Rowdy
“Can you do me a favor and not embarrass me in front of my friend?” I flex the fingers of my left hand nervously, a habit I picked up from standing long hours in the infield during baseball games.
“You mean your girlfriend?”
“Mom, please don’t call her that when she’s here.”
“So she’s not your girlfriend?” She feigns ignorance to torture me.
“Yes, she is. Just hearing it…” makes me so damn stupid, I don’t know what’s going to come flying out of my mouth. I’m giddy, and having Scarlett here, in my fucking house, is making me want to run circles around the neighborhood to burn off this nervous energy.
I’m pumped. So fucking stoked.
“It’s all good, kiddo. Mom is hip.”
“Just—oh my god. This is going to be my worst nightmare.”
My mom sets down the knife she’s using to cut up a pineapple, resting it on a butcher-block cutting board.
“Why are you so dramatic?” She sighs, popping a chunk of fruit in her mouth. Chews. “So high strung, just like your father.”
I press my lips together and take a deep, steadying breath. “Mom, just…be cool, all right? Don’t start planning our wedding. Don’t mention babies. Don’t ask what books she reads, don’t—”
Wrong thing to say.
My mother cuts me off with a palm in the air. “Does she not read?”
“Yes, she likes to read, just don’t grill her about your novels, okay?”
My mother writes historical romance novels and is a total nerd when it comes to reading.
“What does she like to read, then?” she presses.
“Mom. If you embarrass me, I’m never bringing her back here again.”
She straightens against the counter, uncurling her spine indignantly. As if I’ve offended her somehow.
“You’re hurting my heart.” She places a hand to her chest, affronted that I’d even suggest to her that they’re an embarrassment. “I’m not a regular mom, I’m a cool mom.”
Oh for fuck’s sake.
“I’m serious. Don’t do that thing you always do when there are girls around…”
“What thing?” She glances around the kitchen as if expecting someone to pop out from one of the cabinets. “What girls?”
“That thing!” My arms are waving around as if independent from my body. “That thing, that thing—babies and weddings and shit.”
“Sterling Aaron, I don’t even know this girl. I certainly wouldn’t talk about babies in front of her.” There’s a brief pause. “Why? Does she like babies.”
I’m so screwed.
“I just don’t need you scaring her.”
“Why?” She leans forward, elbow on the counter, eyes bright, alive with interest. “Do you actually like her? Is this one going to stick?” Mom makes the sign of the cross against her chest. “I’ll be on my best behavior, promise.”
Shit. That’s not a good sign, either.
See, the thing about my parents—especially my mother—is that they’ve always been overinvolved where I’m concerned. As their only son—and one who was athletically inclined—no matter how busy they were or how often they traveled for work, they were always at my games.
Overinvolved. Overenthusiastic. Overactive imaginations.
My mother is a romance novelist, so it’s always come with the territory—she romanticizes everything I’ve done. Every girl I’ve gone out with, every relationship I’ve never committed to—all fodder for her writing.
She simply cannot help herself.
It’s her job.
But, that’s never made it any less annoying.
I sigh, grabbing my car keys off the counter. “I’m running to the airport to grab Scarlett and when I get back, can you just behave? We aren’t characters in one of your novels.”
A terse nod. A mischievous tip of the lips. “Of course you’re not.”
She’s not looking me in the eye.
“Thanks, Mom.”
Another cube of pineapple gets popped into her mouth. “Drive safe, and wear your seatbelt.”
Scarlett
Rowdy looks just like his mother.
It’s the first thing I notice when she greets us at the door when we return from the airport…having made out in the car for fifteen minutes before coming inside the house from the garage.
Mrs. Wade is tall, the familiar smile on her pretty face spreading. She does a good enough job trying to disguise it behind a coffee mug, but I catch it.
And there is no hiding her twinkling green eyes.
They’re just like her son’s.
“So I’m just going to throw this out there then let the two of you go on your way—and feel free to shoot the idea down,” she starts, leaning over the counter and steepling her fingers. “Don and I were talking to our friend Ken, who works at the cruise line, and he managed to get an extra cabin this weekend.”
Cabin?
Heat climbs my neck. Is she implying what I think she’s implying?
“Don’t look so horrified, they’re not adjoining rooms.” She laughs. “We thought it would be so fun for the four of us to go, kind of like a really long double date!”
Go with them? Go with them where?
She prattles on, taking another sip from her white ceramic mug. “What do you think? Leave tomorrow, back on Monday? Two nights, bim bam boom?”
Rowdy’s fingers find the belt loops of my jeans and give them a little tug so I know he’s come up behind me.
“Go with you on your cruise?” Rowdy asks into the crown of my head, above me.
My heart thumps harder.
Mrs. Wade—Hannah—waves a hand airily. “Just a quick jaunt to the islands down south.”
The islands down south means the Caribbean. Fish and coral reefs and buckets of seashells.
“I understand if you planned on just lying around, so go discuss it. Dad is jonesing for some tacos so we’re running down to grab a few from the cart down the block before they close up shop, but we’ll be back in twenty minutes. I should let Ken know within the hour if he can release the cabin for booking or if we’re taking it.”
She is so casual about it—having me in the house, taking me on a vacation.
As if any of this is normal.
“Think about it, kids—we’d have the whole weekend to get to know each other!”
Rowdy groans, but his fingers tickle the waistband of my pants. “Wanna talk about it? Bring your bags upstairs?” His tall frame reaches for my suitcase, still sitting on the floor next to the mudroom door, and when I go to remove it from his hands, he shoos me away. “I got it.”
He insists I climb the stairs first—they’re conveniently located off the kitchen, his bedroom the first door at the top. Dumping everything as we enter, he leads me inside, closing the door behind him.
We’re alone.
In his childhood bedroom.
My eyes are drawn back to him as he plops down on the bed unceremoniously, bouncing on the mattress, excited. “What do you think? Wanna go?”
Yes, yes, yes!
I want to go so bad it’s a damn miracle I didn’t burst into song and dance in the middle of his parents’ kitchen—but I do the moment I shut his bedroom door behind us. Blood courses through my entire body, the liquid oxygen making me lightheaded and dazed, flushing with anticipation.
I hop in place, a high-pitched squeak causing him to quirk an eyebrow.
“Sooo that’s a yes?”
Week after week of getting to know me on the front porch of the baseball house, I know I’ll never be able to fake him out. Never be able to be coyly demure.
Even if I wasn’t dancing in his bedroom, he’d be able to read me better than most of my friends can.
I calm myself, inhaling a few quick breaths. “I want to go so bad.”
“I knew you’d say yes.”
I push him down onto the mattress and crawl over him, staring down into his eyes. “Did you plan this?”
Shrug. “I may have already known my parents could get a second room so we could go along, but I didn’t know if you would say yes.”
My blue eyes narrow, lips hovering inches from his. “Was this an ambush?”
Rowdy licks his lips. “My mom is a hopeless romantic—she’ll do anything to get me into a committed relationship.” He cranes his neck, pressing a kiss to my mouth. “I haven’t brought a girl home since I was in high school, and it was probably for some stupid dance.”
“So I’m special?” I tease him, wanting to hear the words. Dying for them.
“So special I want to parade you all over the place when we get back to school—I’m going to force all my pissant friends to spend time with you.”
“God, please don’t!”
“Why not?”
“Because they…don’t like me.” They think I’m annoying.
“Tough shit. They’ll get used to it.”
“Are you keeping me?”
“Can I?” His hands slide from my ribs to my back, caressing my spine, big and warm and secure.
Mmm. “I’ll think about it.”
“In the meantime, I should probably pack, too—throw some shit into an overnight bag.” He shoots me a grin, slaps me on the ass.
“I’m surprised you haven’t done that already, you shady bastard.”
He gives those broad shoulders another shrug. “Sue me for wanting to see you in a swimsuit.”
“You would have seen me in one eventually.”
“Did you bring a one-piece or a bikini?” he demands, gaze skimming down the front of my shirt to where my breasts are plumped up from being squeezed against his chest.
His perusal gives me goose bumps.
“Both,” I whisper. “I brought both, just in case.”
Rowdy sits up, hauling me along with him, spreading his legs. Resting me on thick thighs, giant hands skimming to my hips. Caressing.
“Just in case what?”
“Just in case I got brave.”
“Baby, it wouldn’t matter if you wore a brown paper bag.” His voice dips low as his hands massage my waist, through my shirt. “I’d still think you were sexy.”
I’m his baby now?
“Brown paper bag?” I’m skeptical.
“I mean, good luck finding one, but, yeah—I’d take you in a paper bag.” His fingers toy with the hem of my shirt, tugging gently. Leans in close to whisper, “Then, I’d push you in the ocean and you’d get soaking wet, and the bag would disintegrate. Boom, naked.”
“So we’re doing it.”
“My balls want you to define the term doing it.”
I swallow. “Don’t be such a pervert. I meant going on vacation together.” I pause, thinking. Then, “Wait, if we’re sharing a cabin, does that mean we’re going to end up sharing a bed?”
Rowdy laughs, burying his face in the crook of my neck.
“Oh we’re definitely sharing a bed.” His fingers brush the skin under my shirt.
“But some of those rooms have bunk beds, right?”
Rowdy laughs, tipping his head back, and for a brief moment I’m able to admire his strong, thick neck. “Who says we’ll be in an interior cabin?”
“I mean—we’re kids.” No way would my parents ever put me in a room with balconies, let alone a window, on a cruise ship. It costs way too much money.
“Kids, huh?” He stretches his legs in front of him, long torso and form large and imposing and definitely in no way childlike. “Do I look like a little boy to you?”
No. He does not.
He looks like a big, strapping hottie with a five o’clock shadow and firm pecs and thick thighs. He looks like he wants to show me all the un-childlike activities we can do in this room, tracking my movements when I back away from him, stepping out from between his long, outstretched legs.
A photograph on his dresser catches my eye so I stroll to it, limbs a bit wobbly, glancing over my shoulder, smiling to myself when I catch him watching me intently.
Bending at the waist, I inspect the picture of him in high school with a medal around his neck and a baseball glove on his hand. His face is flushed, sunburnt, and he’s squinting from the glare of the sun.
He’s happy and beaming. Sweaty, too, like he just played a hard game and won.
“That was the day I made All-American,” his deep voice tells me from behind.
I nod, moving on to the next one, then the next. Then on to his medals and trophies, of which there are many. A royal blue varsity letter is pinned to a bulletin board above his desk, and on it are newspaper clippings, the gold tassel from his high school graduation cap.
“I don’t know why I still have all that shit hanging up.” He sounds sheepish. Apologetic. “I’m hardly ever here anymore.”
I shoot him a glance. “Because you’ve achieved so much.”
On his bookshelf are bobble heads of legendary baseball figures, that I—as little as I know about the game—recognize: Babe Ruth. Hank Aaron. Barry Bonds.
Nolan Ryan.
Some baseball cards in plastic. Books, obviously, and lots of them. A surprising number, actually, ranging from popular fiction to historical non-fiction. On the top shelf is a purple geode, which makes me smile as I pluck it up and hold it in my palm, studying the sparkles under the light before gingerly placing it back in its spot next to a conch shell.
Wandering to the closet, my fingers graze the soft cotton of a few shirts hanging limply inside. I consider stealing one away, for pajamas, but think better of it with his eyes following me so diligently.
“Find anything interesting?”
Not really. Nothing shocking or embarrassing. No skeletons hiding inside, from what I can see.
When I turn, my insatiable eyes skim his torso; my brain wants to straddle him again, but my body cooperates, deciding to exercise a little self-control.
Cool it, Scarlett—his parents are downstairs, for crying out loud.
Quiet but for the sound of our breathing, my feet tread across his plush beige carpet, breaking up the silence. I clasp my hands behind my back.
“It sounds like my parents might be back.” His sexy, relaxed posture kicks up the butterflies in my stomach. “I’ll run down and tell them we’re definitely going.”
My teeth worry my bottom lip, but I can’t suppress the smile. “If you don’t mind, I’m going t0 get ready for bed.”
He nods.
“It’s going to be an early morning—we have a two-hour drive to the cruise port, then we can spend the afternoon exploring the ship before it leaves the dock.”
Nervous and excited, sick to my stomach and elated, all at the same time. Sighing, I retrieve some clean underwear from my suitcase, pajama bottoms and top, following behind him halfway down the hall.
Toward the bathroom I roam, engrossed with Rowdy’s broad shoulders as they flex. Fixated on the back of his sexy, corded neck. I find it impossible to tear my gaze off the bare skin above the collar of his shirt, eyes trailing him until he’s out of view, down the stairs.
To me, it’s the sexist part of a man—the delicious slope at the back of their neck where their shoulders meet.
I love everything about that spot on his body, the straining muscles of his trapezius and deltoids. The freshly trimmed hair at Rowdy’s nape. The tight fit of his dark shirt and the promise that its fabric would be velvety soft beneath my fingers if I had the nerve to caress it. Or hook the tip of one finger inside his collar and trail it along his warm skin.
I want to plow my hands through his neatly shorn mop. Run my palms down his smooth shoulder blades slowly. Daydream about it while the mirrors in his bathroom fog from shower steam and I scrub myself clean under the spray of Sterling Wade’s shower.
Lifting his red bottle of liquid body gel from the shelf, I snap the top open, inhaling the masculine scent. Mmm, I get to curl up with him later and do whatever I want to him.
The thought sends my stomach surging into a dramatic roll, nerves causing me to snap the bottle shut. Concentrate on my task, scrubbing myself clean. Wash, rinse, repeat.
Smooth a bar of Dove soap over my breasts and between the apex of my thighs. I lather up my legs, my calves. Run a blue disposable razor slowly up the length of each one until all the hair is sliced off. Stroke my hands up and down, rinsing away the suds.
Shave between my legs.
Clean.
Smooth.
I dry off with a big, gray towel, patting it along my damp skin, humidity moistening my flesh. Slide on my underwear. Pull on tank top and sleep shorts.
Go through my regular bathroom routine: lotion, moisturizer, body spray.
Pad down the hall when I’ve finished in the bathroom, Rowdy’s room empty when I give a little tap and push the door open.
Bite down on my lip, debating.
Loathe to sit here by myself with only nervous energy for company while he sits downstairs with his parents, I rifle through my suitcase and find the one sweatshirt I packed, yanking it over my wet tresses.
I’m heading down the back stairs when the sound of his mother’s voice gives me pause at the bottom step, foot poised to continue.
“Where is Scarlett, sweetie?” Mrs. Wade asks.
“In the shower. Then I’ll just meet her in bed
“Whose bed?” His mother’s good-natured laugh makes me blush a bright, cherry red.
“Haha, very funny. Mine.” He’s shameless. “We couldn’t find any sheets to fit the bed in the spare bedroom and we looked all over. Are you sure you want us sharing a bed?”
“Dammit.” She hmphs. “Those sheets are probably still folded up in the laundry room—you know how I get when I’m on a deadline. I’m too tired to go check, so no funny business under this roof, okay? We’re trusting you.”
Rowdy sighs. “Mom, we’re going on vacation tomorrow and you’re sticking us in a private room for two nights.”
“Because you’re not a teenager anymore. I don’t want to trust you—I have to trust you. That doesn’t mean I’m not going to be listening for strange noises tonight.”
“Oh my god, Mom.”
She clicks her tongue. “What happens on the high seas stays on the high seas—as long as what happens doesn’t come back to haunt us in nine months. Ha.”
He isn’t amused. “Do you honestly think you’re being funny?”
“Yes, I honestly think I’m being funny.” She titters. “It’s my job as your mother to humiliate you and make you uncomfortable as long as I roam this earth.”
I can hear him rolling his eyes. “And another thing: please don’t watch everything we do with a calculating look on your face.”
“Calculating—good word, sweetie.”
“Mom, I’m being serious.”
Her sigh is drawn out. “Why do you think I’m watching you? I see Iowa isn’t doing your ego any favors.”
“Come on, I know you’re using us for research.”
“I am appalled by the accusation.” His mom huffs dramatically but doesn’t deny it.
“Well, is that what you’ve been doing?”
“I might be…just a little.” Another pause. “Count yourself lucky I’m not taking actual notes—this little back and forth between the two of you is romance novel gold. I can feel the tension in my soul.”
“Jesus, Mom! This is why I never bring anyone home.”
“No, that is not why you never bring anyone home. You never bring anyone home because you’ve never liked anyone enough, not even Chelsea Newman, and she was such a lovely girl.”
“I hate when you do that,” Rowdy groans. “Stop bringing up my ex-girlfriends.”
“You were seventeen and she was your girlfriend for all of ninety seconds—that hardly counts. You barely held hands.”
“We did more than hold hands.” He chuckles deep in his chest at his joke.
His mother ignores him. “I’m just illustrating my point. You haven’t brought anyone home since high school, and this one you had fly in from another state during the holidays?” It sounds like she’s taking a long sip from her coffee mug, followed by the telltale sign of it hitting the table’s wooden surface. “Want to tell me what that’s all about? Dad and I have been dying from curiosity.”
“Dad is not dying from curiosity.”
“Fine. I’m the one dying—tell me what’s going on.”
“We’re friends.” He’s grinning, I just know it.
“Does Scarlett know you’re just friends?” his mother teases.
Long silence. “I didn’t say we were just friends.”
“What are you saying, exactly?”
My breath hitches, honestly it does, and I become a cliché from a movie, leaning closer to the doorjamb, straining for his next words. He’s suddenly gone quiet, thinking. The silence drags on an agonizingly long time—or just a few seconds, I have no idea, but it’s torture. Waiting in this hiding spot I’ve accidentally found myself in is sheer agony.
I’m hiding like a damn creeper, but I cannot pull myself away.
“We haven’t slept together, if that’s what you’re asking.”His mom laughs. “That’s not what I was asking, but thanks for the intel. Oh, while we’re on the subject, please tell me you’re using protectio—”
“Stop. Don’t say it. Jesus.”
I imagine her casually raising a brow, just like her son does. “Be safe, that’s all I’m saying.”
“You gave me this speech two years ago.”
“Well it’s never been more necessary. The last thing you want is your paycheck going toward child support.”
“Scarlett isn’t like that—we haven’t…” It sounds like he’s clamping his lips shut, blowing out a puff of air. “Mom, can I ask you something and have you promise you won’t freak out?”
“When do I freak out?”
“Uh—all the time.”
“Hmm, I’m sure that’s not true.”
Rowdy’s sigh is loud. “Can I ask you something or not?”
“Of course! And I promise I won’t freak out.”
A drawn-out silence fills the kitchen.
My palms begin to sweat.
“Do you believe someone can fall in love in a few short weeks?” He asks so quietly, I swear my ears are playing tricks on me. “Because I’m about to lose my mind here.”
His mom is quiet, too. “I write romance novels, sweetie,” she says slowly. Carefully. “Of course I believe you can fall in love fast.” She pauses. “Is that how you’re feeling about Scarlett?”
Another long, tortured pause, and everyone holds their breath.
“I don’t know. She’s all I can think about, ya know? I can’t concentrate on anything when she’s not around, which is most of the time, and all I want to do is spend time with her.”
His mom hums out a cryptic, “Hmmm.”
And now Rowdy is on a roll, having gotten the words out. “At first, she was just this girl I had to keep out of the baseball house for the night, right? Because the guys are such dumbasses…” His voice trails off, irritated. “Anyway, is this normal? I dream about her and shit.”
I’m all he can think about?
He dreams about me? He’s said it before, but it’s always when we’re joking around.
“Sure it’s normal, when you’re attracted to someone—”
“I’m not just attracted to her, Mom. It’s like…I don’t know, it’s like…”
“It’s like what?”
He groans, frustrated. “I don’t know.”
“Love doesn’t make sense, honey. Maybe you should ask your father.” She chuckles. “God, he had no idea what he was doing when we started dating. It was such a train wreck.”
“I’m not talking to Dad about my love life.” He’s horrified by the thought.
“What are you going to do?”
“I think I’m in love with her,” his voice confirms, repeating the words, stunning everyone. “Or falling in love with her, whatever. Feeling something. I don’t fucking know what’s happening to me.”
He’s laughing now, and the deep timbre has me pulling back in shock. Falling slack, back against the wall, my hands press against my flaming hot cheeks.
Rowdy is falling in love with me?
He loves me.
Oh my god, he’s in love with me?
Say it again, Sterling, I silently beg, greedy for the words. Just one more time.
“Have you discussed it with her?”
“God no!” He screeches. “Are you nuts?”
I have to press a palm to my mouth to stop from giggling as Mrs. Wade laughs. “Why not?”
“I’m not ready to confess that shit to her, Mother. I don’t know what she’ll say and I’m not a masochist.”
“I’m just asking, Sterling, relax. You’re so sensitive.” Mrs. Wade chuckles again. “Please stop staring at me with that look—you’re being ridiculous.”
It sounds like he’s crossing his arms, slumping in the chair. “I’m not discussing my feelings with her.”
“Why not?”
“Because.” His voice is stern, resolute. “I don’t think she feels the same way. It’s been two months.”
“Why would you say that?” she asks gently, and I imagine if I stuck my head around the corner, I’d see her hand resting on his forearm, comforting. “Two months is a long time.”
“Scarlett is…” His voice trails off. “Smart and beautiful and…she’s intimidating.”
Intimidating?
Me?
I intimidate him? Is he delusional?
I’m five foot five on a tall day, couldn’t get into my dream college even after applying and appealing the rejection twice. Half the time I’m wearing yoga pants, and the other half he’s only seen me in puffy winter jackets.
What’s so intimidating about that?
Sterling Wade is six foot two of solid muscle and tan skin. Smooth planes and masculine lines. He’s intense and funny and I’ve been dreaming about him every night since we met. Dreamed about meeting a guy like him when I was younger, imagining the perfect match for myself.
He is as close to perfect as a guy could possibly be.
And sweet Jesus, that boy loves me.
His voice, a deep baritone that never fails to send a shiver down my spine, is soft as he describes me to his mother.
“She’s independent, doesn’t really give a shit about me playing baseball or that I’m, you know—popular or whatever.”
I cringe. That part makes me sound like such an asshole. Is that what he truly thinks? That I don’t give a shit about him playing baseball?
My hands are shaking as I bring them up to my face, cool palms pressed against my flaming hot cheeks, embarrassed by that last part of his assessment.
What is he doing to me?
What do I do with myself now that I have this new information?
I can’t walk into the kitchen and act normal, as if I haven’t just overheard him emotionally unload to his mother.
I can’t.
I’m bright red from head to toe, still pressed to the wall in my hiding spot around the corner, next to the kitchen, just feet away from where they’re sitting.
Mrs. Wade hmphs, unimpressed. “She doesn’t give a shit about you playing baseball? Baseball is your future—is she supportive? What does she care about?”
“Relax, Mom, that’s not what I meant. I just meant she isn’t dating me because I play ball. She’s into marine biology. Graduating, I guess. She hates parties.”
What? I don’t hate parties!
Not much.
Fine, I do—but they’re a necessary evil if I’m determined not to become a hermit, sequestering myself inside the tiny hovel I call home.
“I thought you said you met her at a party?”
“I did.” He’s shifting in his chair. “But she was just coming off of a cold and her friends dragged her there. That whole night didn’t end well. I don’t know why she kept coming back.”
Finally, I hear a smile in his mother’s voice. “She came back for you, sweet boy.”
“Do not call me sweet boy—it makes me sound five.”
“You like her because she’s different.” Mrs. Wade sounds pleased. “This makes more sense to me now. Hmm, must be a big change from the usual.”
I know what she’s referring to: jock, jersey, cleat chasers. Gold diggers. Groupies. Women who only date men because of their status on campus.
“Yeah, it was weird at first,” Rowdy admits. “Sometimes I don’t know what to say around her anymore, or where to put my hands—like, I just want to hug her all the time and I don’t give a shit that we haven’t had sex yet.” Long pause. “Okay that’s a lie, I totally give a shit that we haven’t had sex, but I don’t want to freak her out. She’s so smart, Mom.”
“Mmhmm, mmhmm.” Now it sounds like his mother is preoccupied. “What else?”
“I mean, at first when she started coming to the house, it was casual and we just sat there playing games because we were bored. I—” He stops. “Mom! Jesus, you said you weren’t going to write any of this shit down! No taking notes!”
“What? It’s my job! It’s not like I’m using your names—this is fiction! Besides, I write regency romance, not contemporary, so no one will know it’s you.”
Rowdy’s mother writes romance novels? That is awesome—how did I not know this?
I don’t hear the rest of their exchange. Backing away, I tiptoe up the narrow staircase, quiet as a church mouse until reaching the sanctuary of his bedroom. Standing at the foot of Rowdy’s bed, I breathe heavily, staring down at his navy bedspread, the four pillows stacked invitingly against the headboard.
A lamp glows in the corner, my small suitcase tucked neatly into the corner of the blue room. Navy walls, white woodwork—a total boys’ room.
My intention was to sleep in the guest room, but Rowdy wasn’t lying when he told his mom we couldn’t find a spare set of sheets. No matter how hard we searched, not a single set was to be found—not that he knew where to look, and he hadn’t even bothered to ask his mom where they were, probably so I’d be forced to sleep with him, I reluctantly admit to myself.
I’m so clueless sometimes. How did I not know he was falling in love with me at the same time I was falling in love with him?
Because I was too busy blinking at him starry-eyed, that’s why!
Removing my sweatshirt, I pull the hem of my threadbare tank top down over the waistband of my sleep shorts. Run a hand along my damp hair, still wet from the shower.
Freeze as footfalls thump at the top of the stairs, stopping at the bathroom. The door closes, bang echoing in the hall.
Minutes later, the toilet flushes.
Faucet runs for what feels like an eternity.
He must be brushing his teeth, or shaving, or oh my god I wish he’d just hurry up and get back in here already so I can stop fidgeting, pacing like a caged tiger, a ball of nerves.
The bathroom door opens.
One step, then two, and Rowdy is standing outside his bedroom door; I can hear him hesitate. Debating. Hear his hand resting on the doorknob, motionless. The three short raps with his knuckles against the wood have my heart skipping like a stone across a lake.
Electricity crackles that door handle, and I watch it slowly turn.
“Yeah?”
Why is he knocking? It’s his room.
And why did I just say Yeah, and not, Come on in!
“Is it safe to come in?”
“It’s safe to come in.” I let a nervous giggle slide through my lips, hand pressing on my stomach to quell it when it flutters.
Rowdy’s big body slips through the gap in the door like a mouse squeezing through a crack in the wall, as if he’s tasked with protecting my modesty.
He stands with his broad back to the door, eyes tracking along my freshly shaven legs, pausing to study the fluffy white sheep on my shorts—if you can call them that. In reality, they’re glorified underwear, barely covering my ass, pale pink, the scallop hem skimming my upper thigh.
“Why are you staring at me like that?” I already know the answer, already know why he’s burning holes through me. Why he’s memorizing my hair and every inch of my body.
This big, beautiful boy dreams about me.
Sterling Wade is in love with me.
The thought warms me from the inside out, lowering my defenses as I lower my arms, uncrossing them from my chest, letting him look his fill.
He’s never seen me like this before, in my pajamas with barely any clothes on, and look his fill he does, taking every advantage of his viewpoint from the doorway, the low lights casting shadows on us both.
“Am I staring?” That sexy smile is warm and wide. Those wide shoulders shrug. “Sorry, it’s just—you’re in my bedroom.”
Oh jeez, he is so sweet.
“Uh…” I laugh, clearing my throat, stretching out a fake yawn. Pat it with my hand. Point to the right side of the mattress. “Mind if I take this side of the bed?”
Another slow, cryptic smile. “You take whatever you want.”
I watch, captivated, as Rowdy’s arms crisscross, reaching down to drag his shirt up and over his torso, tossing it to the carpet.
“Mind if I take my shorts off? I get so hot at night.” His fingers are already hooking inside the red mesh of his gym shorts, thumbs tugging at the fabric.
I gulp when he leans over, ab muscles tightening, gaping at one sinewy bicep, then the other. They’re perfection, just barely close to bulging, hot veins running along his forearm to the bend in his elbow, making me want to trace along their path. Making me want to leisurely run my hands along those washboard abs—earned from hours upon hours of conditioning—and damn, even his belly button is attractive.
Down those shorts slide. Over a pair of athletic, toned hips, shucked boldly to his feet, feet spread shoulder-width apart before he chucks them to the side.
Sterling Wade standing in only a pair of charcoal gray boxer briefs challenges the most resplendent national treasure as a thing of beauty, the thin fabric clinging insatiably to his thick thighs.
Clinging to the length of him tucked inside, laying flat against his inner thigh.
Sterling Wade is perfect. Raw.
Beautiful.
Mine for the taking.
The reality of that is still so odd to me that I find myself licking my lips like a bad pantomime, pushing a strand of hair behind my ear before remembering myself.
I am ogling him like a desperate fool.
Like a groupie—yet not a single soul on earth would blame me, or deprive me of this moment.
I will never get it back or forget it.
One of his knees bends, hitting the bed, hands braced on the mattress. Leaning forward, his broad, golden shoulders flex attractively. I don’t know whether it’s an invitation to gawk at him some more, but I do, unable to peel my eyes away from his incredible body.
Every inch of him is well defined. Flawless.
Every inch carved of warm, firm flesh, smooth all over. Hair tousled from having just whipped off his shirt, it sticks out in ten different directions, waiting for my hands to run through it—so we can both get the chills.
Hot skin. Trembling hands.
I fold back the covers of his dark sheets before my legs give out, wobbly, easing onto the right side of the bed, heart rate fast, as if I’ve just sprinted a mile.
Rowdy slides in after me, leaving the light on, large body taking up more than half the mattress as he folds both arms behind his head. Turns to study me, wordlessly.
I war with myself.
I wanna do more things to this boy than I’ve wanted to do to any one human in my entire life. Which is why I’m a virgin who always settled for gif porn and the occasional solo masturbatory mission.
I bite my lower lip. God is rewarding me for my patience.
Am I going to sleep with him this weekend?
Yes.
No.
Yes!
I want to, more so now than ever, and we’re going to be alone for two whole nights. There will never be a more perfect opportunity, just him and the ocean—two things I can’t stop thinking about.
And he loves me.
“Are you excited about tomorrow?” I break the silence.
“Yeah, totally. Are you?”
“I am so excited I don’t know how I’ll be able to sleep.” All this excitement and these feelings are information overload; I’m not sure yet what to do with it all.
Rowdy hums his agreement, chest vibrating. Nonchalant and carefree, face impassive. If I hadn’t overheard him just now, I never would have known—never in a million years.
But I know better.
The lamp’s light radiates softly on the bedside table, casting a warm glow on his expression.
“You tired?” I ask, rolling toward him, burrowing my petite frame in the crook of his arm, lining myself up, breasts pressing into his ribcage. My hand slides unhurried across his expansive chest, landing on his left pec, the tip of my index finger wandering close to his hard nipple.
“Do I look tired?” Beneath my palm, his heart beats like a war drum—and when I lay my head on his chest, I can hear it, too.
I press closer, lifting my leg, draping it over his thick thigh, and god does it feel good to be this close.
Rowdy Wade is hot and cool to the touch.
His long arm comes around me, hand resting on my ass, splayed palm creeping under my sleep shorts to cup my bare butt cheek. Fingers flex close to my crack, forefinger twitching.
I swear we both stop breathing.
“What time are we getting up?”
“I set my phone for eight.”
“We should probably try to sleep, huh?”
The tip of his index finger treads a slow path up and down the flesh of my ass, plucking at my underwear band, branding my skin. “We should.”
He breathes in; he breathes out.
In.
Out.
Like he’s trying to control his breathing, impossible with my hand exploring his chest. Plucking gently at his puckered nipple and breathing hotly onto the other one.
It’s so close to my mouth—right there—stiff and straining.
I arch into him, pressing, tongue catching the tip of it. Roll my body closer until I can suck it. Flick it then blow, as I’ve seen in a hundred porn gifs.
Rowdy’s hand creeps under the back of my shirt, caressing his new favorite spot: my spine. Tenderly while I tease him, he’s so unbelievably sexy. So incredibly magnificent.
I want to touch him all over. “You want me to rub your back?”
His eyes are heavy-lidded, mouth in a straight line, expression impossible to read.
“I’d love for you to rub whatever you want.”
I suppress an eye roll. “On your side.”
He complies, facing the door, presenting me with the steel fortress of his back. He’s a massive wall of strength, and when my palms hit the flat plane of his trapezius, my fingers spread wide, kneading at the base of his neck.
It’s solid and thick. Tight.
I rub there, in that same spot, for a good five minutes, thumbs pressing into his skin. Pushing into the knots, listening as I burnish each one out. One by one.
My hands wander.
Feather light, they trail down his spine to his oblique, and discover two back dimples right above his firm ass.
Dimples of Venus.
Jesus, they’re so absurdly sexy.
Both of my palms stroke across them, heating his flesh, massaging at the waistband of his snug boxer briefs. Stroke over his butt, squeezing it the way he was squeezing mine.
“As far as massages go, this one feels more like foreplay,” he murmurs into his pillow, arms at his side. “Am I right or am I right?”
“Does it?”
“Is it?”
“No.”
“Too bad. You’re making me so fucking hard.”
“Am I?” I stare at my hands in wonder.
“You really have to ask?”
Three more minutes of pretense and Rowdy’s maneuvering himself to his back. I avert my gaze, not wanting it to settle on the erection tenting his briefs.
But it’s hard, so hard—no pun intended.
“Come here.” He beckons me closer and like a moth to a flame, I go.
Lean into him, kissing him full on the lips.
“You’re so fucking pretty.” He swipes the long hair out of my face; it hangs in sheets down my chest and over my eyes. Presses his thumbs lightly into my cheek, over my dimple. “I love this. It does weird, fucked up shit to me every time you smile.”
When I smile, he smiles back, reaching for me, arm sliding under my ribcage, the other circling my waist.
Bodies pressed together, I cradle his erection between the apex of my thighs, our mouths widen, tongues dancing. Unhurriedly rolling together. Sloppy and wet.
“Wanna climb on top so we can spoon?”
“That’s not how you spoon.” What a weirdo.
“Wanna climb on top so I can feel your tits on my chest? Is that good?”
Good enough.
Effortlessly, he hauls me on top—as if I weigh nothing—bodies a perfect fit. Like two pieces of a sexually fueled puzzle. Rowdy’s giant hands are tense, palming my butt, dragging me up and down his cock, mimicking sex, the motion making us both moan.
So good it hurts.
“God I want to tear your clothes off,” I moan, hastening to add, “But not in your parents’ house.”
“Right,” he agrees. “Definitely not in my parents’ house.” His pause is comical. “Uh, why not in my parents’ house?”
“I’d never be able to look your mother in the eye tomorrow morning. I’d be mortified.”
“What about just our shirts so I can play with your boobs?”
My body shivers at the thought of him touching my bare breasts.
“If I take my shirt off and you start touching me, my bottoms will come off.”
His large hand pulls me down so our mouths meet again.
His tongue traces my bottom lip.
“What is it you think I’ll do if these skimpy little bottoms come off?” He’s murmuring, question a husky, molten masculinity that has my panties dampening. I gasp when the tip of his cock finds my clit through our thin underwear.
We grind at each other slowly, kissing slowly.
“Tell me what I’d do to you, Scarlett.”
“You’d…”
He licks my earlobe, distracting, hips rotating slowly beneath me, reaching between our bodies to push aside my shorts. “I’d what?”
God his voice drives me mad. Makes me as hot as his mouth on my neck does. His hard dick between my legs.
“D-Don’t make me say it,” I stutter, eyes almost rolling to the back of my head, forgetting how to focus.
“I want to do everything to you, so fucking bad.” He’s crooning, sexy and sweet. “You know that, don’t you?”
I can feel it.
He’s a rock hard, raging hormone between my legs. But even still, he doesn’t pressure me to have sex with him.
“But not in your mother’s house.”
“Not in my mother’s house.” His voice cracks. “That would be bad.”
I breathe out, leaning down, breasts rubbing against his magnificent chest.
“I have an idea.” He perks up. “What if we dry fuck with our clothes on until we come in our pants? Like horny teenagers?”
Dry fuck? That I can do.
“Dry fuck me,” I moan when he licks my neck, pulling back the strap of my tank top with his forefinger. Sucks on my nipple.
But he’s not done talking dirty. “One of these days you’re going to sit on my face while my tongue makes you come.”
Lordy.
“You want me to do that, baby? Eat you out?”
Oh Jesus.
I can’t do anything but nod dumbly, the visuals making my clit tingle. Rowdy’s hot fingers slide into my underwear, up the back, index finger sliding down my crack, pressing into the skin of my ass.
“God,” I gasp, gyrating desperately.
“Push your panties aside, baby, help me out,” he pants.
I do as he says, peeling back the cotton fabric of my thin, lacey underwear. Moan when the tip of his dick digs into my pussy, restrained only by his gray boxer briefs.
“Christ you feel good. The shit I’m going to do to you when we’re alone…” His growl is low as those huge hands grip my hips, urging me to swivel. “Whatever you do, don’t stop—my cock is in the perfect fucking spot right now.”
My lids flutter closed as my mouth falls open. One push of his boxers and he’d be all the way inside. So easy, too easy. So good.
“I’m so goddamn close,” he declares, gripping my backside and flipping me with one, singular motion. Like a well-trained wrestler, not missing a beat.
Strong. Stealth.
Bold.
A little too loud, mimicking sex a little too well.
“Keep it down,” I beg breathlessly. “I swear Sterling, you’re going to knock the headboard into the wall.”
“You want me to fake screw you nice and slow, Scarlett? Is that it?”
He’s so dirty, so unfiltered—a contrast to the gentleman he is the rest of the time we’re together.
“Do you always talk like this?” I manage to ask, and when my eyes roll to the back of my head, he sucks on my nipple through my shirt and I almost float off the bed, euphoric.
“Like what?”
“Do you always talk this dirty?”
“Don’t you like it?”
I love it. “Yes.”
It’s erotic and makes me feel sexy. Makes me want to peel my shirt—and everything else—off.
His cock glides up and down the fold between my legs, hitting every nerve along the way. Hitting my clit. Gripping my butt cheeks, pulling me in.
So close, so close…don’t stop, don’t stop.
We’re winded, the telltale signs of two impending orgasms looming, mouths fusing, mattress on the verge of squeaking—banging against his bedroom wall.
So close, don’t stop.
“Sh-shh,” I admonish, not sure if it’s him or me making all the noise.
His mouth latches onto my neck. “I want you so fucking bad it’s making me mental.”
So close, don’t stop.
We don’t, not until we’re done, climaxing at the same time, Rowdy’s face buried in the crook of my neck. The noises he’s making—tortured moans of pleasure I’ve never heard a man make.
Sexy.
Mine.
We lay entwined, fully clothed.
Glowing.
Then…
“We should probably both change our underwear. There is jizz everywhere inside my shorts.”