A pro bowler, some naked bowling, and an upcoming tournament set the stage for this hot and steamy romantic encounter. Lots of strikes on every lane await!
NOTE: This story appears in Rob Rosen's best-selling collection, Short Spurts.
I crouched down and found his favorite pair, size thirteen. Guy had big-ass feet. “Here you go, Pete. Lane twelve. All yours.” Lane twelve was reserved for the pros. Bowling association paid the dues. “Big tournament coming up, huh?”
He grabbed for the shoes and nodded. “One week away. High stakes. Top three compete in Maui.”
I grinned. “Good luck. And aloha.”
He turned, hollering over his shoulder, “Mahalo, dude.”
I watched him saunter away, staring at his perfect little ass, encased in tight rayon shorts, bulging calves flexing with each stride. I pushed down on my burgeoning stiffie and willed myself back to work. Thankfully, I only had two more hours left to go.
Tick, tock, place slowly emptied out, shoes returned, sanitized, reshelved. I cleaned up in between, so all I’d have to do at the end of the night was close out the register. When ten o’clock rolled around, place was empty. Almost. “Closing up, Pete,” I hollered.
He turned my way and grimaced. “Fifteen more minutes, Matt?”
I shrugged. “Suit yourself. I have to balance out the receipts anyway. One thing, though: the air conditioner is on a timer. Goes off promptly at ten. Place is gonna get awfully hot, awfully fast.”
He nodded and went back to his game. “No prob. Fifteen more minutes is all I need.”
Again, I shrugged, heading to the back office to finish up my work. When I returned, he was still at it, only shirtless now. I gulped and headed over to his lane. He had a determined look on his face, purple bowling ball held up high, muscles taut, sweat trickling through the dense matting of fur that covered his defined chest, his etched belly. Like a graceful dancer, his body moved, twisting, turning in perfect precision, the ball released like greased lightning, slamming down the lane and crashing into the pins. Eight down. I frowned. “Not your night, Pete?”
He jumped, wiping the sweat off his brow. “Not even close. And this place is fucking hot as hell.”
“Told you so,” I said, forcing my eyes forward, despite their wanton desire to run up and down his unexpectedly exposed torso.
He chuckled, turning my way, the ball rumbling back, popping into view a split second later. “You play, Matt?”
The question took me off guard. Then I realized what he meant. “Yup. League champion a couple of years back. Not up to your level, though.”
He smiled, perfect pearly whites gleaming. “Feel like a game?” he asked.
Truth be told, I could think of worse things than hanging out with a handsome, shirtless pro bowler, alone. Besides, I’d never played anyone as good as him before. It was an added bonus. “Sure, why not? If we don’t incinerate before the last frame.”
He chuckled, the sound like pebbles tossed at the shoreline, sending a jolt of adrenalin up my spine. “It’s cooler with your shirt off.”
Fuck, alone and shirtless? Was he kidding me? Still, when in Rome. In other words, I unbuttoned my vintage fifties wear and tossed it on a nearby chair. He gave me the once over and nodded. I forced a crooked grin, a nervous tic lifting my eyebrow. “Yep, much better,” I managed, trying to keep my voice even. Still, it was hot as an oven in there, sweat already streaming down my back.
And so, we bowled, my eyes glued to him when he was up, his back tight with muscle, calves heavy with them, too, a tuft of fuzz above the waistband of his shorts, a thick patch of underarm hair visible every time he let the ball loose from his grip. Enough to make Adonis jealous. Meaning, my game was not what it was usually cracked up to be, seeing as how I had my mind on other things, namely the bulge in the front of his ultra-tight shorts.
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