A Secret for a Secret (All In #3)(25)

“Uh, Kingston, are those people throwing axes?”

“They sure are.” He settles a palm on my hip and pulls me into his side.

I don’t understand the sudden touchy-feely business until some bearded hipster dude with a tattoo sleeve approaches us. “Kingston! I’m glad you made it!” His eyes flare just a touch when he notices me. “And you brought a friend, I see.”

“Ronan, this is Queenie. Queenie, this is Ronan. He runs this place.”

Ronan laughs. “King and Queenie? That’s epic.”

“We’re just friends,” I explain.

Kingston’s fingers flex on my waist. “I’ll take a half pint of the house lager. Queenie, what would you like?”

“Whoa, wait a second. He’ll have a pint of milk, and I’ll have a root beer.” I poke Kingston in the chest. “Alcohol and ax throwing do not go together.”

“Just friends, huh?” Ronan snickers. “Stall four is reserved for you. Boot up and you’re good to go.” Ronan saunters off.

“Ax throwing?”

“It’s fun.”

I take his face between my palms and turn his head from side to side. “Who are you, and what have you done with my Boy Scout?”

Kingston bends down, face inches from mine. “I am your Boy Scout, Queenie. Just because I wear polos and khakis and drink milk instead of beer most of the time doesn’t mean I don’t know how to have fun.”

“I’m fully aware of your ability to have fun,” I whisper—or moan; I’m not sure which is more likely, all considered.

Kingston’s gaze darkens, and he strokes a finger gently from my temple to my chin. “Don’t bait me, Queenie. Guilt is not an emotion I enjoy experiencing.” He steps back but then links his pinkie with mine and tugs me toward the ax-throwing stalls.

I can totally handle myself in this situation. Kingston is just a guy throwing an ax.

Except he’s not just a guy throwing an ax. He’s the milk-drinking, door-opening, extra-polite Boy Scout friend who is all of a sudden grabbing pairs of steel-toed boots. “What size are your feet?” he asks.

“Five.” It comes out all breathy.

He glances down and nudges my toe with his. “Really? Wow, you have tiny feet.”

He hands me a pair of hot-pink boots, and I drop down on the bench.

Instead of sitting down beside me, Kingston pulls up one of the short stools and positions himself in front of me. And then he proceeds to remove my heels and tuck my feet into the pair of pink-and-black work boots.

My lady parts are ridiculously excited about the physical contact. Especially when his long, warm, thick fingers wrap around the back of my calf. It should be completely innocuous, but it feels like it’s not. Because of the look on his face, and the way his touch affects my entire body. I’m lucky that Kingston is such a rule follower and won’t be the one to break the platonic rule.

I convince myself I need to make it through the next hour, and everything will be fine.

Until he pulls his polo over his head.

And hangs it carefully over the bench.

He’s not shirtless. It’s Kingston. The only time he’s shirtless is when he’s ready to get down and dirty.

So, so politely dirty.

Instead he’s wearing a thin white tee. The kind where I can see the outline of his abs, and his tiny little man nipples. Which I’ve touched . . . with more than my fingers. I would like to be able to make sound, well-thought-out decisions right now, but the white shirt, the transparency, and the damn axes make it tough.

I can’t decide if this is the best thing ever or a form of torture. Or both.

Because I’ve never thrown an ax before, Kingston gives me a lesson. I’d like to say I listen raptly to what he’s saying, but that would be untrue. Mostly I keep trying to swallow down the drool pooling in my mouth, which is probably matched by another part of my body that’s making my panties damp with excitement.

The muscles in his back and arms flex as he takes aim and then releases the ax, hitting the bull’s-eye on the first try. He wears the sexiest, most self-satisfied grin as he saunters over to our table, takes a swig of milk, and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.

“Your turn.” He hands me a much lighter and smaller ax.

I try to mimic his stance, but my lack of attention to detail must show.

“Hold on. Let me help.” He moves in to stand behind me and nudges my feet farther apart with the toe of his boot. The entire front of his body presses against the back of mine, and his arms encircle me. “Keep your arms straight and bend at the elbow.” I follow his instructions as he makes minute adjustments to my stance, shifting my hips so I’m facing the target straight on. “That’s it, good girl. Bend your knees a little.”

I do, which means my butt pushes against him, and we both still.

“Kingston?” It comes out way breathy.

“Yes?”

“I can feel you poking me in the back. It’s not very platonic of you.”

He chuckles. “Some parts of me are less considerate than others.”

“I have a deep appreciation for your inconsiderate parts.” And now it sounds like I’m on the verge of an orgasm.

Kingston exhales a long, slow breath, squeezes my hip, and steps back, severing the connection. My first attempt is crap, and I barely hit the board, but my next shot is better. We alternate back and forth, and the touchiness ramps up to nearly intolerable levels.