for what she wanted in bowling terms and he didn’t deliver any powder puffs, held the line and fucked her into the bedposts, and both of them finished high on the clover.
When she got her breath back she said, “What’s on for tomorrow?”
“Are you up for a hike?” He figured going Saturday gave her Sunday to recover.
“As long as you don’t have me climbing mountains and I don’t need special gear.”
“It’s just a long walk in the forest. No winners or losers and I’m not looking for payback after you bowled me into submission.” He’d take her to Ryerson Woods, only an hour out of the city. An easy loop trail through pristine forests of maple, hickory, ash and oak trees, on the fringe of the Des Plaines River.
“Nothing submissive about you.”
“But I could do with embracing my inner power stroker.”
