His entire face hardened. “I should’ve hit him.”

“Then why didn’t you?”

“Because I’m not a child!” he bellowed. “I’m an adult who picks his battles. I don’t just run off, half-cocked, no matter how much I wanted to see him bloody for even getting near you.”

“Too bad,” I taunted, a slight smile on my lips. “If you had, I’d be in here on my knees, sucking your dick right now instead of thinking about his.”

His eyes flared, and he bared his teeth. Grabbing me by the jaw in one hand and hovering his lips just over mine, he slowly swung me around and slammed my ass against the desk, the small tray of file folders on the corner spilling to the floor.

My blood raced. Yes.

I hopped up, planted my ass on the desk, and wrapped my hungry legs around his waist as he moved his hand to the back of my neck and came down on me, his lips hot and strong.

I whimpered, his tongue sending thrills down my body, spiraling in my stomach, and throbbing between my legs.

His hands were everywhere, underneath my dress, inside my panties, and gripping my ass.

“Tyler,” I groaned, nibbling and kissing his lips.

“You drive me crazy,” he breathed out, sounding angry as he sucked and bit my lip.

One of his hands left my ass and shifted to grip my breast through the dress. The other moved to my hair, holding my head back by the scalp.

He ripped his mouth away from mine, and I whimpered at the sting.

He glared down, tightening his hold on my breast. “Tonight you will be on your knees,” he whispered, kissing me, “and I’m going to like the sound of you shutting up. Now, get out there and make me jealous.” He pulled away, grabbing my upper arm and yanking me off the desktop. “It’ll make your punishment more fun.”

He walked around his desk, and I tightened the muscles in my legs to keep them from shaking. The fierce heat between my thighs ached, and I winced with the discomfort.

But I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of knowing how worked up he’d gotten me. I could get what he gave me anywhere. At least that’s what I’d lead him to believe.

Standing tall, I pivoted on my heel and walked for the door.

“And, Easton?” I heard him call.

I spun around to see him eyeing me with the phone to his ear as he made a call.

“Louisiana has had three female senators throughout history, not one,” he said with a cocked eyebrow before looking away and dismissing me.

I let the corners of my mouth turn up before I walked out.

He might just have my vote, after all.

“All right.” I held the racket in my right hand and the yellow tennis ball in my left. “Stand between the center mark and the sideline, and you have to serve into the opposite service court,” I instructed Christian. “You can hit the lines, but if the ball shoots outside of those boundaries, you’ve lost that point.”

He nodded, the same little scowl on his face that his father often wore. It was funny, because I think that look intimidated most people. It looked like he was angry, but it was just the look of him paying attention. I’d been getting it more and more in class lately.

Most of Christian’s friends had already left the party, only a few still sticking around because their parents were still here. When I’d inquired about his tennis court, he’d said it had come with the house when his father bought it years ago. But to his knowledge, it was never used.

Still, it appeared well kept, though the net could be changed. It was stained from the heavy rains over the years and frayed.

I tossed the ball into the air above my head and swung the racket from behind, the dull popping sound of impact sending shivers up my arms. The ball flew over to the other side and landed in the other service court, bouncing several times before it finally came to rest against the fence.

“And then is it the other person’s turn to serve?” he asked, his hands in his pockets.

I handed him the racket and walked over to the side in my bare feet, grabbing a new can of balls he’d brought out.

“No. You serve the whole game,” I called back, looking over to the garden and seeing more guests begin to leave.

“The whole game?” he blurted out, sounding daunted.

I tried not to laugh. “Not the whole match,” I pointed out, emphasizing the different vocabulary. “Just that game. Men’s singles generally have two sets per match, a third if needed.”

I peeled off the lid from the can and popped the sealed top, instantly dipping my nose in and smelling the new-ball scent. It reminded me of summers and sweat, Gatorades and sore muscles.

“Do you play any sports at school?” I asked him.

He reached his arm up, dipping his racket behind his head and throwing a practice swing.

“Yeah,” he breathed out. “I play soccer, but…”

“But what?”

He shrugged. “I don’t know. I just get… pressured, I guess,” he confided, attempting more practice swings. “I don’t think I’m very good. The other team or everyone watching sometimes gets in my head, and it’s all I’m thinking about.”

I smiled to myself, knowing exactly what he was talking about. It was very common for athletes to feel the crowd’s expectations, and winning was as much mental as it was physical.

“Do you know what I realized when I played tennis?” I asked him. “I realized that you’re playing a part in a way. When you put on that uniform or grab that ball, you sometimes have to become someone else to play the game. Braver, harder, tougher… When you’re in a competitive situation, you’re you times ten.”