“I need to get to the sink,” I tell him, holding the knife up in the air in a threatening way.
He eyes it playfully, cocking his head to the side. “What do you plan on doing with that? Stabbing me?”
I shrug and smile. “Maybe. If you don’t move.”
“Fine,” he grunts and pushes off the counter.
Keeping his hand on my waist, he spins himself around me, his free hand closing around my other hip, positioning himself fully behind me as I lean over to the sink. A shiver runs up myspine as his bare chest grazes my back, my ass flat against his front. My hips sway in the slightest, and I suck in a gasp at the contact of his hardening dick.
I think I might actually combust.
“Are you going to pretend like you don’t see me all night, like you did at dinner?” His voice is rough and deep.
I shrug and drop the knife into the sink. “I don’t know. I haven’t decided yet.”
He clicks his tongue.Tsk. Tsk. Tsk.
“Mase!” someone shouts from outside. “Hurry up! I need a teammate!”
They set cornhole up and started a tournament—because, of course, they can’t just casually play. It has to be a competition. Mix alcohol and bets into it, and it’s a whole other level of intense.
“You’d better get going,” I murmur teasingly, my stare glued to the way his hands are wrapped around my waist, his fingers digging in ever so slightly as I struggle to catch my breath.
His exhale hits my hair, and I jump back into him. A cocky chuckle vibrates from his lips to the shell of my ear.
“I’m right where I want to be.”
The urge to grind my ass into him is taking over my thoughts, even more so at his confession. Am I affecting him as much as he’s affecting me? I know that if I pushed back into him, I could have him melting in the palm of my hand.
“I think your teammate might not appreciate that,” I murmur.
He presses his lips against my ear. “Maybe I want you to be my teammate.” His big fingers trail up the bare skin of my side.
I wince. “I can’t though.”
He gasps, acting hurt as his hand digs into my hip. “Why’s that?”
My lips tip up in a smirk as I stifle my laugh. This is going to drive him crazy, and I want to see his reaction.
I spin around, and he steps back, giving me just enough room to breathe.
I pat his chest and step partially out of his grasp. “Because I’m on Ross’s team.”
His jaw unhinges with disgust. “There’s no way you agreed to be on his team.”
Shrugging, I fully pull away from him and head to the back door. “Guess you’ll have to find out.”
He takes off after me, and I pick up pace, racing to the back door as his feet pound on the hardwood behind me, catching up fast. I slip through the door right before he reaches me.
Ross’s eyes land on me. “There you are! Come on. We’re up.”
His face lights up as he walks over to the far cornhole board, the one I’ll be aiming for with my beanbags.
Two-player teams. Two cornhole—or beanbag—boards set twenty-seven feet apart. And four bags for each team to throw. We’re red. And our opponents are Mason and Brock, tossing blue bags.
Ross tries to ease any nerves I might have. “Just try your best. No pressure!”
“Okay!” I say thankfully, although I won’t need it.
