Jock Row (Jock Hard #1)(86)

“Promise you’ll be in this spot in two hours when I get back?”

“It’s five o’clock.” I stretch like a cat. “I’m not about to hop out of bed.”

“Okay, I’ll hurry.” He rises, standing over me. “Don’t go anywhere.”

I yawn. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

Instead, I dream of him.

Dream of the night we met—only this time when he leads me out of the party, he’s holding me by the hand. This time when I follow him out to the porch, there are lavender roses on the swing, their fragrance drifting up to my nose. It rocks back and forth in the wind, the flowers falling to the floor, one at a time, petals scattering in the wind.

When I reach for Rowdy’s hand, he’s gone, replaced by a tall, looming—

I jerk awake, flat on my back, staring at the ceiling.

It’s light outside now, sun furiously pushing through the shades, hot white light. That one sliver of light is blinding, so I shift, turning toward the door.

Rise up slowly, feet thrown over the mattress.

The space between my thighs is sore, tender. I test out my legs before standing.

Not the best, but not the worst.

Sterling isn’t back yet, but he will be soon, so I stand and hobble to the bathroom.

When I pee, it burns, and I cringe, wiping away a little blood. Stare at the toilet paper in my hands—at the blood and what those red spots mean: I am no longer a virgin.

My heart gives a thrilling pound as I remove my toothbrush from the travel case and stand idly at the sink, brushing my teeth. Wash my mouth out with spearmint.

Brush the knots out of my hair until it’s shiny and straight.

No sooner am I climbing back into bed—naked—than I hear the keycard being swiped over the security pad, the lock clicking open.

The door eases open bit by bit, Rowdy steps inside, dropping his bag by our tiny couch. Kicks off his shoes and pulls off his socks.

I watch from the bed as he lifts his shirt, balls it up, and tosses it next to the bed. Shucks his shorts, sliding them down his tapered waist.

Rowdy’s muscles are dense and taut, veins rushing with liquid oxygen. He braces his arms behind his head and stretches, rotating his waist to the left, then the right, pulling on his forearms.

His abs contract.

My body gets hot.

When he’s done stretching, he turns his back on the bed, walking to the bathroom, every muscle in his body contracting.

I hear the sink running when he steps inside then the tapping of his toothbrush against the porcelain. The toilet flushes.

I’m on my back when he comes out, sheet up over my torso, hands folded behind my head. Content and lazy, like a cat waiting to be petted.

Worshiped and adored.

“You’re up.” He smiles in the semi-darkness.

“Mmm,” is my reply. “I’m up.”

“What a coincidence.” He chuckles. “I’m up, too.”

There is a noticeable bulge in his boxers that he adjusts when he moves closer, squatting a few inches to lift and shift his dick from one side of his shorts to the other. It’s a total jock thing to do.

Now he’s next to the bed, leaning over to kiss me, his minty fresh mouth opening to taste me, tongue sliding in. I let my hands slide into the waistband of his underwear, edging them off his hips.

He tugs them off completely, stepping out, leaving them in a heap on the floor.

Slides the sheet off my body and crawls into bed, arm already reaching for the condoms in the bedside table.

One of those big, rough hands skims tenderly down my hip. “Are you sore?”

“A little.”

He kisses me again. “Sorry.”

But his large body feels divine. Heavy and warm, brawny arm draped around my waist, hauling me in. Bodies lined up, perfect.

“It’s all right. I knew what to expect.”

“Want me to kiss it and make it better?”

No. I want him to fill me like he did last night; insatiably curious, I want more. Everything, not just his tongue.

“Or do you want a quickie?”

“No.” I shake my head slowly. “I want it slow.”

I want him gentle. I want to take our time.

I want Sterling to feel how fast my heart beats when he touches me, big bear paws gently caressing the skin along my hip, lips warm. Tender.

I love everything about him; he is everything.

We kiss with our eyes open, mouths open, tongues lazily stroking so I can see everything he feels reflected in his eyes—the same way I did last night.

The self-control for my sake.

The adoration.

How he knows my body is still sensitive and treats me like a breakable piece of glass when really all he wants to do is pound into me. His self-control is like nothing I’ve ever seen in my entire life.

Remarkable.

Impressive.

Admirable, really.

Inch by glorious inch, he pushes in, inhaling the air at the crook of my neck. Murmuring. Checking to make sure I’m okay.

“Are you all right?”

I’m better than all right.

I reach up to brush back his hair, the words I love you, Sterling burning the back of my throat. The telltale signs of my nose tingling give my brain the signal to send water to my eyes.

These tears are my feelings for him, tangible proof that everything between us is right. Last night was everything a first time should be, and I couldn’t have chosen any better.