Jock Romeo

by Sara Ney

  “I have to call my coach and check in for curfew tonight anyway—I’m going to do that real quick if you don’t mind. Then we can talk.”

  Coach doesn’t answer, so I text her a photo of myself in the empty kitchen with a time stamp before following Roman back up to the second floor and into his bedroom. He holds the door open for me like a gentleman so I can pass through, sitting on the edge of the bed but not climbing into it as I did before. I’m reluctant to get too comfortable. Maybe that’s been the problem this entire time—my comfort level with him. I feel like we’ve been friends forever, but I also feel something else—something he doesn’t seem to understand.

  Something I don’t seem to understand myself.

  That’s fine.

  It isn’t as though I haven’t been rejected before or had a guy not like me—both have happened, just not recently.

  Is he stereotyping me because of my cheering career and the color of my hair? I’m too afraid to ask.

  “I think we got off on the wrong foot when we got home,” he tells me, sitting in the desk chair across the room, swiveling it so he faces me. I don’t know when the wheels fell off the bus.

  “I’m probably hypersensitive,” I confess.

  “What do you mean?”

  I give my answer a bit of thought before saying, “It’s a new semester and I’ve had a lot of change, and to be honest, I’ve never had a guy who was just a friend before. I suppose Jack counts, but not really? I haven’t known him long, and he’s Eliza’s boyfriend…it would have been weird for me to ask for his help tonight. I guess I just…don’t know how to behave with a guy friend.”

  “If it makes you feel any better, I have no idea what I’m doing on a daily basis, let alone with a girl who is also a friend. I should never have gone with the plan that you fake it for me for the sake of my parents. That was foolish and I apologize. I can’t imagine how that made you feel when I agreed to it.”

  Aw, the poor guy. “Rome, you don’t have to apologize for thinking out loud—I actually think we would have a lot of fun pretending.” Plus, he will get some practice!

  The thought of him dating someone else fills me with a little bit of dread. But this is what friends do for each other; they help one another out. Not that I believe he needs it, but he could probably stand to gain a little more self-confidence when it comes to the female persuasion.

  “What do you say? Should we put tonight behind us and just do it?”

  “Do it?” He looks pale and gulps.

  I roll my eyes. “You know, the fake relationship thing.”

  Rome swivels in his desk chair. “It might be fun.”

  “It could be—I’ve never done it.” Never had to; haven’t ever considered it until he brought it up tonight. “And I’m sorry tonight was such a shit show. I wasn’t thinking when I texted you—I was only thinking of myself.”

  “That’s what friends are for. It’s not like I was doing anything.”

  “You were studying.” His grades are important to him, apparently much more so than mine are to me, and perhaps if I went to fewer parties and cracked open more textbooks, I wouldn’t be in a position where I feel trapped.

  It crosses my mind to suggest several rules for this new adventure—guidelines—but it’s late and it appears neither of us are thinking clearly.

  Roman looks exhausted; I am exhausted.

  I’m tired, crabby, and keep overreacting. The best thing for me is a good night’s rest. I have to be up at six in the morning to practice—there is a home game tomorrow at noon, so it’s going to be nonstop from the moment I pry my eyes open.

  His bed is so much more welcoming than mine. I got the best night’s sleep last time I was here.

  Roman finally removes himself from the desk chair and comes to the bed. He hesitates slightly before climbing beneath the covers.

  “I’m glad we worked through this,” I say softly.

  “All a misunderstanding. Things happen when people are stressed out, and running into an ex is stressful.”

  “It was.”

  I’m on my side facing him, lights still on.

  Scanning the room, my eyes latch onto the award I repaired for him. Rising, I cross to stand in front of it, fingers carefully tracing along the edge where his name is. Where his name was.

  Such a shame.

  Such a good guy.

  I turn when he yawns to find him watching me—of course he is; there’s nothing else in here to look at, and I’m the foreign object in the room.

  “Roman?” I move back toward the bed.

  “What?”

  “Can I ask you a personal question?”

  “How personal are we talking?”

  “On a scale of one to ten? I would say an eight.”

  He mulls this over before nodding. “Okay.”

  My blonde hair fans out on his pillow as I stare up at the ceiling, pulling the blankets up to my chin. “Have you ever dated anyone? Or had a girlfriend?”

  He looks at me, surprised. “That’s it? I thought you would ask me something more invasive, like a sex question or something.”

  “Sorry to disappoint you.”

  “Ha, you didn’t disappoint me.” He pauses. “I sort of dated someone freshman year, briefly. If you think I’m awkward, she was twenty times worse.”

  “I don’t think you’re awkward at all.” Not in the least; I find his manner to be charming and approachable. He is goofy and adorable and says what’s on his mind in a way that is quiet yet forthright.

  The little bits of alcohol I consumed tonight warm my belly.

  Reaching forward, I lay my hand on Roman’s. His palm is lying flat on the bed, a gentle indent on the mattress as he looks over at me.

  “Feels that way sometimes. I often worry I spend too much time on schoolwork and not enough time interacting—I think maybe my mom was right about that.”

  “Why, does she harp on that?”

  “Yeah. They want me to be successful, but they also talk about balance.” His thumb slowly begins stroking the underside of my palm as he speaks.

  “You don’t think you have good balance?”

  “I stayed in tonight because I was fixated on the engineering project when I could have been out with my friends—I’d call that shitty work-life balance.”

  True. “The good news is, there is always room for improvement, and you wound up coming out anyway!” Silver lining.

  “But I wouldn’t have if you hadn’t needed me.”

  Also true. “I did need you.” Moreover, “I wanted you there to begin with.”

  “You did? Why didn’t you say so?”

  I kind of did, he just didn’t pay attention to my begging. I shrug, though I’m in a sleep position. “Because you were set on staying home. It’s not my place to peer-pressure you into doing what you clearly don’t want to do. Besides, not everyone likes parties, and I just figured you were one of those people. You were miserable that night we met three years ago.”

  “That’s a valid assessment.”

  Valid assessment.

  I giggle at his formality, biting down on my bottom lip.

  He’s so adorably intelligent.

  Our hands are entwined now and I don’t know how they got that way, but his fingers are laced with mine, which causes my heart to beat wildly inside my chest. It wasn’t beating this wildly when I kissed him, but I can feel every pulse. Every rhythm.

  It feels like we are too far apart—on an island—not that I would dare move any closer; I don’t want to crowd him or make him uncomfortable or put the moves on him in any way. I did that already, and look where it got us.

  “I should turn the lights off so we can sleep,” he finally murmurs, rolling back toward the door. His long arm stretches as far as it can go and flicks off the switch, leaving us in the dark.

  Surprisingly, he relocates my hand and grips it the way he was doing before.

  I shiver.

  “Are you cold?”

  Kind
of, but not really. But I’m not about to tell him that. Instead I say, “Yes, just a little bit. I probably should’ve put on pants and also: not gone outside.”

  Really, I could use a snuggle.

  “If you wanna get closer so you can get warmed up, you can. Body heat is nature’s defense.”

  I need no further invitation.

  “You can’t argue with science.” I laugh as I move closer to him on the bed, rolling into his open arms, spooning my backside into his front.

  Don’t wiggle your ass in his junk, don’t wiggle your ass in his junk…

  Easier said than done; I’m a natural flirt. Plus, I like Roman as a human being and as a friend. He’s handsome and adorable and who could resist that combination?

  “I’m not sure where to put my hands.” He laughs softly into my ear after a time, sending more shivers down my spine.

  “You can put them around me—I won’t bite.” It’s been ages since I’ve spooned or been spooned. Rome’s arms tentatively move from wherever he was hiding them to my arm, big palm on my bicep.

  It’s nice.

  So nice.

  Without trying to be too obvious, I scooch back, pressing my backside closer to his pelvis, our height difference when we’re standing creating the perfect partnership while we’re horizontal.

  We fit just right.

  Roman must have showered at some point before coming to my rescue tonight because he smells divine.

  Fresh.

  Masculine.

  I’ve smelled him post-shower before and add it to my list of favorite things. “Things I Could Smell Forever” or “Smells That Turn Me On.”

  Roman

  Pumpkin spice anything

  Old Spice? Ha!

  Roman

  Rain

  Fresh-cut grass

  Gingerbread

  Baked cookies

  Babies and baby powder

  Roman

  The list goes on and on so I’ll end it at ten, but mostly, Roman tops the list.

  I’m one short breath away from licking my lips, even though this cuddle session is anything but sexual.

  Sigh.

  “Are you getting warmer?”

  Of course! But there’s no way I’m admitting that—he might go back to his side of the bed, and then where would we be? Back to strictly platonic. Sure, that’s what we agreed on, but tell that to my body. It is not on board with that agreement.

  “It helps having your arms around me, for sure.”

  We lie like this for a little while and my heart beats wildly from nerves; I wonder what he’s thinking about while we are here snuggling like two people in a relationship. I’ve certainly never cuddled with a male friend before…am I doing it wrong? Because it feels so absolutely right.

  Roman, for his part, doesn’t move a muscle—he lies absolutely still, like a corpse in a haunted house.

  The perfect gentleman.

  I wonder what it would take to break that polite demeanor.

  I’ve met his family and seen his parents; I know now that his upbringing was one with rules and etiquette and manners—he knows things I wish would have been taught to Kyle and the other guys I causally went out with who didn’t know common courtesy from a hole in their ass.

  Reaching up, I take hold of his hand and move it from my arm…to the small of my waist.

  I swear he stops breathing; I stop breathing too when his fingers grip my body, pressing themselves into my exposed flesh. When I reached up, my shirt hiked up, too, leaving my belly bare.

  I make no moves to pull it back into place.

  Roman clears his throat.

  I cuddle in deeper, moving in a way that has his hand drifting.

  Giving him the signal that it’s okay for it to roam.

  Rome.

  Big hand, big heart.

  Big dick, too, because I can feel it hardening against my ass crack; whether intentional or unintentional, Roman is getting hard. He doesn’t mention it and he doesn’t move another inch, so I’m guessing he is embarrassed or isn’t sure what to do about it.

  This is an exciting development that I want to take advantage of.

  We may be in a fake relationship for the sake of his family and Kyle, but there’s nothing fake about his hard-on.

  I lie here for another five or ten seconds or twenty—I’m not sure exactly because I’m not counting—before I ease to my back, his hand having no choice but to trail along my stomach. His fingers cover my belly button, his massive palm spanning the entire area.

  It’s warm and sears my skin like a brand.

  I make a tiny moaning sound—call it a nonverbal prompt if you will, intended to spur him on.

  It does not.

  Roman is either too polite, or too shy, or too uninterested.

  But he kissed you back like he meant it, I tell myself.

  Of course he kissed me back—polite or not, he is still a male with male instincts doing what guys do.

  My arm goes up again, this time so my hand can slide its way across his neck, fingers raking through his hair, nails lightly dragging his flesh.

  Those male instincts I just mentioned? Yeah—they’re in full force now as he moves. Not a lot, but enough, his hand slowly beginning a light back and forth, back and forth across my stomach. If this was an actual trail, a foot path would be forming from wear.

  We stay like that for a while, me rubbing the back of his neck, him with his hand on my belly, our faces inches apart.

  When I glance up at him—in the small sliver of light shining into the room from the light of the moon—he’s watching me too, head slightly bent, studying me the way I’m studying the weight of his hand on my body.

  The pressure tells me he’s not unaffected. The slight curl of his fingers tells me he’s exercising control.

  His breathing has changed, too; he’s gone from not breathing at all to shorter breaths, the same way I have.

  It hitches when I wiggle my hips, rubbing against the stiff tip of his cock, and I bet he’s wishing he hadn’t agreed to keep me warm or invited me back into his bed to begin with.

  We’re not dating.

  We are not a couple.

  Roman does not strike me as the type of guy who does anything casually—he does it with his whole heart and his whole self, putting all his effort into whatever he starts.

  Which would make for an amazing orgasm.

  Don’t be selfish, Lilly.

  It’s not selfish to want to be touched, especially not by someone you like.

  Friends kiss.

  Friends fuck, too.

  Just because I swore off men doesn’t mean I have to swear off sex, although the two do go hand in hand nicely. Vibrators obviously do not count, nor does using my own hand. And why should I deprive myself if I’ve changed my mind? I’m allowed to do that—I wasn’t anticipating meeting a guy like Roman when I decided to go on a detox.

  He was a pleasant surprise I never would have predicted.

  I want him so bad, and not because he’s changed position so his big dick is pressed into the side of my hip.

  Okay—that’s one of the reasons.

  But not the only reason.

  Okay fine—maybe right now that’s the only reason, plus I mentioned he smells like a wet dream, yeah?

  I inhale a breath when Roman’s hand does the one thing I never thought it would do: travel north. Tentatively…so tentatively I may lose my mind, but north it goes in the direction of my breasts, and thank God I didn’t put a bra on earlier when I was pouting and wanted to leave.

  Damn fool.

  Roman’s hand stops roaming.

  I stop massaging his neck.

  Pull him down a bit, touching my lips to his.

  A soft, feathery, barely-there kiss to get the message across.

  Message received.

  Suddenly we’re kissing, mouths locked, our entwined tongues doing incredible things to my lower half. God, I want him so bad.

  I bend my leg, a
nd when I do, Roman’s palm grazes up the smooth skin from my knee to my thigh to the trim of my cotton sleep shorts, fingers teasing inside the fabric.

  Yes…

  More.

  Don’t stop teasing me, I want to tell him so he won’t quit. Don’t you dare stop.

  I open my mouth wider so he can kiss me deeper, and he does, his body rolling closer to mine until he’s pressed so firmly against me it’s damn near a dry hump.

  Which I would love, by the way…

  Side note: I tried to bring dry humping back in a big way last year—kick it old school, if you will—but none of my ex-boyfriends went for it. Something about ‘chaffing their balls while wearing jeans’ and wanting to be balls deep instead? They hated it no matter how much I tried.

  Lame.

  Finally, Roman’s hand finds my breasts, carefully moving over one of them, the gentlest caress as he explores.

  “Is this okay?”

  I nod, almost unable to speak. “Yes” comes out as a whisper.

  He’s so tender with me I actually crane my neck to watch his hand explore, the sweatshirt I had on long gone, t-shirt hiked up past my chest. I can see it well enough when his fingers splay, thumb brushing my nipple.

  “You’re so beautiful,” he says as his head dips, mouth latching on, lips sucking. Kissing where his hand was.

  Oh shit, that’s going to make me wet…

  I’m so easy when it comes to foreplay. The smallest things get me hot and bothered. Turned on.

  Words.

  A slight stroke.

  Watching.

  The combination intoxicates me, and I feel powerful even as I lie here like a pillow princess doing none of the work.

  I stretch out my body, affording him more access and a better view, one hand now propped behind my head while the other one runs down the back of his shirt—tugging at it slightly so he’ll get the hint and tear it off himself.

  He does.

  Lord I need a light on, because from what I can see in this dimmest of light, Roman has the body of a Roman god—broad shoulders and firm chest with a smattering of hair that’s exactly the right amount.

  I run a hand across his pecs, shivering with excitement.

  He might not be an athlete, but his body is athletic and toned, warm beneath my palm. He’s beautiful.

  He shivers, too.

  I lean up so I can kiss his shoulder. Collarbone. The center of his chest, below his Adam’s apple.