That won her a cynical smile. She waited for his refusal, but after a long pause he said, “You’re on.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Pinball was a much better activity than darts.
Such was the position of the machine in the passageway between the bar’s two rooms that May had to squeeze herself into the narrow space between the wall and one side of the game to spectate. But that was fine, because she had a prime view.
She leaned against the wall, beer in each hand, and shamelessly ogled Ben.
They’d decided on a best-two-out-of-three tournament, and she’d played first and lasted five minutes. He’d been playing for half an hour.
He worked the game the same way he did everything—intensely. Physically. He put his whole body into it, bracing his hands on the glass, rocking back and forth on the balls of his feet.
She’d finished her own beer a long time ago. Now she was drinking his, which he’d given her to hold, and she was getting a nice buzz in her head from the alcohol and an even nicer buzz all over her body from the sheer visual pleasure of watching him shoulder into a play, biting his lip as he concentrated on handling two balls at the same time.
Was this as dirty as she seemed to be finding it?
Ben grunted and bumped the machine hard with his hip. He hit some kind of fancy bonus something-or-other. All the lights started flashing, bathing his face in blue and white. May just kind of glazed over.
She was going to sleep with him tonight.
“How’d you get so good at this?”
“There was a pinball machine at this dive bar near the apartment my mom rented in Ashland. I used to go play a lot after my parents split up.”
“So these are vintage pinball skills?” She leaned closer to watch the ball swoop up a ramp, around the curve, lighting a path as it rolled. She’d never thought of pinball as particularly pretty, but this Tron machine was beautiful.
“I play with Connor sometimes, too,” he said. “Especially in the past year or so.”
“Pinball is your refuge from divorce.”
“I guess.”
“Better than strong spirits and cheaper than hookers.”
He flicked her a glance without lifting his head. She watched the smile spread over his face, slowly cracking his solemnity. “Did you drink my beer?”
“I might have.”
“You gonna go get me another round?”
“I can. But it’s possible that I’ll drink that one, too.”
“My wallet’s in my back pocket.”
She could have plucked his wallet out with two fingers, but where was the fun in that? It wasn’t every day you had a good-looking guy bent over a pinball machine, vulnerable to your advances. She patted both pockets as though she wasn’t sure where to find his wallet, then dipped her whole hand in to retrieve it. She might have groped him a little.
“You want the same thing again?”
“Yeah. I barely got to taste it last time.”
“You got it, sailor.”
He was still playing when she returned. She didn’t have a free hand to give his wallet back, so she left it in her own pocket.
“You want me to give you a sip of your beer?” she asked. “I can hold it in front of your mouth and tip it. I worked in a nursing home in high school, so I have excellent invalid-feeding skills.”
“That’s sexy, but I’ll get a drink after this ball’s over.”
“You said that last time.”
“If you drink both those beers, I’ll have to carry you home.” He rocked forward and made a terrible face at the machine, but his attempt to move the ball with the force of his emotional intensity must not have worked, because he said, “Fuck!”
Two seconds later, he straightened and reached for his glass. “You’re distracting.”
“Don’t blame that on me. That slow flipper action was all you.”
“You shouldn’t insult a man’s flipper action.” He brought the beer to his mouth and took a long, deep drink. When he gave it back to her, he had foam on his upper lip. She watched him lick it off. “It’s sacred.”
“You think everything is sacred. Even your hobbies are life-and-death.”
“What hobbies?” He handed her the beer and pulled back the plunger, compressing the spring tighter, tighter, until he deemed the amount of coiled force just right and released it.
Slam. The ball rocketed up the machine and shot into play.
Tension, force, impact, release—every loose ball was its own miniature orgasm.
And Ben’s really good at it.
Her full-body hum got a little louder.
“You’re kicking my ass,” she said.
“Yeah, but you make a good groupie.”