Rowdy
Where the hell is Scarlett?
I check my phone again, then look out into the dark neighborhood, watching the sidewalk. Check for the familiar sight her black winter coat, earmuffs, and scuffed Chuck Taylors—but there is still no sign of her.
Those girls she’s come with a few times are inside, having arrived the better part of an hour ago, and I debate whether I should stay standing outside longer, the conversation we had a few weeks ago playing on a loop in my mind.
“How long would you be willing to wait for me to show up?”
“Five minutes.”
“Liar. Try again or I’m not showing you what’s in here.” That was the night she brought me food.
“I don’t know, Scarlett—eight minutes.” She’d raised her brows, challenging me.
“Fine. I’d wait an hour. Maybe a little longer if I knew for sure you were going to show up.”
Surely her friends would have told me Scarlett wasn’t coming, right? I mean, it’s been four consecutive Fridays of the same routine. The fact that she’s deviating and didn’t have the courtesy to tell me?
It annoys the shit out of me.
Scares the crap out of me, too, if I’m being honest.
Shoving through the front door, my gaze scans the perimeter of the room until they land on the familiar faces of Scarlett’s two blonde friends, whose names I have yet to catch. They’re flirting with my teammates, preening when I approach, stomping through the crowd on a mission, the taller of the two girls sticking out her ample chest when I disrupt. I reach my arm out between them, inserting myself into the conversation to stop the flow. “Hey, sorry to interrupt, but I need to grab the girls for a second.”
No one objects when I motion them aside, and I didn’t expect them to.
“What’s up, Rowdy?” Her eyes are lined with thick black coal, lips cherry red. Way too much makeup, way too perky, way too enthusiastic.
Drunk.
I shove my hands in the deep recesses of my pockets, shoulders hunching. “Do you know where Scarlett is tonight? She hasn’t showed up.”
Her black lashes flutter. “She went out—like, out out.”
Out out? What the hell does that mean?
“Out where?”
“I’m not sure? A date?” She looks to her friend for confirmation. “Or am I confusing her with Natasha?”
The girl taps her chin, surely mistaken; Scarlett wouldn’t have a date on a Friday night—not when she’s supposed to be here. With me.
Impatiently I get out my cell. “Can I get her number so I can check in on her? I want to make sure she hasn’t been murdered or whatever.”
“Yeah, sure. Just use it wisely, okay? Don’t go all creepy weirdo stalker after I give it to you, okay? She’ll kill me if you do.”
I tap in the number as she rattles it off, hit save, and add it to my contacts. “Thanks.”
“Is that all you needed?” The other blonde is fishing for something else, something I’d never give to a girl like her, and I wonder what kind of friend this one is to Scarlett. She doesn’t seem as loyal as this other one.
My head bends in concentration as I tap on Scarlett’s number. “Yeah, thanks.”
I’m already composing a new message, walking toward the front door, seeking the quiet comfort of the porch.
Parking my ass on the railing, I wait impatiently for my text to be delivered. That little blue line at the top of the screen drags its sorry ass along at a glacial pace, taking its sweet time up in cyber space to reach her phone.
Another ten minutes for three little dots to appear on the screen—the ones that tell me Scarlett is messaging me back.
Ten. Minutes.
Me: Hey. Where are you?
Scarlett: Who is this?
Me: Rowdy
Scarlett: Oh hey! Are you at the house?
Me: Yeah, I’ve been waiting for you. I thought you were going to show up tonight—was I wrong?
Scarlett: Yes, I’m sorry. I had some last-minute plans.
Me: Ah. I see.
Scarlett: No big deal, but I’m curious—how did you get my number?
Me: Your two friends are here. I had them give it to me.
Scarlett: I’m sure you barely had to browbeat them for it. lol
Me: Browbeat? All I had to do was bat my lashes. You should probably tell them not to give your number out to strange dudes—I could be a serial killer.
Scarlett: They know you’re not a serial killer, we’ve been hanging out for weeks.
Hanging out…is that what we’ve been doing?
Scarlett: Tessa just texted me. She said: Rowdy Wade asked for your number, I hope it was okay for me to give it to him ha ha.
Me: You’re not mad, are you?
Scarlett: Of course not! Don’t you think it’s weird you don’t already have it? It HAS been a few weeks.
Me: I was thinking the same thing.
Me: Anyway, I just wanted to make sure you were okay. When you didn’t show up…
Scarlett: Were you worried???
Me: No.
Me: Yes.
Me: lol
Scarlett: That’s very sweet of you to check in.
Me: I mean, we’ve spent the last four weeks together, five if you’d have shown up tonight.
Scarlett: I’m sorry you worried, I really didn’t think…I mean, I couldn’t have gotten ahold of you even if I wanted to because I didn’t have your number either.
Me: It’s fine. Don’t worry about it, I just wanted to make sure you were alive.
Scarlett: It really is very sweet of you to check in, make sure I’m not dead lol
Me: So, are you home, or…
Scarlett: No, I’m not home yet. Soon, though, if we don’t go downtown.
Me: Oh?
Scarlett: Oh? What does that mean. Lol. The way you said that…
Me: So did you have like, a date tonight or something?
My stomach knots up and I feel sick watching those three small dots at the bottom of my screen disappear and reappear as she types.
Scarlett: I went out with friends—a few from my biology lab.
Me: So not a date?
Scarlett: No, not a date. We did get dressed up and go to dinner, though. Kind of a pre-end-of-the-semester celebration. More like an excuse to dress up.
Me: Are you still out?
Scarlett: Yes. We were just having dinner, and I just happened to walk into the bathroom.
Scarlett: Not to mention, I’m in a dress and it’s freezing.
Me: What does it look like?
Scarlett: It’s black and lacey and shows off how great my legs are. lol
Me: Have you had anything to drink?
Scarlett: No, right now I’m still sober-ish
Scarlett: Okay, fine—I’ve had one glass of wine, but I’m definitely not drunk.
Scarlett: How long have you been outside waiting for me?
Me: I don’t know, a few minutes.
Scarlett: Rowdy, it’s after eleven…
Me: Fine. I’ve been waiting an hour and change.
An hour and forty-two minutes—but who’s keeping track?
Scarlett: Oh god, I’m so sorry!
Me: Don’t apologize, you don’t owe me anything.
But then I add,
Me: You want me to keep waiting for you?
Scarlett: You’d do that?
Me: If you want me to, yeah. I’ll wait for you.
Scarlett: Thank you for checking on me tonight.
Me: Hey wait, what did you have for dinner?
Scarlett: Is it always about food with you? I had soup, salad, and chicken.
Me: Goddammit I’m hungry…
Scarlett: **laughs and laughs** I can’t stay in this bathroom stall all night texting you, my friends will think I climbed out the window to avoid paying the bill.
Me: Brilliant idea. Stay put and I’ll back my truck up to the window. I’ll catch you.
Scarlett: You would not do that…
Me: Try me. I can be wherever you are in ten minutes.
Scarlett: You’re crazy, do you know that?
Yeah. Crazier for you every single fucking day.
Scarlett: How about I have them drop me off at the house instead?
Me: I’ll wait.
Hurry.
I don’t add that last part, instead, staring at my phone for the reply that never comes.
***
I don’t recognize her at first glance.
Dismiss her as another baseball groupie striding up the walkway when she appears, pulling up to the curb in a gray car. Watch when she slides out of the passenger side, one leg at a time, bending at the waist to speak to the driver.
Slams the door and gracefully strides confidently up the sidewalk, hair swishing, fanning out behind her like some goddamn shampoo commercial.
I do a double take.
“Scarlett?”
She raises her hand, clutching a small blue purse in the other. “I made it.”
I stare.
Barely recognize her. I mean—it’s her, of course I recognize her, but…
She looks so fucking different.
Her, but…
More her.
Jesus.
Hips swaying, black skirt swishing beneath the hem of a black dress coat, she approaches the stairs, long tan legs taking the steps one by one, bright blue toenails playing peekaboo in black, open-toe heels.
I straighten. Blink down at her, confused.
“Did you get a spray tan?” I blurt out, fucking up my greeting. Couldn’t the first words out of my mouth been ‘Hello, you look beautiful’?
Scarlett laughs. “Yes, I got a spray tan. I’m so pale.”
One step, then another two.
Four more and she’s all the way to the top.
“What’s with the red lips?” I blurt out again, harsher than I intend. Her mouth is a sexy, glossy red, shining when she grins at me under the light gleaming off the porch. Her teeth look blaring white in contrast.
“What’s with you tonight? You’re so crabby.” She rolls her eyes, tucking her little blue handbag under her armpit. Purses her glossy mouth. “You don’t like the red lips?”
I do. I like them a lot.
And why are her lashes so damn long? Jesus, her eyes look huge. I could watch them flutter at me all damn night.
“How was dinner?”
Another sassy grin, and her white teeth flashing get me kind of excited. “Great. Thanks for waiting on me.”
“I would have come and picked you up.” Should have gone all chivalrous on her, pulled some knight-in-shining-armor bullshit.
She touches my arm, giving my forearm a tap. “We were in the city—I never would have asked you to come that far.”
But I would have; I’d have driven clear across the state to pick her up just to see the look on her face. To see that damn dimple in her pretty, sweet cheek.
She looks so…fucking…
Her brows, which are darker than usual, furrow. “What?”
I blink. “You look…”
I bask in the brilliant sight of her, from her smooth thighs to the curve of her well-shaped calves. It might not sound like the most romantic body part to wax poetic about, but I’m an athlete and notice shit like that, the little things—like how perfect her toes are, peeking out of the front of her heels.
The place where the black belt of her dressy jacket cinches her slender waist.
And her hair?
It’s thick and full, falling in waves, draped over one shoulder, and I’ve never seen it down. It looks soft, sleek, and touchable, and I want to run my fingers through it.
“Why are you looking at me like that—stop being weird.”
Am I being weird? I do a better job schooling my expression.
Inhale a deep breath and attempt not to be a fuckwit.
“You look really pretty, that’s all I wanted to say. I’m not trying to be weird. And, uh, I have something for you.”
Her delicate arched brows go up. “You do?
“It’s not a big deal, but…” Reaching into my coat pocket, I pull out the keychain I found at the store today. It’s a starfish, covered in coral-colored rhinestones, a crappy, cheap keychain, but it reminded me of her, so before I could dwell on it, I tossed it onto the checkout counter along with my bottled water, vegetables, and protein powder.
“I found this for you at the grocery store. Close your eyes and hold out your hand.”
Scarlett grins, her dimple the cutest little dent I ever did see, squeezing her eyes shut, long inky lashes resting on a set of smooth cheekbones. “Oh god, I’m scared. What is it?”
“You’re so dramatic. Just hold out your hand.”
Scarlett squeezes her eyes tighter, holding out her palm.
Licks her bottom lip.
It affords me a few moments to study her face under the porch light while she waits. Black inky lashes kissing her smooth, blush-covered cheekbones. Bronze skin. Glossy sapphire lips. Touchable silky hair.
Her eyebrows are full and arched with expectation as she waits for me to set the gift in her palm.
Even as I lay the keychain in her hand, my eyes never leave her face, laying the metal with a delicate clink on her splayed hand, the inexpensive, shiny silver winking in the light. Only when it hits her hand does she crack a lid open.
Looks down at her hand, stares at the trinket, confused.
The tips of my fingers linger on the pads of her palm. “I know it’s stupid, but—”
Her head shakes, cutting me off. “It’s not stupid, Sterling. It’s wonderful.”
She holds it aloft, pinched between two fingers, admiring it, turning it this way and that so the light hits the coral rhinestones at all angles. It sparkles and shines like her eyes and lips.
“It’s a starfish,” I explain, stating the obvious, feeling like a complete idiot. “Because you love the ocean.”
A grin plays at her bottom lip. “I’m in love with it. This is so sweet.”
“I saw it today when I was running errands and it reminded me of you.”
I’m so damn dumb. Like a boy who doesn’t know his ass from a hole in the ground. Like I want to tug on her damn braids to get her attention.
The grin she’s trying to contain finally sneaks across her mouth. “Thank you.”
When the wind kicks up, her shoulders shiver, her breath a fine mist in the evening as she studies my present.
“Shit, I’m so sorry.” I draw my gaze away, dragging it to her bare legs. Painted toes. “You shouldn’t be standing out here—it’s freezing. You’ll get sick again.”
I shouldn’t have asked her to come; it was selfish. I should have met her at home, where it’s warm, let her change into something comfortable and settled in on the couch with her—not waited around and let her get dumped off at the goddamn baseball house.
“It is quite cold tonight, isn’t it?”
And yet she did come to see me, in a dress and heels, to stand on the porch in the cold fall night, knowing there was no chance she was getting inside the house.
For a brief moment, I consider taking her in, walking her through the house on my arm and showing her off. Show everyone what they’ve been missing because they were complete fuckers.
Still…I’m feeling selfish.
“Do you…want to go inside?”
“The house?”
“Yeah. I’ll take you home, but if you want to go inside for a little bit, we can do that, too.”
“Are you saying you’ll take me inside?” Her eyes are huge, disks of astonishment.
“If that’s what you want, we’ll go in and stay a while.”
Her stare is intense, the breeze kicking up her hair as she studies me, lips still parted in surprise. “And ruin a perfectly good evening?” She scoffs, breath kicking up a puff of air. “I don’t think so. Maybe next time.”
My eyes flicker to the empty street. “Then let’s get you home.”
“All right, Rowdy Wade, I’ll let you drive me home.” Brushes a strand of hair behind her ears. “I probably should have gone home first and thrown on some pants, huh? I don’t know what in the world I was thinking.”
A loud banging from inside interrupts, followed by raucous laughter and chanting.
“Jesus,” I groan. “They’re acting like idiots—beer pong tournament and drinking games. We’re not missing out.”
It’s true tonight, and on any given Friday. It’s hot as hell in there, though—she’d be plenty warm in that dress and those heels.
“You don’t think I’d enjoy a beer pong tournament or a drinking game? Shame on you—I’m so good at beer pong it’s stupid.”
I laugh when she winks. So fucking cute.
And pretty.
Really stupid pretty.
“I’m kind of hungry anyway. The restaurant we went to had tiny portions—my chicken was this small.” She makes a circle with her hands, demonstrating the size of her main course. “It was the size of an appetizer—you would have hated it, and then you would have died from starvation.”
“So you went someplace fancy?”
“Real fancy—hence the dress.” She does a little twirl, showing off her legs. “We’ve gone out before break the last two years. It’s kind of a tradition.”
I should have taken her out tonight.
Scarlett shivers. “Can we go now, please? I’m f-freezing.”
“Shit, I’m sorry—let me tell them I’m leaving real quick. Give me one sec.” When my hand clutches the doorknob, I turn, shooting her a cocky grin, gaze raking her up and down. “Don’t go anywhere.”
She shifts on her heels, eyes twinkling. “Very funny, wise ass. As if I’d walk the entire way home in these shoes.”
It takes me a record sixty seconds to dash inside the house, take the stairs two at a time, and retrieve the duffle bag I threw in one of the upstairs bedrooms earlier. Another two to let my friends know I’m heading home.
“Amado, I’m gonna bounce.” I walk through the kitchen, swiping an apple from the counter, sinking my teeth into the juicy meat and taking a huge bite. Wipe my chin when it drips juice.
“Where the hell have you been, amigo?”
“Front porch.”
“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 beneath 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 warring 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.
I raise it, peering at the wine inside. “Wow, you really pulled out all the stops.”
“I didn’t want to rummage around in your cabinets for wine glasses, felt weird digging through your shit.” His knee bounces a few times before he stills it with the palm of his hand and rests it on his massive thigh.
“This is fine. It’s not like we’re about to embark on a classy evening. We’re about to play a drinking game.”
I take a sip from my cup out of habit, because it’s in my hand and still cold, and my nerves are dragging me all over the place.
“No starting early,” Rowdy chastises. “You have to save that!”
I shuffle to the couch, crossing in front of him, noticing those green eyes of his trailing along after me the entire way, tracking my movements.
I shiver.
Settle on the couch left of center.
“Never have I ever been handcuffed.” He wastes no time initiating the start of the game, masculine brows waggling. “For any reason.”
Heart already racing, I raise a brow, surprised he’s diving right in with the risqué topics. We haven’t traveled down this path yet, but it looks like tonight’s the night.
Neither of us takes a sip, but I’m convinced he’s lying.
“You mean to tell me you’ve never been handcuffed, even to a bed? Why do I find that hard to believe?” Impossible, as a matter of fact.
His right shoulder rises. “I don’t fancy being tied to a bedpost—I have trust issues.”
“Oh! You don’t fancy being tied up? What’s the worst thing that could happen?”
“Someone could leave me there with my nuts and bolts just sitting there blowing in the wind, all vulnerable and shit. No thanks, not into it.”
His voice is a deep and humor-filled vibration, and Jesus, now I’m visualizing him naked, silk ties wrapped around his wrists, legs spread, and—
“Seriously, Scarlett, give me some credit? It’s been five weeks—I can read your mind by now.”
“No you can’t.”
“Yes I fucking can—get your mind out of the gutter.”
My blush is furious, unattractively darkening my collarbone.
“Never have I ever flashed a bartender for a free drink at the bar.”
Nothing.
“Really Rowdy? You’ve never flashed a bartender?”
“What would I flash them, my rod?”
“Uh, or your abs.” I laugh.
“If you were a bartender, would it work if I flashed my abs at you?”
Uh, yes. “I’d have to see them first to make that judgment call. You might have a dad bod under that shirt for all I know.”
“Don’t insult me. My abs are chiseled from the hardest rock.”
My heart beats erratically as I play it cool, wanting to see his stomach, but worried I’ll embarrass myself if I do. “If you say so.”
He leans forward. “Want me to show you? After all, I have seen your ass.”
“Do you think my ass is a fair trade for your abs?”
“I’d say it’s even—you have some pretty sweet cheeks on you.”
I tilt my head, tripping over my tongue. “I…I-I…”
“You wanna see?” He’s so blatantly fishing, wanting to impress me, that I give in—no hardship there.
“Yes.”
He straightens on the couch, setting his wine on my coffee table, rising to his knees. Grips the hem of his shirt and—
“This feels weird.” He lets the shirt fall.
“Why?
“Now I feel like I’m showing off.”
“You’re not showing off—this is for scientific research, remember? The bartenders?
“Good point!”
His charcoal gray tee rises again, inch by inch, fisted by his tan hand. Bit by bit he exposes his chiseled abdomen, the hard muscles constricting as he balances on the couch, foot secured to the floor.
“If I was a bartender,” I say slowly, accidentally chugging some of my wine, “I’d totally give you free drinks if you flashed me those abs.”
They’re absolutely ridiculous. As intimidating as he is.
Satisfied, he plops his ass back down on the couch.
“Never have I everrr…” I glance around the room for inspiration. “Woken up in a room I didn’t recognize.”
We stare at each other, defying the other to take a drink.
Neither of us does.
Rowdy’s pouty lips part. “Never have I ever asked for extra credit from a teacher.”
My chin tips up and I drink. “You already knew the answer to that one, you jockhole. That wasn’t fair.”
He ignores me, charging forward. “Never have I ever gotten kicked out of a house party.”
I narrow my eyes.
“I see what you’re doing, trying to get me tipsy.”
I drink, smirking. Two can play this game.
“Never have I ever slept with someone without knowing their last name.”
I grin when he drinks from his red cup, green eyes boring holes into me from above the rim.
“Never have I ever gotten in the way of my friends hooking up.” He smirks back.
I’m going to kill him.
Drink.
The chilled wine goes down smooth, loosens the lazy smile I now have directed at him, letting myself learn the little nuances about him.
He’s handsome, but not in a classical way. Not like some guys—some athletes—who are chiseled and perfect and pretty. The ones we see in magazines, digitally enhanced to flawlessness. Straight noses and arresting eyes, landscaped—or manscaped or whatever—within an inch of their lives to garner attention.
Sterling is none of these things.
He has scars and flaws, with freckles across the bridge of his nose that contradict how big and masculine he is. Imposing. Tall and boxy and—
“Scarlett?”
“Hmm?” I’m lost in my thoughts, the alcohol not doing me any favors.
“Never have I ever called someone out at their own party for being a lying sack of shit.”
I grab a pillow to wallop him with it. “Would you stop that!”
His smile is all innocence. “Stop what?”
“Stop asking questions you already know the answer to. Are you trying to get me drunk?”
“You’re doing the same thing I am!” His voice rises an adorable octave. “Maybe you’re trying to get me drunk.”
“Pfft, like you’d hate that.”
“No, I wouldn’t hate it.”
There is no doubt about it: we are trying to get each other drunk.
Naughty, naughty.
I can’t even look at his face when I ask, “What motivation could I possibly have to get you drunk?”
“To take advantage of me?” He sounds hopeful.
“In your dreams, pal.” I’m a pretty little liar.
“Accurate.” The neutral expression on his face gives nothing away. “Every damn night, as a matter of fact.”
I shake my head; he’s got me all tied up in knots, and I laugh it away to keep the mood from getting any more weirdly wonderful. God I’m getting drunk…that didn’t even make sense…
“All right, I’ll stop asking you questions I already know the answer to if you agree to do the same. Besides, it’s not as fun.”
“Agreed.”
“Good, because I want to get to know you better.” I bite down on my lower lip, concentrating. “Never have I ever…hmmm., let’s see. Never have I ever cheated?”
Rowdy tilts his head. “Didn’t you already ask me that once?”
“That’s right—you cheated on your road test by flirting with the guy at the DMV.”
We regard each other from across the couch and he raises a brow.
“How about rephrasing the question?” he asks slowly.
I let out a breath. “Never have I ever cheated on a significant other.”
There, I said it, the question I’ve been curious about but too damn afraid to ask. Is he faithful? Or is he a cheating, piece of shit, jock stereotype?
“Oh, well that one is easy.” He grins. “No.”
“Are you being honest?”
His brows furrow. “Why would I lie?”
“I just—you’re surrounded by girls, I just thought maybe—”
He cuts me off. “If you had asked if I’ve cheated at baseball or in class, then yes, I would have had to take a drink.”
“Is that a fact?”
“Yup. I used to cheat all the time when I was a kid, especially in middle school—I sucked at math so damn bad.”
“Yeah, I could see you sucking.” My face gets hot. “At math, I mean, not sucking on—at! Not sucking at other things. I can see you, uh, sucking at math.”
Stop saying suck—what the hell is wrong with you?
He clears his throat, glancing away, inspecting his fingernails with a smile. “Never have I ever sexted.”
My head rears back at that one, surprised he’s dropping a sext bomb. “What do you suppose the answer to that is?” I’d really like to know what he thinks of me.
He stares at my red plastic cup. “You? No way.”
“I get no street cred around here.” I laugh, chugging.
I swear, I’ve never seen anyone’s eyes get so wide as his are right now.
“For real?”
Laughing again, the alcohol in my cup is making me light and bubbly and kind of loopy.
“Yes, really. I’m super good at it, too.” I take another sip of my wine for good measure, those green eyes of his burning holes into the bare skin of my shoulders. Collarbone.
Cleavage.
Rowdy’s eyes take one more long drag of my hair before he clears his throat, focusing on the wall.
“Your turn.”
I tap my chin. “How about: never have I ever slept with someone knowing they only wanted to sleep with me because I’m popular.”
Rowdy stiffens. “Scarlett, come on.”
“Sterling, come on. Drink or don’t.”
Please don’t, please don’t.
But he does, raising his cup. Drinks from it before licking the rim, then licks the drops off those beautifully sculpted lips.
It’s mesmerizing.
“Never have I ever fantasized about a friend,” he mutters, voice low but steady. Steadier than mine, steadier than my hands, which feel weak.
Hell yes I fantasize about friends, I want to shout. I fantasize about him. Fantasize about all the unfriendly things I want to do to him, with him.
We stare at each other expectantly, raising our cups at the same time, pressing the plastic to our mouths, tipping back.
Chug the wine down because suddenly we both need it.
My pelvis wiggles on the couch, a dull ache building in my crotch. My breasts get heavy. Nipples hard.
I feel a desperate need to drink away this sudden heat between us, the way his gaze grazes my skin.
Say something Scarlett.
“Are you drunk?”
“No, it’s going to take a lot more of these to get this tank drunk.” He laughs. “But I’m definitely starting to feel a buzz. Should I get the rest of the bottle?”
“Please?”
He clucks his tongue, amused. “Such pretty manners.”
When Sterling rises, stands, and stretches, my gaze lands squarely on his backside, dragging over his round, ballplayer’s ass. His tapered waist.
His thick thighs.
That strong back, muscles straining against his tight gray compression t-shirt.
Jesus, his body is incredible—and I would know, because my eyes follow it allll the way into the kitchen.
When he returns and takes his place back on the couch, he’s closer than before, so close our thighs touch through the fabric of our pants.
“Did you check the thermostat before?” I ask, holding out my cup for the refill I so desperately need. “It feels warm.”
He pours. “Yeah. It’s set at sixty-eight, you should be good.”
Right.
Sixty-eight degrees.
Most definitely not sixty-nine.
“I thought of one while I was in the kitchen.”
“Go.”
He repositions himself, spreading his legs. “Never have I ever gotten anyone drunk on purpose.”
“I would never do that.”
“Nope.” His grin is lopsided. “Me neither.”
“Really? You don’t haze the new guys on the team? Get them drunk on purpose.”
“That’s not exactly what I was talking about.”
“No, but now I’m curious. What’s the worst thing you’ve done to someone on the team as a joke?”
He’s quiet, giving it some thought, debating about whether or not he can tell me. “I don’t know—probably the time I helped put Simon Grant’s car up on blocks in the parking lot.”
“That seems harmless enough.”
“You say that now.” Rowdy smirks. “But you try getting a two-ton car down off cinderblocks by yourself.”
“Has anyone ever hazed you?”
“Sure.” He leans back, arms up on the back of the couch, still gripping his cup.
I roll my eyes, wanting more detail. I hate having to pry it out of people. “And?”
“Anddd someone once took all my clothes while I was showering, which was so fucking dumb, because I solved that problem right away by stealing someone else’s.”
“Very clever of you.”
His grin is mischievous. “I didn’t say they fit.”
“Never have I ever stolen someone’s clothes.”
I laugh when he takes a chug from his cup.
“How is the wine? Need more yet?”
I squint into the half-empty cup he refilled not five minutes ago. “Yes please.”
He takes my cup, fingers wrapping themselves around mine—deliberately or not, his strong, steady fingers send a shiver up the nerves in my arm and straight to my erratically beating heart.
Rowdy pours light gold liquid into my cup, never taking his hand off mine.
Until he does.
I exhale.
“Never have I ever played Never Have I Ever for so fucking long and for so many days.”
We clink glasses in a mock cheers, drinking down our wine with matching laughs. “Never have I ever played a drinking game with wine.”
“Never?” he asks.
“Never.” I wink at him. “I’m not sure how I feel about it—the wine is a bit much.”
“Have you ever…” His throat clears before he goes on. “Dated an athlete?”
“Just in high school.”
“Yeah.” He chuckles. “Not the same thing.”
No, I wouldn’t suppose so. Sterling Wade is nothing like the boys I went to high school with. He’s powerful, well on his way to becoming a man, with responsibilities.
“How is it different?”
“How much time do you have for me to explain?”
“All night.” I blush when he shifts in place, resting his arm on the back of the couch, our thighs and calves rubbing together when he relaxes.
“For starters, during the season, we’re constantly sore from working out. It sucks. Wanting to go home and pass the fuck out after practice is pretty standard, which makes life pretty boring, but—homework.” He exhales a deep breath before continuing. “Training. Practice. Rehab if you’ve been injured.”
“How often do you train?”
“Up to forty hours a week. It’s a job, not a hobby, so…not like high school where anyone can play if they make the cut. You fuck up and you’re screwed—your mommy isn’t coming to rescue you or call the principal to get your ass off the bench.” Rowdy shifts his big body again so he’s facing me. “Then obviously, stamina.”
“Stamina?”
“You know, going the distance.” How he says that with a straight face, I will never know.
“Are we talking about sex now?”
He has the courtesy to be sheepish about his blatant innuendo, shrugging, face turning crimson red.
“Sorry to be the bearer of bad news, Rowdy, but contrary to popular belief, no girl wants to have sex for hours when the goal can be accomplished in a few minutes.” I flip my long hair. “It’s not realistic, and it would make me sore as hell.”
Instead of arguing like I expect him to, Rowdy Wade tips his head back and laughs, Adam’s apple bouncing as his beautiful, unshaven throat constricts. I imagine those whiskers leaving marks on my silky skin, in places I can only see with a handheld mirror.
“Never have I ever considered a girl one of my best friends.” He pins me down, only a few feet away, stopping my mouth from opening when he continues, “Do you consider me a good friend Scarlett?”
“You know I do.”
“Never have I ever…” He pauses, swallowing. Stares straight at my mouth. “Never have I ever wanted to kiss one of my friends.”
He’s whispering, the hand in his lap now sliding down his thigh…toward mine. I watch that hand breathlessly—wide and sturdy and male—drumming on the denim material of his jeans.
Takes a drink of his wine with the other, the knot in his throat bobbing…nervously?
I’m tempted to drink from my cup, too, just to give my hands a job, before I start fidgeting from nerves, having him so close. When I inhale a breath, I catch a whiff of him, of the fresh air, aftershave, and laundry detergent fragrances on his clothes.
“Stop it, Sterling,” I whisper back. “You shouldn’t tease.”
He looks unsure, oddly vulnerable. Smells so damn terrific. “I’m not trying to be funny. I’m…”
“You’re what?”
“I’m trying to get you to kiss me. Why is it so damn difficult?”
My mouth forms an O.
He sets his cup down on the table in front of us, leaning forward to invade my personal space.
I let him.
I let him lean over, big body facing mine, torso twisted. Large hands slide up my bare arms to my shoulders.
“Never have I ever stared at someone’s lips so fucking hard in my entire life.” He pauses. “Never have I ever put the moves on someone and been so fucking nervous.”
“You’re nervous?”
“Yes,” he rumbles.
“So am I.”
Our faces are inches apart, hot breaths mingling.
My voice catches. “Sterling, don’t ever play games with me.”
I’m at a loss for words.
“This isn’t part of the game, Scarlett.”
“It’s not?”
“No.” The tip of his nose brushes mine and the rumble of his chuckle is low. “I have never, in my whole goddamn life, worked so hard to get someone to put their mouth on mine.”
“Are you drunk?” I murmur.
Because I am, buzzing with nervous energy and anticipation. Drunk on his cologne and the tingle from his strong forearms breezing up my body.
“Maybe not on alcohol, but on something else entirely,” he admits. “Are you?”
My eyes close when his nose slides across my cheekbone, down my jawline, nuzzling my neck. He can’t see it, but my eyes roll back into my head from the contact.
Jesus he feels so good.
“A little.”
His breath. His nose.
His mouth.
It brushes the shell of my ear, hot breath making me crazy.
“We can blame it on the alcohol in the morning if we want to, yeah?” His voice is husky, vibrating my nerves, just at the base of my ear.
I tilt my neck. “We could.”
Instead of pressing his mouth to mine, Rowdy drags it down the column of my neck where the skin is bare. Kisses my clavicle, sucking gently. Grazes his way up my chin, the divot of my bottom lip.
My lips part, breath coming quicker, chest heaving.
“You smell so fucking good,” he says into my temple.
“I was just thinking the same thing about you.”
“Good, ’cause I showered tonight, just for you.”
That makes me laugh, not because it’s funny, but because he mentioned it—as if I couldn’t tell he smelled like soap and a little extra effort.
The alcohol has gone to my head—I’m a total lightweight—but alcohol isn’t what has me tipping my head back, isn’t what has me biting back a small moan when Rowdy kisses the sensitive skin next to my right eye.
When he drags his nose down mine and kisses the tip of it, my eyes shut. Lashes flutter when those callused hands of his graze my biceps, thumbs smoothing along my collarbone.
I know what’s coming next and I want it.
Want it more than anything I’ve wanted in a really long time.
The couch cushions dip when we lean into each other farther, my breasts gently rubbing his pecs through his thin shirt. I’m grateful for it, relishing the heat and hardness of him.
Then…
His mouth is on mine, the light kiss scarcely touching my lips. It’s a hot, searing form of torture.
My heart is beating so fast, pounding inside my chest so hard I can hear it in my ears, echoing in time with every breath I take.
Ba bum, ba bum, ba bum.
Rowdy is hesitating, waiting to really lay one on me, his penetrating green eyes roaming my face. Lips. Hair. I lean back to study his face, too, wondering what he sees when he looks at me. Study his dilated irises and pouty bottom lip. His cheekbones and the stubble on his cheeks from the day’s growth.
So handsome and serious.
“What are you waiting for, Sterling?” I whisper.
“I don’t know.”
With a temperate nudge, I give his strapping shoulders a push, urging him back against the cushions, legs spread, hands at his sides.
I don’t know what comes over me—sexual repression, probably—but I find myself straddling his wide hips, sitting my ass right on top of his thick thighs as if it has a right to be there.
My eager palms rest on his chest, easing up the smooth fabric of his shirt, every tendon in his body beneath my fingertips. At my mercy when I pin him down.
“Hands behind your head,” I murmur into his ear, dragging my nose up and down the shell of it, his hair tickling my nostrils.
He complies quickly and without protest, clasping those great, masculine hands of his behind his head, lacing them together. His biceps bulge, whiter than the rest of him, veins blue and prominent.
I graze my fingertips along the sensitive skin there, relishing how soft it is. How strong and solid the muscles are. Firm. Flattening my palms, they skim Rowdy’s flesh, over his armpits and down his ribcage.
He’s breathing hard, squirming under me.
“What do you daydream about the most?”
“You.”
Good answer.
I kiss his neck, just below his jawline.
“What is your best physical feature?” I whisper.
“My…” He swallows, debating. There are so many choices. “My arms.”
I agree. I kiss the flesh of his powerful underarm.
“If you were given the chance to become invisible for one day, what would you do with this ability?”
“I…” he begins. Swallows. “I would spend it watching you walk around naked.”
“You think I walk around naked an entire day? My, my, what wishful thinking.”
Nevertheless, I kiss the space next to his eye, where it’s tender, kiss his laugh lines.
His eyes widen when my hands cradle his face, fingers flexing behind his head.
Rowdy is so damn adorable; I want to eat him up. So huge, my five-foot five-inch frame feels so petite in his lap. With my front row seat, my fingers brush his jawline, stroking upward over the unshaven bristles. Over his pouty bottom lip.
“Do it, Scarlett.” His fingers squeeze my waist to prompt me along, begging me to kiss him on the mouth. “Fucking do it already.”
“Stop being so bossy. I’ll get to it.”
Never would I ever have thought I’d be doing this with him, not in a million years…
“You can take your hands down now,” I inform him magnanimously, orienting myself so I can rub my breasts along his chest.
The first brush of my mouth against his is brief, sweeping. Soft.
Electric.
Zap.
Sizzle.
Startled, I pull back. “Did you feel that?”
A short nod. “Yes.”
He licks his gorgeous lips, lips still parted expectantly.
“Do it again.”
His hands grip my backside, fanned out on my spine.
When our mouths finally fuse, I lose myself in him a bit. One small piece of my soul becomes Sterling Wade’s, whether he wants it or not.
Up my back, one of his hands roams. Up my spine, strong and splayed. Up the column of my neck, fingers spread, plunging through my hair as his tongue plunges into my mouth, meeting mine.
The other is firmly planted on my ass.
This kiss is…
Shock and shiver and memorable. Insanity. Divine torment.
I cannot get my tongue far enough down his throat, body electrically charged, intensely aware of the throbbing member between my legs.
I will not grind on his cock, I will not grind on his cock, I will not…
Too late. My hips roll of their own accord; they can’t help themselves, wanting him as much as I do. His thick shaft is nestled snuggly between my legs, begging for attention the way Rowdy was begging for my kisses.
Greedy. Needy.
Hot and sexy, our tongues and lips are wet, dipping into each other as if it’s the only time we’ll have the chance.
It’s madness.
I want to tear his clothes off and bang him on my living room floor.
Weeks of mutual, pent-up sexual tension have me reaching for the hem of his shirt and sliding my hands underneath. Aching and desperate to feel the weight of his skin, my fingertips glide over Rowdy’s textbook washboard abs.
They were carved out of marble.
Jesus, he’s so ripped and cut in all the right places I don’t know what to touch or stroke first.
Greedy. Selfish.
My hands find the light smattering of chest hair on his pecs. I sweep over it with the pads of my fingers; my selfish palms slither over the solid, brawny muscles of his clavicle. Brush over his hard nipples with the pads of my thumb. Rest on his ribcage, caressing there, too.
“Don’t,” he warns into my mouth. “I’m ticklish.”
I’m such an asshole. I tickle near his arm pit.
“How ticklish?” I murmur, daring to torment him.
“Ticklish enough that I’m three seconds from picking you up and tossing you to the floor.”
My breath quickens. Picking me up and tossing me to the floor? How exciting.
“Is that so?”
I wiggle my finger under his pit, taunting the caged tiger, practically daring him to haul me up and do whatever nefarious things he’s going to do to me on the ground in the middle of the room.
Do it.
Do it, I dare him.
My heart accelerates at the thought; I’ve never made out with anyone so totally male before, making all the guys before him nothing but boys.
Rowdy could lift me in one motion as if I weighed nothing, and I want to see him do it, desperately.
“Are you testing my patience on purpose, Scarlett?”
I nod. “How strong your self-control?”
“Right now? Shitty.”
“Good.” I tip my chin, giving him access to nuzzle it. Lick it if he wants.
“You want me to toss you on the floor?”
Another nod and my lips part. “Yes.”
“How bout I do you one fuckin better?”
Fuckin’ do me better.
Sterling’s mammoth palms firmly grope my hamstrings before his arms brace and he stands, hoisting me up. Lifts me, as if I’m weightless, and I wrap my legs around his waist.
God he’s sexy, lips and teeth still lapping me up. Mouth on my neck, sucking at my collarbone.
Instead of laying me on the floor as he threatened, he takes three long strides, stalking across the carpeted floor, pressing my back flat against the living room wall.
Bracing me between him and the kitchen.
His erection digs into the apex of my thighs through his pants, and with slow controlled movements, Sterling hovers me over his cock, working me up and down over his jeans until we’re dry humping against the wall. Kissing. Making out like teenagers, devouring each other.
Rowdy squeezes my ass every so often, our tongues mating. Fucking, really.
Dirty.
I can’t get my mouth open wide enough; this kiss is the best one I’ve ever had, messy and wet—so wet I’ll probably have to wipe my mouth off when we’re done, but I don’t care. I’m delirious with want and need, dirty and delicious tension making us frantic.
I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t thought about what it would be like to kiss Sterling Wade since the minute I walked out onto that porch with him, lying if I said I hadn’t thought about those mammoth baseball player hands rubbing on my body.
They’re huge. They’re fantastic.They’re gripping my bottom, grasping my butt cheeks. Sliding up my ribcage, around my slender frame to cup my breast through the fabric of my tank top.
I’m so glad I’m not wearing a bra.
“Mmm,” I moan.
This kiss is everything, and I will remember it for the rest of my life.
I groan into his mouth when his hands firmly grip my body, holding me steady as if I weigh nothing. Moan again when his tongue does that sexy twirly rolling thing against mine. Draws my bottom lip into his mouth, nipping.
I pant when his teeth drag along my throat and his mouth sucks at my neck.
This kiss is everything…
Everything.
His mouth checks my vitals, sucking on the throbbing pulse in my neck, slowly driving me mad and probably giving me a hickey. I don’t even care; I’ll cover it with makeup.
I love it.
Love his mouth and tongue and rough, grasping hands.
This is more than a first kiss. This is us losing ourselves in each other, an out-of-body experience. For once in my life I don’t want to be cautious. I want to throw caution to the wind.
I want him as much as he wants me.
But not against a wall. Or on the dirty carpet of my college rental. Or when we’ve been drinking.
I meet his wild, half-hooded eyes. Stare down at his puffy lips, running the tips of my fingers along the bowed top of his mouth, tracing the curve.
He parts his lips, tongue flicking the pad of my forefinger.
Then, I bring a hand to my own mouth, replicating the motion, pressing gently.
It’s tender.
Thoroughly kissed.
“Scarlett, let’s go to the bedroom.” He continues to kiss along my jaw.
God I want to—I want to so bad.
But I’m not spontaneous, and no matter how hot my body is—the fire inside blazing from head to toe—I’m not the kind of girl who’s going to have sex on a whim because it feels good.
“If we go into the bedroom, Sterling, we won’t stop.”
“You want to stop?” His expression is incredulous.
“I don’t want to…but we should.”
Rowdy still has me pressed against the wall, pelvis and cock digging into my crotch. He licks my cleavage, right in the valley between my breasts. “I want you to know, I have no problem playing the long game with you, just so you know what you’re up against.”
I’m dazed. “The long game?”
“I can wait you out, Scarlett Ripley.”
Wait me out. “What does that mean?”
“If you’re saying there’s even a chance of letting me inside your tight, wet pussy, I’m willing to wait until you’re ready.”
Jesus, his mouth is filthy.
I love it.
Warm heat floods my stomach, pooling in my lower abdomen.
“You’re so fucking…” He’s practically growling, sexual frustration clenching his control like a fist. “Look, okay…I just need a second.”
Even when he blows out an unsatisfied puff of air, releasing the pent-up tension from his lungs, it’s sexy. Watching this self-composed man come undone is…
Powerful.
“I’ve literally never had this conversation with anyone in my entire life,” he grumbles, the baritone of his voice reverberating deep. “My balls aren’t going to be blue, they’re going to turn purple.”
I kiss the corner of his mouth, in no hurry to be put back on the ground. “Never have I ever had a sex talk before I tried sleeping with someone.”
We kiss in lieu of drinking alcohol, still drunk on one another.
“You’d rather just rip all your clothes off and screw?” I ask when we come up for air.
“It’s always been easier than talking.”
“We’re being responsible.”
He grunts. “I guess, but doesn’t planning sex take the fun out of it?”
I wouldn’t have a clue. “Doesn’t anticipation give us something to look forward to?”
He considers the question. “What if the sex is crap after all this buildup?”
“What if it’s the best sex you’ve ever had?” I tap him on the nose. “Just something to think about.” Tilt my head, studying him as he holds me up as if I weigh nothing. “Have you ever done that? Not just had random sex?”
“I had a girlfriend once, my freshman year.”
He had a girlfriend? This surprises me and my brows go up.
“Oh yeah? What happened?” I try to keep my tone causal, but our breathing is labored and it’s difficult. Lean in to kiss his strong jaw.
“The team happened.” He hoists me, readjusting my weight, mouth below my ear. “The pressure, the—”
“Groupies?”
“No. I was going to say I was away too much. She didn’t like it.”
“Hmm.”
“Hmm, what?”
“Nothing.”
He sets me on the ground, gazing down into my eyes. “Not nothing. What were you going to say?”
“I was going to ask about fidelity.”
“Why? I already told you I’ve never cheated. Fidelity was never a problem for me like it was for her.”
“Can you clarify that?”
“She said she was left alone too much and I wasn’t giving her enough attention.” The words come out slightly bitter, and in reply, no sound comes out of my mouth but for a short intake of breath.
“Do you mean she cheated on you?”
He grunts, running his fingers through my hair. “I got over it.”
“But you haven’t had a girlfriend since.”
“No.”
“So you’re not emotionally scarred or anything?” I blurt out.
He laughs. “What the hell kind of question is that?”
“I’m just wondering if you were traumatized by it.”
He rolls his brilliant green eyes at me. “I was eighteen, Scarlett. Nothing traumatized me back then. My shit didn’t stink.”
“Whatever you say.” I’m not convinced.
He sighs. “I didn’t lie in bed crying about it, if that’s what you’re thinking happened.”
Yeah, that’s a little bit what I was thinking. “I want to have sex with you—I do—just not against a wall.”
“Bite your tongue.” He bends at the knees, brushing my hair back and flicking his tongue along my lobe. Exhales into my ear. “I would never fuck anyone against a wall. Have you ever tried it? Stupid dangerous and way too much work on my end not to drop you.” He laughs into my hair. “Not worth it.”
“Shut up.” I laugh, wanting to smack him arm. “I’m being serious. I’m not a hook-up kind of girl, and you already know I’m kind of a pain in the ass—ask any one of your friends.”
“I’m not telling my friends shit.” After a few heartbeats, he adds, “It’s no one’s business but ours.”
I believe him, holding my breath when his palm roams up the smooth front of my top. Kneads my breast through the thin fabric.
“Scarlett?”
“Hmm?”
“I’m going to miss these boobs tonight when I get home.”
Whether he palms one for good measure or to torture us both, I’ll never know.
***
Rowdy: I can’t sleep, can you?
Scarlett: No. I tried sleeping then finally started playing around on my phone. Watching for you to message me, lol, how lame am I?
Rowdy: Not as lame as me doing the same thing. I gave up waiting—you’re a real stubborn PITA sometimes, Ripley
Rowdy: I should have just spent the night. My dick would be tucked nicely into your ass crack. Was that TMI? Too soon?
Scarlett: lol, I’m not sure that would have helped. And do you really think we’re at that point? Sleepovers?
Rowdy: We’re friends, which is more than most people have when they start dating.
Scarlett: Dating… Is that what you want?
Rowdy: I told you I was playing the long game, remember?
Scarlett: I didn’t forget, I guess I just didn’t realize that’s what you wanted.
Rowdy: Isn’t what EVERY girl wants?
Scarlett: I only want what you’re willing to give me.
Rowdy: Scarlett, it’s two o’clock in the morning; I’m way too tired to get philosophical.
Scarlett: Let’s talk about how you failed to nail me last night. What would we call that in baseball? A strike out?
Rowdy: JESUS you’re fucking savage.
Scarlett: I’m so sorry, I couldn’t pass that up. I thought I was flirting??
Rowdy: You could have taken a nice long pass on that joke.
Scarlett: Sorry I’m being a brat, especially when you’re being so sweet, but I’ve been dying to use the phrase “nail me” in a sentence.
Rowdy: If I wanted to be abused, I’d go to the gym and let the physical therapist work out the knots in my shoulders.
Scarlett: **takes mental picture of your body with no shirt on**
Rowdy: Next time you won’t need a mental picture. All you have to do is ask, and I don’t even care what tone you use.
Scarlett: I’m pretty good with my hands, maybe I’ll give you a rub down one of these days.
Rowdy: Don’t ever say rubdown because now a massage is the last thing on my mind. All I can think about is an actual rubdown.
Scarlett: You’re just…
Rowdy: Horny?
Scarlett: Do you suppose there’s a better word than that? Horny sounds so gross.
Rowdy: It sounds better than me saying I’m having lascivious thoughts about you.
Scarlett: Did you just google that word?
Rowdy: Yeah, the list of synonyms is terrible. None of them are dirty enough.
Scarlett: You’re right, they’re not. Weird, right?
Scarlett: When do you start spring training for baseball—like, what day?
Rowdy: January…twentieth or something I think, I’m not exactly sure, I’ll have to look at the schedule. I actually come back before break is officially over, we start a few days before class resumes.
Scarlett: How did I not know this?
Rowdy: I was hoping you’d make a better WAG than this.
Scarlett: A what?
Rowdy: lol, look it up.
Scarlett: When are you done with exams?
Rowdy: The 12th but I have a bunch of shit to do at the field house before I leave; already have my plane ticket for December though.
Scarlett: Pause. Can we focus on the fact that you keep using semicolons in your text messages?
Rowdy: Is it turning you on?
Scarlett: Proper use of grammar always turns me on.
Rowdy: I’ll remember that. You want me to email you my calendar?
Scarlett: Uh, sure? If you want?
Rowdy: I want.
Rowdy: What are you doing next weekend? I thought maybe we could hang out or something.
Scarlett: Going home for the first time in months.
Rowdy: Oh.
Scarlett: What about you?
Rowdy: I don’t have any plans.
Scarlett: I’d bring you home with me, but my parents don’t know you and I think my dad would have a fit. Plus my mom has this project she needs help with for my dad…
Rowdy: I need help with a few projects, lol **eggplant and water emoji**
Scarlett: You’re **such** a pervert!
Rowdy: Are you complaining? Should I dial it down a notch or 12?
Scarlett: No **bites down on lower lip**
Rowdy: So there’s no chance you’re going to be here this weekend? I was hoping we could go to dinner or something.
Scarlett: Like a date?
Rowdy: Yeah, like a date.
Scarlett: Well now I feel terrible—I wish I could.
Scarlett: Are you disappointed?
Rowdy: Little bit, but I can text you all weekend, yeah?
Scarlett: I’m sorry, did you say texting or sexting?
Rowdy: You had me at sexting—now I’m kind of glad you’re going to be gone.
Scarlett: Gee, thanks.