Jock Row (Jock Hard #1)(45)

“See you in a minute.” I nearly choke on my words.

In the hallway, next to her door, I pull at my jeans, adjusting the denim around my boner.


Scarlett

I thought he was going to kiss me.

When Rowdy backs out of my bedroom, the door closing safely behind him, I shudder a breath because holy shit, the look he was giving me could have melted glass.

I thought he was going to kiss me.

Why didn’t he?

It was intense, as if he’s never actually seen me before. His eyes seemed to be soaking in every line of my face, erotically roaming my reflection in the mirror.

Undressing me with his eyes as his fingers worked the clasp and zipper of my dress.

My breasts ache at the thought, and I press my hands against them to ease the throbbing. They’re heavy, nipples puckered with want.

He wanted to slide his big bear paws into the back of my dress—I could read it in his expression as he unzipped my dress.

So that’s what eye-fucking looks like.

Sterling was eye-fucking me with everything he had, with no shame, and I could see him warring with himself, not wanting to be untoward.

That’s one of the many things I admire about him—his level of self-control.

Sterling.

Sterling, standing behind me with his nostrils flaring…

The hard syllables of his name have the power to melt my panties.

Or they would, if I were wearing any.

I wish I could have recorded the look on his face the moment his sharp green eyes locked on the spot he expected my undergarments to appear. Wide-eyed disbelief.

No bra. No panties.

That’s right, Rowdy Wade—I’m naked under this dress.

The palm of my right hand covers the frantically beating heart inside my chest, and I lift my eyes to the mirror. Push the straps of my dress down my shoulders, shrugging all the way out of it.

Let it glide to the floor.

Bend to scoop it up.

Stand buck naked as the day I was born. Turn this way and that, studying myself. My skin. Hair.

I touch the tip of my left breast as I watch, circling the stiff nipple.

Do I look different? Maybe.

Do I feel different? Yes.

Don’t get carried away, Scarlett—he’s waiting in your living room. He wants you. I acknowledge the fact to my reflection. He likes you.

I remember myself—drop my hand, yank open a dresser drawer, and root around for underwear. Shimmy into a pair of silky black boy shorts. Gray tank top. Black leggings.

Leave my hair down.

Keep my makeup on.

Tousle my hair in the mirror, leaning in, examining my face.

Pull the skin down under my eyes and groan.

“There. That ought to drive him a little bit crazy,” I tell the girl in the mirror, hoping she’s wise enough to listen. Look her straight in the eye and demand, “You are going to march out there and not chicken out. Do you hear me? No chickening out,” I hiss at myself. “He is just a boy.”

Satisfied, I give myself a stern nod, smoothing my hands down the front of my tank top. Over the set of boobs Rowdy Wade is so obviously preoccupied with.

Normally I’d be embarrassed by the obvious outline of my nipples…

But not tonight.

***

“This is for you.” Rowdy hands me a plastic beer cup.

I raise it, peering at the wine inside. “Wow, you really pulled out all the stops.”

“I didn’t want to rummage around in your cabinets for wine glasses, felt weird digging through your shit.” His knee bounces a few times before he stills it with the palm of his hand and rests it on his massive thigh.

“This is fine. It’s not like we’re about to embark on a classy evening. We’re about to play a drinking game.”

I take a sip from my cup out of habit, because it’s in my hand and still cold, and my nerves are dragging me all over the place.

“No starting early,” Rowdy chastises. “You have to save that!”

I shuffle to the couch, crossing in front of him, noticing those green eyes of his trailing along after me the entire way, tracking my movements.

I shiver.

Settle on the couch left of center.

“Never have I ever been handcuffed.” He wastes no time initiating the start of the game, masculine brows waggling. “For any reason.”

Heart already racing, I raise a brow, surprised he’s diving right in with the risqué topics. We haven’t traveled down this path yet, but it looks like tonight’s the night.

Neither of us takes a sip, but I’m convinced he’s lying.

“You mean to tell me you’ve never been handcuffed, even to a bed? Why do I find that hard to believe?” Impossible, as a matter of fact.

His right shoulder rises. “I don’t fancy being tied to a bedpost—I have trust issues.”

“Oh! You don’t fancy being tied up? What’s the worst thing that could happen?”

“Someone could leave me there with my nuts and bolts just sitting there blowing in the wind, all vulnerable and shit. No thanks, not into it.”

His voice is a deep and humor-filled vibration, and Jesus, now I’m visualizing him naked, silk ties wrapped around his wrists, legs spread, and—

“Seriously, Scarlett, give me some credit? It’s been five weeks—I can read your mind by now.”