“I can’t believe you talked me into this, Pace.” I say.
“Chill Potter. Which color ball do you want?” Pacey says gesturing towards the felt covered counter where five golf balls and one bored, pimply faced cashier wait expectantly for my choice. Is that Kenny Reiling? Figures.
“Um...I’ll take the red one.”
“And the blue ball is mine,” Pacey says, catching my amused expression, mouth opened, poised to speak, he adds firmly “Not a word, Jo.”
“What?” I raise my eyes to his, and bat my eyelashes innocently for effect. Pacey gives me a knowing grin and grabbing our clubs, balls, and scorecard we stride out towards the first hole, arms linked.
By the fourth hole our little scorecard is fairly matched. I’m ahead by one swing. I want to win too. The competition is becoming intense. And Pacey is starting to cheat. I give him a look and he hands the scorecard over to me. Fixing it, I hand it back with a glare. “What? I failed math, remember?” Jerk.
Lifting my club, I check my swing a couple times to the side of my red ball. Staring at the hole, I wait, the fourth hole is all about timing. It’s a red barn with a tiny green door and, for some reason, windmill panes which cut off access to the door every few seconds. To either side of the door is a hole, that Pacey and I have figured out is the pit of doom. Those holes will spit our balls out into the boonies, far from the final hole. We figured that out by cheating. Pacey called it the scientific process. We walked up to the barn and threw our balls into both the holes and the door, just to see where the balls might end up. So now that I know where those holes lead, I really want to hit that little door. And Pace is doing his damnedest to make sure I don’t even get close.
“Jo, hurry it up,” he whines close to my ear, so that I feel his breath, hot against my skin. Moving closer he sneaks a hand onto my waist, right on the sliver of skin between my shirt and my jeans. Strumming his thumb against my hipbone as I take my swing, he chuckles triumphantly when my ball barely even makes it into the pits of doom. I watch the ball travel quickly through the tube and out to the boonies. I flash him an annoyed look and a quick eyeroll. He stares back, with practiced innocence.
“You did that on purpose,” I mutter accusingly.
“Did what Potter?” he says stifling a laugh. Damn him.
Two can play at that game. I move behind him as he bends over practicing his swing. I take one more step and press my hips flush against his, then I slowly bend over, leaning against his back, I bring my hands around him, resting them on his chest, where I can feel his nipples through his blue button down shirt. I rest my head against his back, in between his shoulder blades, and brush my index fingers over his nipples. He drops his club. Maybe I went too far. Too late now. “Potter,” he rasps. Pacey is breathing in short gasps and I know I should back off, but I kind of like the power I have over him. I run my hands down lower, and his stomach tenses as my fingers drag over him. I pull up his shirt a bit and reaching the waistband of his jeans I pause, playing with the elastic band of his flannel boxers, which peak out from under his jeans. Glancing down, I notice the pattern and giggle. “What?” Pacey squeaks, like he’s going through puberty all over again.
“You’re wearing them,” I spit out, still giggling. His boxers have yellow rubber duckies on them, I bought them as a gag gift for Christmas.
“Yeah,” Pacey chokes out.
“Down to monosyllabic grunts, Witter?”
“Jo,” he moans. Why is he moaning? Then I remember my hands. They’ve been roaming. Into the pockets of his jeans. I’ve been stroking his thighs through the fabric. And there’s Little Pacey. Although that may not be the most apt nickname. Okay, now I’m a little turned on. My nipples harden as I carefully move one finger to stroke Pacey. I wonder if he can feel my excitement against his back. He lets out a sharp gasp. I guess he can.
Okay, we’re standing at the Heidi Ho Mini Golf and Go Fourth Hole and I’m jacking Pacey off. He doesn’t even have a club in his hands to look like we’re still golfing. And I can’t seem to stop. Foggily, I think about what would happen if someone saw us. Wasn’t there a birthday party of ten year olds a few holes behind us? I hope they’re way over par. Maybe Pacey will stop me. Problem is he seems kind of paralyzed. All I can hear is his breathing, fast and desperate. And all I can feel is his hardness and the heat of his body against mine. My mouth’s gone dry. Wetting my lips with my tongue, I breathe against his neck a weak “Pacey.”
“Mmmmm,” he responds dazily.
“Pace.” Damn, I got too close to him and I accidentally brushed my tongue against his neck. Little Pacey’s at full salute now and definitely not little. Figures the first time I’d grope Pacey would be in a place like this. We never do things the easy way. I hear the kids in the background, their voices growing closer with every minute. Oh God. There were mothers with those kids. And Capeside is a small town. Decision time. I reach out and grasp Pacey’s shaft through his pockets, stroking him roughly four times and as he thrusts into my hands, he lets out a sound which is a cross between a moan, a gasp, and a sob. I can feel wetness through the denim.
Hearing the sound of high pitched squeals of children fast approaching, I pull my hands out of his pockets. I move around him, grab his club and shove it into his hands, pulling his shirt down over his crotch simultaneously. Then stepping away from him, I pick up my own club. I lean against a railing and attempt nonchalance.
“Pacey swing,” I instruct. I glance behind him at the gaggle of kids finally advancing on us, waiting impatiently for us to finish the hole. Pacey looks at me dumbly. Aww. My boyfriend is staring at me with slightly teary eyes, a lost, shell shocked look, and his lips parted in an “O” shape. You’d think he lost his best friend. Before I let the truth of that statement sink in, I try to get through to him again. Softly, as if to a child, I repeat, “Pacey swing.”
Still staring blearily at me he swings mechanically, just barely hitting the ball. It flies into the air hitting the edge of one of the windmill panes and bouncing into the water hazard in neighboring Hole Five. The kids laugh merrily, as mothers shush them while stifling their own giggles. Pacey finally blinks breaking our intense stare and heads unsteadily to the water to retrieve his ball. He balances perilously over the edge reaching for it and I move towards him, resting a hand on his shoulder to steady him. My touch has an opposite affect, though, as Pacey turns to stare, wide eyed, at me, loses balance and tumbles into the water. The children and their moms are now laughing uncontrollably.
Pacey stares up at me helplessly. I reach out a hand for him and as I pull him up I whisper in his ear, “See what you started. That’ll teach you to cheat.” A smile slowly curls up the sides of his mouth and he kisses me softly on the lips. Then he strides back to the hole, dripping all the way, and sets his ball down on the tee. Staring at the windmill barn intently, he waits a second and swings. I watch as the blue ball heads through the barn door and comes out the tube below and into the hole. Damn. He gives me a smug, sexy look and heads down to the boonies to watch me finish up the fourth hole.
