Jock Hard

by Ney, Sara

“For the last few hours?”

  “Look, long story, but I’m heading out. If anyone needs me

  for anything, do not fucking call.”

  I’ll kill anyone who interrupts me tonight. “Where you goin’?”

  “I’m taking Scarlett home—it’s colder than a witch’s tit outside.”

  “Wait, who?”

  “Scarlett.” I sigh. “You know, Cock Blocker.”

  I practically choke on the words but say them so he knows who I’m talking about, and it works.

  His face lights up with recognition, dark features curious. “You’re taking that chick home? The legs God gave her don’t work? If she’s not going to leave on her own, have one of the freshmen take her home for you.”

  Yeah, no, that is not fucking happening.

  “Nah. I got this. She’s cool.” I tamp down my actual feelings; now is not the time or place to begin a conversation about it—not with her waiting on the porch for me, in the cold.

  “She’s cool.” He’s skeptical, tipping his beer back and gulping. “Tengo dudas.”

  His use of Spanish has me glowering. “I have no idea what you just said—speak English.”

  “I said, ‘Somehow, I doubt that.’ But whatever dude—suit yourself.”

  “I will.”

  He laughs. “Whatever you say, bro.”

  “She’s outside freezing her ass off, so I’ve gotta go.” I hold out my closed first for knuckles; he bumps them. “See you tomorrow in the gym?”

  Already and always training for the season to start. His black brows go up. “¿A las seis?”

  “Did you just say six o’clock?” He laughs. “Sí.”

  “See you at six.”

  * * *

  SCARLETT

  “Never have I ever…” His deep voice cuts into the dark cab of his truck.

  I groan, head hitting the back of the passenger side seat as Rowdy’s sturdy hands grip the steering wheel, driving in the direction of my house.

  “You are becoming obsessed with this stupid game.”

  He glances over at me across the center console, the glow from each passing street lamp illuminating the interior, casting a bright mask of light across his gorgeous green eyes.

  They slide down my torso and to my legs.

  “Your answers amuse me—it’s my new favorite game.” He ignores my protests. “Plus, this is the best way to get to know a person.”

  The fact that he wants to get to know me makes the butterflies in my tummy stir.

  “By asking them embarrassing questions?”

  “Yes. Exactly.”

  “Can’t you ask normal questions? Like, ‘What’s your favorite color?’ Or ‘What are your biggest pet peeves?’”

  “No, because those are boring, and I don’t really give a shit what your favorite color is—that’s something I can figure out on my own through the power of observation.”

  I cross my arms. “You think you can guess my favorite color based on the one time you were in my house, go right ahead.”

  He’s quiet a few moments, reaching to dial down the volume on the radio. “It’s blue.”

  Whoa. “What makes you say that?”

  “The pillows on your couch and the towels in your bathroom are blue, and your purse.”

  Holy crap, he’s right—my favorite color is blue.

  Rowdy grins, teeth blaringly white in the dim cab. “So I’m right?”

  “Yes.”

  “You know what else I think? You love this game as much as I do. It’s kind of long and drawn-out, like…”

  Foreplay.

  He doesn’t say it, but I know that’s what he’s thinking. My face flushes because he’s right; I do like these games.

  They’re slightly ridiculous and cheesy and stupidly fun, and even though we haven’t gotten all that racy or sexual, the undertones of our recent conversations are getting more personal. Flirty. Testing our boundaries with each other, neither wanting to make the first move.

  Rowdy finds my street without prompting, driving the hundred feet it takes to reach my house, pulling up to the curb and putting his truck in park. Idles, hands on the key buried in the ignition.

  “I guess this is you.”

  “This is me.”

  Gripping my handbag—the one he noticed is blue—I unbuckle my seatbelt, fingers pawing for the handle, and I pause, twisting to face him. He’s watching me—of course he is—eyes half hooded in the moonlight, shadows playing across his expression. Mouth set into a line, almost in a downward turn.

  “You look like you want to say something.”

  “I’m just wondering…” His voice trails off. “What kind of guy Scarlett Ripley agrees to go on a date with.”

  Not what I was expecting him to say. Not in that tone of voice—it’s low and expectant, like my answer might mean something important.

  “That’s what you’re sitting there thinking about?”

  “Humor me.” His velvety voice encourages me in the dark, fingers tapping on the steering wheel.

  “Well,” I begin slowly, releasing the door handle. Sit back and stare straight ahead up the empty street. Clear my throat, buying myself a few more seconds of time. “I’d like to be with someone who makes me laugh, someone funny…um…”

  I shoot him a quick, sidelong glance, unnerved that he’s watching me so unflinchingly.

  “Charming.”

  “That’s your type? Charming?”

  “I don’t think that’s a type, but sure, charming is my type. Maybe not…overly friendly. Black hair and big muscles would be my type, too.” I’m warming to the topic. “A sexy dork with a hot bod under his button-down shirt would be my type. A bad boy covered in tattoos would be my type.”

  “Now it just sounds like you’re coming up with characters for a new book series.”

  I shift in my seat. “What about you? What kind of girl does Sterling Wade ask on a date?”

  He faces the street, looking out the window, down the road, thinking. “Not many.”

  I wait for him to say more. “Uh, okay, but if you were going to ask someone on a date…”

  He considers this, still watching the road. “She’d have to be someone I’d take home to my mother.”

  Oh.

  Oh.

  The purse in my hands is satin, and I glide my fingers along the clasp until I hear the magnetic clasp snap. Open. Close. Adding to the underlying tension filling the cab of this truck.

  I hesitate. “I have one bottle of wine in the fridge if you want to come in for a little bit.”

  “Two.” “Excuse me?”

  “You have two bottles of wine in your fridge.” I do? “How do you know?”

  “Obviously I was rooting around the other night. The contents of your fridge were a real turn-on, if I’m being honest.”

  Oh brother, this guy.

  “Your appetite is going to get you in trouble one of these days.”

  His grin is wicked. “I hope so.”

  “Well…” I hesitate. “Come inside? We can play a proper game of Never Have I Ever, complete with alcohol.”

  He unlocks the doors, huge hand already on the driver’s side door handle. “Fuck yeah, let’s do it.”

  I don’t have to ask him twice.

  * * *

  ROWDY

  Entering Scarlett’s kitchen is déjà vu, the small space exactly as it was the last time I was here: neat as a pin except for a dirty bowl and a plate set beside to the sink, blue dish towel folded into a tidy square.

  Shoes neatly placed by the door. Keys hung on a hook. Chairs all pushed in, no clutter in sight.

  I remove my hand from the small of her back to remove my jacket.

  “You want anything to eat?” she asks, automatically playing hostess, fingers going to the belt at her waist, pulling gently, unknotting it. Her newly tan hands work the buttons, trailing up the front of her jacket, one toggle at a time.

  I watch, transfixed—the anticipation of what’s benea
th that jacket has me riveted.

  Scarlett’s thick, black dress coat parts, revealing a dress, tan skin, and her beneath. Lace and boobs and legs. The jacket slides off and she hangs it by the door, narrow hips swiveling, balancing on a pair of wedge heels.

  They add at least four inches to her petite frame.

  Scarlett airily skims delicate hands down her narrow waist, sauntering toward me, hips gently swaying. I doubt it’s intentional, but still, it’s mesmerizing to see her this way.

  Dressed up and sexy, in an entirely new light. Another layer to this girl I’ve already started falling for, feet first.

  “I’m changing out of this dress. Want to pour some wine? Then we can play that stupid game you’ve become obsessed with?”

  She runs a hand down her hair, smoothing down her long, silky tresses. It’s a rich brown, streaked near her face with lighter tones, highlighting her warm complexion. Pink cheeks.

  “And can you see what the thermostat’s set at? It feels warm in here, don’t you think?”

  I stare at her while I still have the chance to see her this way.

  Her dress is lace. Delicate and snug and sexy with a gold zipper running the entire length of her spine. It’s short, skimming mid-thigh, showing off her toned legs.

  The skirt brushes against me when she passes, swishing on the way to her bedroom, the lingering smell of her perfume wafting around me after she disappears through the only door off the living room.

  Scarlett tosses me a casual glance over her slender shoulder. “Be right back.”

  My eyes automatically watch her legs departing, calves shapely and what the hell am I doing still standing here. Part of me wants to pour the wine, part of me wants to follow her.

  Five minutes later I’m pouting in the kitchen, two glasses of inexpensive, chilled white wine on the table when Scarlett’s lilty voice rings out from down the hallway.

  Tentative. “Rowdy?”

  My head shoots up. “Yeah?”

  “Can you come here for a second? I need help.”

  Immediately setting down the wine bottle, I toss its metal twist top into the garbage, expecting we’ll finish this entire bottle. Shit, I could easily chug the whole thing myself.

  I head in the direction of her voice, sticking my head inside her bedroom when I find it, hungrily eying up the space.

  She’s facing the wall, one hand holding the hair off her nape, presenting me with a clear shot of her slim neck and shoulders. She turns, offering me her profile.

  The pillar of her throat.

  “I can’t quite reach the zipper and that little hook at the top. Can you get it started for me?”

  Her shoes are gone, legs bare, and in a few more seconds, her back and body will be, too.

  “Uh…sure.”

  I step into the room, focused on that gold zipper running

  along the column of her spine. On her long, smooth neck. The dark pieces of delicate hair flirting with the flesh that until tonight, I’ve only ever seen pulled back.

  Buns, ponytails, and under her knit winter cap. Never down, like this. Curled and glossy.

  “Just a few inches will do the trick,” she adds.

  Just a few inches.

  I snicker. “Yup, got it.”

  Her head tilts. “What’s so funny?”

  I shrug, catching her reflection in the mirror. “You said inches.”

  She’s biting back a smile. “Guys are such idiots.”

  “I can’t help it.”

  “You’re so immature.”

  I narrow my eyes at her lace-covered skin, studying the tiny hook securing the dress’s clasp. “How am I immature?”

  “I asked you to unzip my dress and your mind goes to dick jokes.”

  “Well yeah, because: inches.”

  She wiggles her hips. “Quit stalling and unzip me. I want to get out of this thing while I’m still young.”

  “This might take a minute, I feel like I have eighty fingers.”

  Not wanting to tear her dress, I concentrate on that tiny clasp, leaning in, my callused fingers working it like a fragile instrument. Once I loop it through, I free the zipper, unhurriedly pulling the metal hardware.

  The sound of it whirring down its track mingles with the sound of our breathing.

  Scarlett’s bare skin and back become visible, the shiny gold zipper a direct lifeline down her spine. I bet if I ran my finger down her back, she’d shiver. I bet if I ran my finger down her spine, I wouldn’t stop…

  Slowly, that gleaming zipper slides farther…farther than necessary, my gaze tracking the journey along with it.

  I wonder…

  I wonder if I could make her moan by leaning forward and resting my lips below her ear. If I gently blew on her skin. Licked. Nipped.

  I could skim my mouth down the back of her neck, across her bare shoulder, and—

  “Rowdy, what’s happening back there?” she asks in a whisper.

  “Sorry, it’s stuck.”

  But the zipper isn’t stuck.

  I am.

  One inch. Two. Three.

  Five inches.

  It hums down its track, all the way down the curve of her waist. Her ass.

  No bra.

  No underwear.

  No bra, no underwear, no bra, no underwear, my horny brain echoes on an infinite loop.

  What. The. Fuck?

  Seriously. Why is she naked under her motherfucking dress?

  God is testing my willpower—he must be. I haven’t prayed to him in months, and this is my penance.

  I remain rooted to the carpet, fingers clasping the cold metal of her dress, intently watching her reflection in the mirror.

  Watching as she stands with her arms holding her hair off her shoulders, presenting me with every opportunity.

  I want to slide my big hands inside the black lace fabric from behind. Skim them along her ribcage. Cup her breasts from behind in my palms. I wonder what they look like bare.

  How big they actually are.

  What her skin would look like covered in goose bumps? What would her tits look like, covered with my palms?

  It’s so fucking tempting.

  It would be so easy…

  She’s right here, already half undressed, already breathless, already in my hands.

  As if she can read my mind, her cherry red lips part, eyes sparkling, blazing hot. Dilated pupils meet mine in the mirror.

  Do something with your hands, Rowdy. Don’t just stand there. For Christ’s sake, drop your hands.

  After an expectant pause, I let them fall. Clear my throat. “Thanks.” Scarlett’s dimple winks at me in the mirror.

  I stare.

  Holy fuck is she pretty.

  The erection in my pants agrees.

  “I-I’ll just be a few minutes. Let me throw on something comfortable.”

  “See you in a minute.” I nearly choke on my words.

  In the hallway, next to her door, I pull at my jeans, adjusting the denim around my boner.

  * * *

  SCARLETT

  I thought he was going to kiss me.

  When Rowdy backs out of my bedroom, the door closing safely behind him, I shudder a breath because holy shit, the look he was giving me could have melted glass.

  I thought he was going to kiss me. Why didn’t he?

  It was intense, as if he’s never actually seen me before. His eyes seemed to be soaking in every line of my face, erotically roaming my reflection in the mirror.

  Undressing me with his eyes as his fingers worked the clasp and zipper of my dress.

  My breasts ache at the thought, and I press my hands against them to ease the throbbing. They’re heavy, nipples puckered with want.

  He wanted to slide his big bear paws into the back of my dress—I could read it in his expression as he unzipped my dress.

  So that’s what eye-fucking looks like.

  Sterling was eye-fucking me with everything he had, with no shame, and I could see him wa
rring with himself, not wanting to be untoward.

  That’s one of the many things I admire about him—his level of self-control.

  Sterling.

  Sterling, standing behind me with his nostrils flaring…

  The hard syllables of his name have the power to melt my panties.

  Or they would, if I were wearing any.

  I wish I could have recorded the look on his face the moment his sharp green eyes locked on the spot he expected my undergarments to appear. Wide-eyed disbelief.

  No bra. No panties.

  That’s right, Rowdy Wade—I’m naked under this dress.

  The palm of my right hand covers the frantically beating heart inside my chest, and I lift my eyes to the mirror. Push the straps of my dress down my shoulders, shrugging all the way out of it.

  Let it glide to the floor. Bend to scoop it up.

  Stand buck naked as the day I was born. Turn this way and that, studying myself. My skin. Hair.

  I touch the tip of my left breast as I watch, circling the stiff nipple.

  Do I look different? Maybe. Do I feel different? Yes.

  Don’t get carried away, Scarlett—he’s waiting in your living room. He wants you. I acknowledge the fact to my reflection. He likes you.

  I remember myself—drop my hand, yank open a dresser drawer, and root around for underwear. Shimmy into a pair of silky black boy shorts. Gray tank top. Black leggings.

  Leave my hair down. Keep my makeup on.

  Tousle my hair in the mirror, leaning in, examining my face. Pull the skin down under my eyes and groan.

  “There. That ought to drive him a little bit crazy,” I tell the girl in the mirror, hoping she’s wise enough to listen. Look her straight in the eye and demand, “You are going to march out there and not chicken out. Do you hear me? No chickening out,” I hiss at myself. “He is just a boy.”

  Satisfied, I give myself a stern nod, smoothing my hands down the front of my tank top. Over the set of boobs Rowdy Wade is so obviously preoccupied with.

  Normally I’d be embarrassed by the obvious outline of my nipples…

  But not tonight.

  * * *

  “This is for you.” Rowdy hands me a plastic beer cup.