Jock Row (Jock Hard 1)

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.