Jock Row (Jock Hard #1)(47)

“Agreed.”

“Good, because I want to get to know you better.” I bite down on my lower lip, concentrating. “Never have I ever…hmmm., let’s see. Never have I ever cheated?”

Rowdy tilts his head. “Didn’t you already ask me that once?”

“That’s right—you cheated on your road test by flirting with the guy at the DMV.”

We regard each other from across the couch and he raises a brow.

“How about rephrasing the question?” he asks slowly.

I let out a breath. “Never have I ever cheated on a significant other.”

There, I said it, the question I’ve been curious about but too damn afraid to ask. Is he faithful? Or is he a cheating, piece of shit, jock stereotype?

“Oh, well that one is easy.” He grins. “No.”

“Are you being honest?”

His brows furrow. “Why would I lie?”

“I just—you’re surrounded by girls, I just thought maybe—”

He cuts me off. “If you had asked if I’ve cheated at baseball or in class, then yes, I would have had to take a drink.”

“Is that a fact?”

“Yup. I used to cheat all the time when I was a kid, especially in middle school—I sucked at math so damn bad.”

“Yeah, I could see you sucking.” My face gets hot. “At math, I mean, not sucking on—at! Not sucking at other things. I can see you, uh, sucking at math.”

Stop saying suck—what the hell is wrong with you?

He clears his throat, glancing away, inspecting his fingernails with a smile. “Never have I ever sexted.”

My head rears back at that one, surprised he’s dropping a sext bomb. “What do you suppose the answer to that is?” I’d really like to know what he thinks of me.

He stares at my red plastic cup. “You? No way.”

“I get no street cred around here.” I laugh, chugging.

I swear, I’ve never seen anyone’s eyes get so wide as his are right now.

“For real?”

Laughing again, the alcohol in my cup is making me light and bubbly and kind of loopy.

“Yes, really. I’m super good at it, too.” I take another sip of my wine for good measure, those green eyes of his burning holes into the bare skin of my shoulders. Collarbone.

Cleavage.

Rowdy’s eyes take one more long drag of my hair before he clears his throat, focusing on the wall.

“Your turn.”

I tap my chin. “How about: never have I ever slept with someone knowing they only wanted to sleep with me because I’m popular.”

Rowdy stiffens. “Scarlett, come on.”

“Sterling, come on. Drink or don’t.”

Please don’t, please don’t.

But he does, raising his cup. Drinks from it before licking the rim, then licks the drops off those beautifully sculpted lips.

It’s mesmerizing.

“Never have I ever fantasized about a friend,” he mutters, voice low but steady. Steadier than mine, steadier than my hands, which feel weak.

Hell yes I fantasize about friends, I want to shout. I fantasize about him. Fantasize about all the unfriendly things I want to do to him, with him.

We stare at each other expectantly, raising our cups at the same time, pressing the plastic to our mouths, tipping back.

Chug the wine down because suddenly we both need it.

My pelvis wiggles on the couch, a dull ache building in my crotch. My breasts get heavy. Nipples hard.

I feel a desperate need to drink away this sudden heat between us, the way his gaze grazes my skin.

Say something Scarlett.

“Are you drunk?”

“No, it’s going to take a lot more of these to get this tank drunk.” He laughs. “But I’m definitely starting to feel a buzz. Should I get the rest of the bottle?”

“Please?”

He clucks his tongue, amused. “Such pretty manners.”

When Sterling rises, stands, and stretches, my gaze lands squarely on his backside, dragging over his round, ballplayer’s ass. His tapered waist.

His thick thighs.

That strong back, muscles straining against his tight gray compression t-shirt.

Jesus, his body is incredible—and I would know, because my eyes follow it allll the way into the kitchen.

When he returns and takes his place back on the couch, he’s closer than before, so close our thighs touch through the fabric of our pants.

“Did you check the thermostat before?” I ask, holding out my cup for the refill I so desperately need. “It feels warm.”

He pours. “Yeah. It’s set at sixty-eight, you should be good.”

Right.

Sixty-eight degrees.

Most definitely not sixty-nine.

“I thought of one while I was in the kitchen.”

“Go.”

He repositions himself, spreading his legs. “Never have I ever gotten anyone drunk on purpose.”

“I would never do that.”

“Nope.” His grin is lopsided. “Me neither.”

“Really? You don’t haze the new guys on the team? Get them drunk on purpose.”

“That’s not exactly what I was talking about.”