More Than Friends (Friends, #2)(37)

“I’ve been dying to kiss you like that for hours,” he murmurs against my skin. “Days. Weeks.”

I squirm from the sensation of his breath on my skin. “You’re tickling me.”

“Mmm, not the reaction I had in mind.” He cups my face and tilts my head back so our gazes meet. “I liked having you on the sidelines.”

I smile tremulously, my nerves coming at me full force.

“Why were you talking to Whittaker?”

It takes me a moment to figure out who he’s talking about. “You mean Cannon? I was taping his knuckles.”

“Hopefully that’s all you were doing.” His eyes narrow and I swear his nostrils just flared.

“Wait a minute.” I think about tugging out of his grip, but it’s nice having his hands cup my cheeks like this. The way he absently rubs my skin with his thumbs feels amazing. “Are you—jealous of Cannon Whittaker? Because he talked to me?”

He says nothing. Just keeps watching me with those narrowed eyes and the still flaring nostrils, his breathing a little heavier than normal.

“Jordan.” I stare into his eyes. He needs to know I’m serious. I may be setting myself up for a torturous heartbreak, but he needs to know how I feel. “I don’t notice anyone else. Just you.”

The faintest smile curls his lips and he kisses me. This time it’s softer, a little more controlled, and I fall into the kiss, twirling my tongue around his, savoring the taste of him, the feel of his hands cradling my face.

“I need to take a shower,” he says once he breaks away from my lips. He presses his forehead against mine. “Wanna join me?”

I freeze. My body screams yes! But my mind says absolutely not. The struggle is real. “Um…”

“I was kidding.” He kisses the tip of my nose. “But you should come upstairs and wait in my room for me.”

So I do. It’s sort of weird and awkward sitting on his bed and looking around his room, because I’ve never waited for a boy while he takes a shower—in that huge, gorgeous bathroom, I might add. All I can think about as I hear the water running is of Jordan. Naked. With hot, steamy water pouring down his body, making his skin all slick and shiny. I’d help him soap up. I’d wash his hair. I’d rinse him off. I’d grab his…

The water shuts off, and I leap to my feet and wander aimlessly around the gigantic room. I stop at his dresser and study the few photos that are on display. One is of him and other football players, I’m guessing from last year? They’re all smiling except for Tuttle. His expression is serious.

Always so serious.

The other photo is old. I think it might be him as a little boy with his parents, and maybe that’s his sister? He looks like he’s barely two, dressed in a miniature suit that matches the man’s. The girl I assume is his sister is your typical sullen teenager forced to pose. The parents look stern-faced and solemn. No one looks happy.

It makes me sad.

The door opens and I whirl around like I just got caught stealing his underwear. He stands in the open doorway, steam billowing out of the bathroom, his hair wet and slicked back from his face, and clad in only a towel.

Only. A. Towel.

I clutch the edge of the dresser, praying I don’t go down in a heap of melted bones. The towel is white and thick and hangs dangerously low on his hips. One wrong move and that sucker will fall right off.

“Snooping?” He magically produces another towel out of thin air and dries his hair with it, his biceps bulging. He has really nice arms.

He has really nice everything.

“No.” Sort of. “Just looking at the photos on your dresser.”

His expression turns grim and he drops the towel he held in his hands on the floor before he makes his approach. “Which one?”

“Both of them.” I point. Hold my breath when he comes to stand directly beside me. He is naked. Naked under that towel. And he smells amazing. All clean and fresh and delicious.

“That’s my parents.” He picks up the photo of the stone-faced family. I wonder why he’d keep such a depressing photo of them in his room, but maybe he doesn’t even notice it anymore. “And my sister.”

“I figured.”

“I was two. Already a non-believer in the fairytale.” He sets the photo back down and then opens one of the drawers, pulling out a pair of neatly folded gray boxer briefs. “Do you mind?”

“Do I mind what?” I back away from him slowly.

“If I get dressed?” He waves the underwear in my direction and I want to die. “Turn around if you can’t handle it. I’m about to drop the towel.”

“Jordan!” I spin away from him just as I hear the towel hit the floor with a wet plop. I keep my back to him. Hear the rustling of clothing being pulled on, the sound of another drawer being opened and closed. My mind is running in circles, imagining all the things I’m missing because of my prudish ways.

“It’s safe to look now,” he drawls, and I turn around slowly, relief and disappointment hitting me when I see he’s clothed.

But not fully clothed. He’s wearing a pair of black sweatpants and that’s it. They’re slightly fitted, and they cling to his thighs, ride perilously low on his hips. I swear his chest is still damp and his stomach is utterly lickable and…