Jock Road (Jock Hard 3)

Cozy my place up for the impending holiday.

“Glad you had a good time.”

Good tyme.

I shiver. That accent. That voice, that tone.

Jackson taps the steering wheel again, and my eyes go to his hands.

His big, strong, masculine hands.

Before tonight, I haven’t had a set of hands on my body in God, who knows how long.

I try not to stare at Jackson’s hands or forearms, dragging my stare away and refocusing my concentration on the road ahead of us. Plucking at the hemline of my dress to distract myself, to keep my own hands busy.

“I did have a good time.” I groan; we sound ridiculous. Clearing my throat, I try again. “I’m surprised you…”

I pause, self-conscious.

“Surprised I what?”

“Nothing.” I zip my lip and shake my head.

His irritation is evidenced by his sigh. “I hate when people say nothin’—just tell me what you were going to say.”

He’s right; I hate when people do that too, and he knows damn well I had something to say. Ugh.

So. I do the only thing I can do: I take a breath, suck it up, and say what I was about to say. It’s the only way to save face with him so he doesn’t think I’m a wimp.

“I’m surprised you put the moves on me.”

“I wasn’t putting the moves on you.”

“Oh? Then what would you call breathing all over my neck?”

Jackson laughs, gripping the wheel. “I was sweet-talkin’ you because you were pissed I said we’re hangin’ out.”

The words I waz sweet-tawkin yew go straight to my lady bits.

They tingle.

“You didn’t have to get up and spoon me from behind. You could have just said you were sorry for being insensitive.”

It’s true; he could have.

But he didn’t.

He put his mouth on my body—on my neck. His warm breath caressing my skin felt so, so…oh lord, I’m going to end up touching myself tonight when I climb into bed at the memory of those lips…

Hardly the same thing. Not even close.

Too bad I’m not desperate enough to chase after a guy who doesn’t want to date me.

Have fun and hang out? Yes.

Talk and text? Yes.

Invite to parties and games? Yes.

Date? No. Have a relationship with? No. Sleep with? No.

It’s just so weird to me. Here he is, this hulking hunk of a guy, outweighing me by at least two hundred pounds. Jackson Jennings is a mountain of a man with more testosterone pumping through his veins than the average college boy. It makes no sense to me that his hormones aren’t raging, too, and if they are, the guy has more self-control than I can comprehend.

Most guys his age have zero self-control. None. And it shows.

“You weren’t expecting me to put the moves on you. So that’s what you thought I was doing, eh?”

“I mean…yeah?” Shoot, I hate when I’m wrong.

“Well.” He pauses. “Maybe I was.”

My head whips in his direction, eyes so wide the air from the heater in the dash is blowing them dry.

I blink.

Blink again.

“Say that again.” I need clarification.

“How about we do this, Miss Know-It-All: when we turn onto the next block—onto Frat Row—if we see any people walking into a fraternity house dressed in costumes, you have to kiss me.”

Whoa. Whoa, whoa, whoa, where is that coming from?

I scoff. “We kissed in the kitchen—we don’t have to place bets on it.”

“Nah, this is more fun. Besides, I kissed you. You barely kissed me back, and now you have to.”

I turn to face him, twisting my buckled-in body like a pretzel, leaning over to get comfortable, sinking my teeth into this topic. “Okay, so let me get this straight: you’re betting me when we turn onto Frat Row, there will be people wearing costumes, and if there are, I have to kiss you.” I roll my eyes heavenward. “That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard.”

“Why?”

I laugh. “It’s just never gonna happen.”

“Wanna make a bet?”

“Costumes? Jackson, it’s September—no one walks around in a costume in September, let alone multiple people.”

“All right, so don’t take the bet.”

He can’t trick me into accepting a wager. “Fine. I won’t.”

“Okay, don’t.” He’s laughing at me, taunting.

“I won’t.” Except… “I mean, what are the odds?”

“Very slim.” He nods, seeming to agree with me.

Hmm. “Super slim. Vegas odds at best.”

“Right. The odds are stacked against me.”

“So why would you set yourself up to lose?” He reaches over and surprises me by giving my thigh a squeeze.

It takes a few seconds to recover once his hand is back on his steering wheel, my thigh branded. “Because I know I’ll win.”

I swear, he’s driving down the road at a snail’s pace on purpose, dragging out the moments we have before making a turn onto Frat Row.

“Fine. I’ll take the bet! I’ll take it, so would you just make the turn already so we can get this over with? The suspense is killing me.”