Jock Row

Electricity crackles that door handle, and I watch it slowly turn.

“Yeah?”

Why is he knocking? It’s his room.

And why did I just say Yeah, and not, Come on in!

“Is it safe to come in?”

“It’s safe to come in.” I let a nervous giggle slide through my lips, hand pressing on my stomach to quell it when it flutters.

Rowdy’s big body slips through the gap in the door like a mouse squeezing through a crack in the wall, as if he’s tasked with protecting my modesty.

He stands with his broad back to the door, eyes tracking along my freshly shaven legs, pausing to study the fluffy white sheep on my shorts—if you can call them that. In reality, they’re glorified underwear, barely covering my ass, pale pink, the scallop hem skimming my upper thigh.

“Why are you staring at me like that?” I already know the answer, already know why he’s burning holes through me. Why he’s memorizing my hair and every inch of my body.

This big, beautiful boy dreams about me.

Sterling Wade is in love with me.

The thought warms me from the inside out, lowering my defenses as I lower my arms, uncrossing them from my chest, letting him look his fill.

He’s never seen me like this before, in my pajamas with barely any clothes on, and look his fill he does, taking every advantage of his viewpoint from the doorway, the low lights casting shadows on us both.

“Am I staring?” That sexy smile is warm and wide. Those wide shoulders shrug. “Sorry, it’s just—you’re in my bedroom.”

Oh jeez, he is so sweet.

“Uh…” I laugh, clearing my throat, stretching out a fake yawn. Pat it with my hand. Point to the right side of the mattress. “Mind if I take this side of the bed?”

Another slow, cryptic smile. “You take whatever you want.”

I watch, captivated, as Rowdy’s arms crisscross, reaching down to drag his shirt up and over his torso, tossing it to the carpet.

“Mind if I take my shorts off? I get so hot at night.” His fingers are already hooking inside the red mesh of his gym shorts, thumbs tugging at the fabric.

I gulp when he leans over, ab muscles tightening, gaping at one sinewy bicep, then the other. They’re perfection, just barely close to bulging, hot veins running along his forearm to the bend in his elbow, making me want to trace along their path. Making me want to leisurely run my hands along those washboard abs—earned from hours upon hours of conditioning—and damn, even his belly button is attractive.

Down those shorts slide. Over a pair of athletic, toned hips, shucked boldly to his feet, feet spread shoulder-width apart before he chucks them to the side.

Sterling Wade standing in only a pair of charcoal gray boxer briefs challenges the most resplendent national treasure as a thing of beauty, the thin fabric clinging insatiably to his thick thighs.

Clinging to the length of him tucked inside, laying flat against his inner thigh.

Sterling Wade is perfect. Raw.

Beautiful.

Mine for the taking.

The reality of that is still so odd to me that I find myself licking my lips like a bad pantomime, pushing a strand of hair behind my ear before remembering myself.

I am ogling him like a desperate fool.

Like a groupie—yet not a single soul on earth would blame me, or deprive me of this moment.

I will never get it back or forget it.

One of his knees bends, hitting the bed, hands braced on the mattress. Leaning forward, his broad, golden shoulders flex attractively. I don’t know whether it’s an invitation to gawk at him some more, but I do, unable to peel my eyes away from his incredible body.

Every inch of him is well defined. Flawless.

Every inch carved of warm, firm flesh, smooth all over. Hair tousled from having just whipped off his shirt, it sticks out in ten different directions, waiting for my hands to run through it—so we can both get the chills.

Hot skin. Trembling hands.

I fold back the covers of his dark sheets before my legs give out, wobbly, easing onto the right side of the bed, heart rate fast, as if I’ve just sprinted a mile.

Rowdy slides in after me, leaving the light on, large body taking up more than half the mattress as he folds both arms behind his head. Turns to study me, wordlessly.

I war with myself.

I wanna do more things to this boy than I’ve wanted to do to any one human in my entire life. Which is why I’m a virgin who always settled for gif porn and the occasional solo masturbatory mission.

I bite my lower lip. God is rewarding me for my patience.

Am I going to sleep with him this weekend?

Yes.

No.

Yes!

I want to, more so now than ever, and we’re going to be alone for two whole nights. There will never be a more perfect opportunity, just him and the ocean—two things I can’t stop thinking about.

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.