aggression she was throwing his way, he sensed Posy was taking this game to his body because she was carrying that load of anger he’d seen earlier. This was a place she could let it out.
Sure, he could have backed off, but the first time she put her hand on his back and tried to shove him off his dribble, the impression of her fingers felt good. He was aware of the scent of her hair and after a few minutes, of her sweat. When she took the ball out for the third time, he saw a bead of moisture at the base of her throat, right where the tendons in her neck came together in a vulnerable V. The sweat slid down her neck, headed for that lacy bra and he missed her head fake. She scored again.
It hadn’t been that long since he’d been with Fabi.
He was attracted to a woman who was playing him harder than he’d ever been played outside a professional game. And she didn’t seem overly concerned if she hurt him during the process. Of all the screwed-up things he’d been turned on by, he was turned on by playing basketball with Posy.
He shook his head when she blew past him again and then he settled down to play. Attraction or not, he wasn’t going to let her beat him that easily.
* * *
T HE FIRST TIME she bumped him, it was an accident. He was guarding her tight and she wanted to move him off the ball, but her elbow connected with his stomach more sharply than she intended. Ashamed that she’d let her frustration toward her mom bleed over onto her game, she immediately paused to apologize.
He stole the ball from her and put it in, obliterating the small lead she’d snagged with her first shot. He hadn’t even noticed that she’d hit him despite the fact that her elbow stung from the contact.
Posy almost called time-out. She’d been apologizing for being too big, too rough, too much her whole life. Over and over she’d gotten the message that she wasn’t just physically too big, she was too competitive and wanted too much. People got angry when she didn’t keep herself in check.
Wes pumped his fist and pointed at her, glee, not anger, on his face. “You done?”
She shook her head, energy humming through her. No. No, she was most definitely not done. She was just getting started.
She took the ball and when he moved in to guard her, she bumped him again, not that much harder, but deliberately this time. She leaned into his chest with her shoulder and pushed off, registering his solid strength. Again, he didn’t seem to notice. He didn’t lose a step.
Her focus slipped and she double-dribbled. He could have called her on it, but he didn’t.
He was patronizing her.
It reminded her that she was mad. He was going to win, but he was not going to hand her a freebie. When she shot, she bounced the ball off the backboard, missing on purpose and letting him get the rebound. Two could play the deliberate screwup game.
He was taking his time, dribbling with his back to her while she sweated to keep up with him. He could have skirted her and they both knew it. He was messing around, keeping things nice, the way her mom did. She wanted him to notice how hard she was working. She wanted him to get serious and compete.
This time she gave him a real shove, her hand low on his back. His skin was hot through the thin fabric of his shirt and she pushed harder than she should have, relishing the power in her body against his. Her fingers slid dangerously low over the waistband of his shorts.
He noticed that one, even though he didn’t stumble. Damn. He put the ball through his legs and spun to face her. He kept up his dribble as he studied her, the same sharp intelligence in his eyes she’d noticed before when he was grilling her about her mom. It was the moment when she should have backed off. She didn’t need him to think about her or her mom. She needed to be background, less than background, while she got her mother out of this mess. He spun again, putting his back to her, and then he backed up and looked at her
Sure, he could have backed off, but the first time she put her hand on his back and tried to shove him off his dribble, the impression of her fingers felt good. He was aware of the scent of her hair and after a few minutes, of her sweat. When she took the ball out for the third time, he saw a bead of moisture at the base of her throat, right where the tendons in her neck came together in a vulnerable V. The sweat slid down her neck, headed for that lacy bra and he missed her head fake. She scored again.
It hadn’t been that long since he’d been with Fabi.
He was attracted to a woman who was playing him harder than he’d ever been played outside a professional game. And she didn’t seem overly concerned if she hurt him during the process. Of all the screwed-up things he’d been turned on by, he was turned on by playing basketball with Posy.
He shook his head when she blew past him again and then he settled down to play. Attraction or not, he wasn’t going to let her beat him that easily.
* * *
T HE FIRST TIME she bumped him, it was an accident. He was guarding her tight and she wanted to move him off the ball, but her elbow connected with his stomach more sharply than she intended. Ashamed that she’d let her frustration toward her mom bleed over onto her game, she immediately paused to apologize.
He stole the ball from her and put it in, obliterating the small lead she’d snagged with her first shot. He hadn’t even noticed that she’d hit him despite the fact that her elbow stung from the contact.
Posy almost called time-out. She’d been apologizing for being too big, too rough, too much her whole life. Over and over she’d gotten the message that she wasn’t just physically too big, she was too competitive and wanted too much. People got angry when she didn’t keep herself in check.
Wes pumped his fist and pointed at her, glee, not anger, on his face. “You done?”
She shook her head, energy humming through her. No. No, she was most definitely not done. She was just getting started.
She took the ball and when he moved in to guard her, she bumped him again, not that much harder, but deliberately this time. She leaned into his chest with her shoulder and pushed off, registering his solid strength. Again, he didn’t seem to notice. He didn’t lose a step.
Her focus slipped and she double-dribbled. He could have called her on it, but he didn’t.
He was patronizing her.
It reminded her that she was mad. He was going to win, but he was not going to hand her a freebie. When she shot, she bounced the ball off the backboard, missing on purpose and letting him get the rebound. Two could play the deliberate screwup game.
He was taking his time, dribbling with his back to her while she sweated to keep up with him. He could have skirted her and they both knew it. He was messing around, keeping things nice, the way her mom did. She wanted him to notice how hard she was working. She wanted him to get serious and compete.
This time she gave him a real shove, her hand low on his back. His skin was hot through the thin fabric of his shirt and she pushed harder than she should have, relishing the power in her body against his. Her fingers slid dangerously low over the waistband of his shorts.
He noticed that one, even though he didn’t stumble. Damn. He put the ball through his legs and spun to face her. He kept up his dribble as he studied her, the same sharp intelligence in his eyes she’d noticed before when he was grilling her about her mom. It was the moment when she should have backed off. She didn’t need him to think about her or her mom. She needed to be background, less than background, while she got her mother out of this mess. He spun again, putting his back to her, and then he backed up and looked at her
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