Jock Row (Jock Hard #1)(70)

And he loves me.

“Are you excited about tomorrow?” I break the silence.

“Yeah, totally. Are you?”

“I am so excited I don’t know how I’ll be able to sleep.” All this excitement and these feelings are information overload; I’m not sure yet what to do with it all.

Rowdy hums his agreement, chest vibrating. Nonchalant and carefree, face impassive. If I hadn’t overheard him just now, I never would have known—never in a million years.

But I know better.

The lamp’s light radiates softly on the bedside table, casting a warm glow on his expression.

“You tired?” I ask, rolling toward him, burrowing my petite frame in the crook of his arm, lining myself up, breasts pressing into his ribcage. My hand slides unhurried across his expansive chest, landing on his left pec, the tip of my index finger wandering close to his hard nipple.

“Do I look tired?” Beneath my palm, his heart beats like a war drum—and when I lay my head on his chest, I can hear it, too.

I press closer, lifting my leg, draping it over his thick thigh, and god does it feel good to be this close.

Rowdy Wade is hot and cool to the touch.

His long arm comes around me, hand resting on my ass, splayed palm creeping under my sleep shorts to cup my bare butt cheek. Fingers flex close to my crack, forefinger twitching.

I swear we both stop breathing.

“What time are we getting up?”

“I set my phone for eight.”

“We should probably try to sleep, huh?”

The tip of his index finger treads a slow path up and down the flesh of my ass, plucking at my underwear band, branding my skin. “We should.”

He breathes in; he breathes out.

In.

Out.

Like he’s trying to control his breathing, impossible with my hand exploring his chest. Plucking gently at his puckered nipple and breathing hotly onto the other one.

It’s so close to my mouth—right there—stiff and straining.

I arch into him, pressing, tongue catching the tip of it. Roll my body closer until I can suck it. Flick it then blow, as I’ve seen in a hundred porn gifs.

Rowdy’s hand creeps under the back of my shirt, caressing his new favorite spot: my spine. Tenderly while I tease him, he’s so unbelievably sexy. So incredibly magnificent.

I want to touch him all over. “You want me to rub your back?”

His eyes are heavy-lidded, mouth in a straight line, expression impossible to read.

“I’d love for you to rub whatever you want.”

I suppress an eye roll. “On your side.”

He complies, facing the door, presenting me with the steel fortress of his back. He’s a massive wall of strength, and when my palms hit the flat plane of his trapezius, my fingers spread wide, kneading at the base of his neck.

It’s solid and thick. Tight.

I rub there, in that same spot, for a good five minutes, thumbs pressing into his skin. Pushing into the knots, listening as I burnish each one out. One by one.

My hands wander.

Feather light, they trail down his spine to his oblique, and discover two back dimples right above his firm ass.

Dimples of Venus.

Jesus, they’re so absurdly sexy.

Both of my palms stroke across them, heating his flesh, massaging at the waistband of his snug boxer briefs. Stroke over his butt, squeezing it the way he was squeezing mine.

“As far as massages go, this one feels more like foreplay,” he murmurs into his pillow, arms at his side. “Am I right or am I right?”

“Does it?”

“Is it?”

“No.”

“Too bad. You’re making me so fucking hard.”

“Am I?” I stare at my hands in wonder.

“You really have to ask?”

Three more minutes of pretense and Rowdy’s maneuvering himself to his back. I avert my gaze, not wanting it to settle on the erection tenting his briefs.

But it’s hard, so hard—no pun intended.

“Come here.” He beckons me closer and like a moth to a flame, I go.

Lean into him, kissing him full on the lips.

“You’re so fucking pretty.” He swipes the long hair out of my face; it hangs in sheets down my chest and over my eyes. Presses his thumbs lightly into my cheek, over my dimple. “I love this. It does weird, fucked up shit to me every time you smile.”

When I smile, he smiles back, reaching for me, arm sliding under my ribcage, the other circling my waist.

Bodies pressed together, I cradle his erection between the apex of my thighs, our mouths widen, tongues dancing. Unhurriedly rolling together. Sloppy and wet.

“Wanna climb on top so we can spoon?”

“That’s not how you spoon.” What a weirdo.

“Wanna climb on top so I can feel your tits on my chest? Is that good?”

Good enough.

Effortlessly, he hauls me on top—as if I weigh nothing—bodies a perfect fit. Like two pieces of a sexually fueled puzzle. Rowdy’s giant hands are tense, palming my butt, dragging me up and down his cock, mimicking sex, the motion making us both moan.

So good it hurts.

“God I want to tear your clothes off,” I moan, hastening to add, “But not in your parents’ house.”