Jock Romeo (Jock Hard 6)

Fresh.

Masculine.

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

Roman

Pumpkin spice anything

Old Spice? Ha!

Roman

Rain

Fresh-cut grass

Gingerbread

Baked cookies

Babies and baby powder

Roman

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

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

Sigh.

“Are you getting warmer?”

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

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

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

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

The perfect gentleman.

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

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

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

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

I make no moves to pull it back into place.

Roman clears his throat.

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

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

Rome.

Big hand, big heart.

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

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

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

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

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

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

It does not.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

We’re not dating.

We are not a couple.

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

Which would make for an amazing orgasm.

Don’t be selfish, Lilly.

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