Page 39 of The Sweet Spot

Why on earth did I think letting JB touch me—eat me, no less—would make me stop thinking about him?

If anything, it’s made it worse. He’s everywhere, and it doesn’t help that he’s right in front of me laughing with Max, completely unaware of my spiraling thoughts.

The worst part?

I skipped the post-hookup shower because I wasn’t sure if showering would invalidate JB’s luck.

JB is standing to the side, doing his own stretches. He’s matching me in a simple blue golf shirt with a small catfish logo on one side of his chest. His very broad, muscular chest. Thoughts of pulling his shirt off come to mind. Actually, now that I think about it, I haven't seen his nipples. He's always been fully dressed through everything we've done. It's always been about me.

Why is that kind of hot?

JB mimes a swing, which is completely wrong, and Max steps up and taps JB’s hips with his seven iron. JB immediately takes his advice, and I find myself smiling unwittingly. It’s obvious they’re close friends, and I like that for him.

JB sets up a practice swing, and I find myself watching him. His back is square, but the only thing I can focus on is his incredible ass. I swear I can see the muscles moving from here.

How many squats does a man have to do to look like that? It's screaming years of deliberate, disciplined, deeply effective—

“How quickly do you think those cheeks could crack a walnut?”

I jump when Jess appears next to me, enjoying the same view as I am.

“How long have you been standing there?”

“Long enough to know you’re doing more than just admiring JB’s swing.”

She takes a sip of her coffee to hide the smirk on her face.

“I’m assessing his setup,” I say, but even I don’t believe it.

“It’s better than yesterday, don’t you think?”

“Yup.” Reluctantly, I pull my gaze away from my golf partner and walk around Jess to get to my clubs.

She turns, following me. “His ass is great too.”

“Is it? I haven’t been looking.”

She snorts. “Liar.”

I study my four iron, dusting off invisible dirt, not wanting to meet my friend’s gaze. She already knows she’s right. There’s no need for me to confirm it.

“Makes you wonder what it’s like when all that muscle is actually applied to a task. Imagine the force of that when he’s—”

“Stop.”

“Thrusting into you.”

I shiver.

I’ve already imagined it... Dreamed about it... Felt the force of his fingers...

How the hell am I supposed to concentrate on this game when all I can think about is him?

“You remember that time you got drunk after winning your first championship?”

“No?”

“Really? I remember it well. You said the only thing that would make the win better was finding someone at the bar for a throw down.”