Read Online Out of Bounds by Ellen Hartman - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Ellen Hartman
Ads: Link
over his shoulder as he slowed his dribble. Was he daring her to do it again?
Posy moved closer, drawn in against her will by his taunt. He picked up speed, but she stayed with him. She put one hand on his left shoulder and used the other to grab a handful of shirt near his hip. With a powerful twist, he pulled away and then dribbled past her, but not before she registered his biceps and the muscles in his waist flexing against her fingers.
He scored.
She didn’t care. The focus of the game had changed. All she wanted was another opportunity to touch him. Playing this game with Wes, she wasn’t an overgrown, overaggressive freak of nature. He was bigger and stronger and he could take everything she had to give. He didn’t just take it, he asked for it. He wanted it. Wanted it all.
* * *
S HE WAS PLAYING DIRTY . E very time she connected with him, an elbow to the side, her foot on the instep of his shoe, her hand on his hip, he felt another jolt of adrenaline.
His skin was alive with electricity, anticipating her touch, and then jumping when it came. He was so turned on, it was hard to concentrate on the game, but when his focus slipped, she took advantage.
She kept upping the ante, hitting harder, holding more blatantly, almost as if she was daring him to stop her. But he didn’t want to stop her.
He wasn’t sure exactly what was going on, but he knew he wasn’t dominating her. It was as if he was absorbing her strength.
She was losing and he thought about pulling back and letting her win, but she didn’t want a pass. His brother used to do that to him when he was little. He wouldn’t insult Posy that way. He took a shot, jumping up and over her, but he missed, and not on purpose. He knocked down the rebound, but couldn’t control it, and the ball careened away. She touched it, but missed and then dived as it headed out of bounds. She batted at the ball, driving it over her shoulder and directly into his nose. The ball bounced off his face and off the court, landing near her bag under the picnic table.
“Holy—” He clapped his hand over his face as blood dripped onto the toe of his shoe. “Out on me,” he muttered. “I fully intend to finish kicking your butt as soon as I can staunch the bleeding.”
He sat on the asphalt and pulled the neck of his shirt up to press against his nose. Sweat trickled down his back and dried on his legs, the chill reminding him that it was still early spring. Good. He needed to cool down.
She was quiet and he didn’t know what to expect when he finally looked up. The Posy from the meeting—contained, cool and businesslike? Or the bold, antagonistic...sizzling woman he’d just been sweating with on the court.
He thought the blood might have stopped, so he risked tilting his head up. She had one hand over her mouth and he could swear he saw tears in her eyes.
Damn it. His face was hurt. Posy wasn’t allowed to cry. Absolutely not.
“You arrange this kind of orientation for all the new Kirklanders?” he asked.
She didn’t respond. She was so still, but tense and poised away as if she was about to bolt.
He patted the ground next to him. “Sit. It’s making my neck hurt to look up at you.” Deacon would kill him if he reactivated the concussion from the accident.
She sank onto the macadam near him, but not close. She bent her knees with her elbows propped across them. “I’m sorry,” she said simply.
He touched his nose to confirm that the blood had stopped. It hadn’t been much of a nosebleed in the end. A few spatters on the neck of his shirt. He lifted the hem and wiped it across his hand to get the blood off his fingers.
“Sorry,” he repeated. He hoped she wasn’t one of those people who got sick at the sight of blood.
“You’re ruining your shirt.”
“If I were an old guy, I’d have a handkerchief.” He shrugged. “Guys my age have to use what we can find.”
“But—”
“Damage is done.” He dragged his shirt off over his head
Posy moved closer, drawn in against her will by his taunt. He picked up speed, but she stayed with him. She put one hand on his left shoulder and used the other to grab a handful of shirt near his hip. With a powerful twist, he pulled away and then dribbled past her, but not before she registered his biceps and the muscles in his waist flexing against her fingers.
He scored.
She didn’t care. The focus of the game had changed. All she wanted was another opportunity to touch him. Playing this game with Wes, she wasn’t an overgrown, overaggressive freak of nature. He was bigger and stronger and he could take everything she had to give. He didn’t just take it, he asked for it. He wanted it. Wanted it all.
* * *
S HE WAS PLAYING DIRTY . E very time she connected with him, an elbow to the side, her foot on the instep of his shoe, her hand on his hip, he felt another jolt of adrenaline.
His skin was alive with electricity, anticipating her touch, and then jumping when it came. He was so turned on, it was hard to concentrate on the game, but when his focus slipped, she took advantage.
She kept upping the ante, hitting harder, holding more blatantly, almost as if she was daring him to stop her. But he didn’t want to stop her.
He wasn’t sure exactly what was going on, but he knew he wasn’t dominating her. It was as if he was absorbing her strength.
She was losing and he thought about pulling back and letting her win, but she didn’t want a pass. His brother used to do that to him when he was little. He wouldn’t insult Posy that way. He took a shot, jumping up and over her, but he missed, and not on purpose. He knocked down the rebound, but couldn’t control it, and the ball careened away. She touched it, but missed and then dived as it headed out of bounds. She batted at the ball, driving it over her shoulder and directly into his nose. The ball bounced off his face and off the court, landing near her bag under the picnic table.
“Holy—” He clapped his hand over his face as blood dripped onto the toe of his shoe. “Out on me,” he muttered. “I fully intend to finish kicking your butt as soon as I can staunch the bleeding.”
He sat on the asphalt and pulled the neck of his shirt up to press against his nose. Sweat trickled down his back and dried on his legs, the chill reminding him that it was still early spring. Good. He needed to cool down.
She was quiet and he didn’t know what to expect when he finally looked up. The Posy from the meeting—contained, cool and businesslike? Or the bold, antagonistic...sizzling woman he’d just been sweating with on the court.
He thought the blood might have stopped, so he risked tilting his head up. She had one hand over her mouth and he could swear he saw tears in her eyes.
Damn it. His face was hurt. Posy wasn’t allowed to cry. Absolutely not.
“You arrange this kind of orientation for all the new Kirklanders?” he asked.
She didn’t respond. She was so still, but tense and poised away as if she was about to bolt.
He patted the ground next to him. “Sit. It’s making my neck hurt to look up at you.” Deacon would kill him if he reactivated the concussion from the accident.
She sank onto the macadam near him, but not close. She bent her knees with her elbows propped across them. “I’m sorry,” she said simply.
He touched his nose to confirm that the blood had stopped. It hadn’t been much of a nosebleed in the end. A few spatters on the neck of his shirt. He lifted the hem and wiped it across his hand to get the blood off his fingers.
“Sorry,” he repeated. He hoped she wasn’t one of those people who got sick at the sight of blood.
“You’re ruining your shirt.”
“If I were an old guy, I’d have a handkerchief.” He shrugged. “Guys my age have to use what we can find.”
“But—”
“Damage is done.” He dragged his shirt off over his head
Similar Books
