Jock Rule (Jock Hard #2)(47)

“Thank you.”

Teddy watches as I squat, grab my boots, and tie the strings, one at a time, bent over at the waist, fingers at work. When I glance up, those brown eyes of hers are intense, fixated on my hands.

Yeah, that’s right—these fingers were inside you last night. Take a long, hard look at them and imagine wanting them back on your body.

“I have a game tonight if you wanna come by.” Pull my laces tight then get to work on the other boot.

“Tonight?” Her brows go up, surprised.

“Yeah. It’s just a scrimmage, but it’ll be fun—cold, but fun.”

“Uh…maybe?”

“Teddy?”

“Hmm?”

“Don’t overthink it, okay?”

“I’m not!” She answers too quickly, and I laugh, because she totally is.

“Sure you’re not.” I wink flirtatiously, rising to my full height. “You might like it—coming tonight, I mean.”

I’m talking about the game, but it sounds like I mean something else.

“I’m sure I would.”

“It’s at Anderson Square Park. Five o’clock.”

“All right.”

“You’ll come?”

“I’ll…think about it.”

She’s going to come—I fucking know it. She’s too sweet to stand me up.

Just like she’s too nice to tell her “friend” to go fuck herself.

I make quick work of running her home, dropping her off in the front drive of her apartment building. Scowl when I think about the fact that she lives in a ground-level unit.

Remember that we still haven’t exchanged numbers. “Want to put your cell in my phone?”

“Um, sure.”

After, I let my car idle so I can watch her walk up to her building. She glances back over her shoulder twice, giving me a tentative little wave both times.

So damn cute.

***

TEDDY

Kip: I have an assignment for you.

Me: Do I want to know what it is?

Kip: Probably not. And you’ll probably think it’s really inappropriate.

Me: Then maybe you shouldn’t tell me.

Kip: Okay.

Minutes tick by and I can’t for the life of me conjure up a mature reply. Towel wrapped around my midsection, I lean against the counter, palming my phone, staring at the screen. Waiting for Kip to text me again.

He doesn’t.

I can’t stand it.

Me: Fine. What is it?

Kip: You have to touch yourself inappropriately.

Me: What is that supposed to mean?

Kip: You know…masturbate.

Me: You’re right—that’s not at all an appropriate thing to say to someone.

And he has completely shocked me.

Kip: I thought we were past the stage of being awkward with each other.

Me: Nope. Definitely still at that stage.

Kip: Well shit…

Kip: You still going to come tonight or did I ruin it by being a pervert?

Me: Don’t worry. I’m still coming.

When I wipe the condensation off the mirror from the steam of my shower, I stand at the bathroom counter, staring at my reflection.

Consider my breasts. Shoulders.

Stomach.

The trimmed up patch of hair between my legs.

Feel myself blush, despite the flush from the hot shower I just took, chest and neck growing redder with each second I stand here, watching myself.

I can’t do it.

I cannot touch myself.

Well, I can, just not like that.

Except…I rise to my tiptoes and spread my legs a little, bending my head down to survey the damage Kip’s beard caused.

Red, red, red.

Red between my thighs, just like I knew it would be.

Sore too.

Why am I sore? I didn’t have sex.

Is this normal?

Should I google it? What would I even search: sore after receiving oral sex? Why are my legs so sore after a guy has gone down on me? Why do my inner thighs have slight bruising?

My face gets hot thinking about it.

Thinking about him.

The change in him, overnight, talking to me like he wants…more. He hasn’t said it, but he’s not looking at me the same way. He looks at me like…he’s developing a crush on me. This morning, in his kitchen, when he looked me up and down, I swear he wanted to haul me up and carry me back upstairs and…do stuff.

It took everything I had not to look at the crotch of his pants to check for a boner.

The whole thing is so unsettling for me. I’m not used to male attention, not used to someone like him wanting me as something other than a friend.

The whole thing has my stomach in knots.

My hand goes there, resting on my belly. Presses down so I can even out my breathing.

Is this what it feels like to have butterflies?

Should he be the one giving them to me? This isn’t what I planned for myself—he is not my type, not even close. When I picture myself with a guy, I imagine him clean-cut. Handsome. No facial hair, certainly not someone with hair prettier than mine.

Kip vaguely reminds me of that Brock guy, the InstaFamous dude who makes videos of himself throwing his hair up into a bun—but hairier. And less cocky and full of himself.

Kissing him with the beard wasn’t as bad as I’d thought it would be—had I thought about it. Sure, it could probably use some conditioning to make it softer, but all in all, not the worst.