Jock Road (Jock Hard 3)

“No.” His head shakes back and forth. “I mean, yes. That’s not it.”

“Okay.” I’m biting back a smile because I really suck at maintaining a poker face. Honestly, though—he’s adorable. I could smush his face right now, he’s so clueless and naïve.

So mystified.

Jackson finally glances over at me, quickly skimming my body with his blue eyes. His perusal sends an involuntary electric shiver down my spine. Tingles between my closed legs momentarily distract me, and I offer him a weak smile when he makes it to my face.

“You’re…” He swallows. “So. Pretty.”

Now I’m swallowing; his nerves are contagious. “We’ve kissed twice before—it wouldn’t kill you to do it a third time, would it?”

“I…”

I let my back hit the headboard so we’re matched, sitting on the bed beside one another, both facing the opposite wall. Jackson’s hands unclasp, then spread. Palms get set on his knees, until he lets his left hand drop to the bed. Flat on the mattress, it rests next to mine, our fingers mere centimeters away from touching.

I look down.

Jackson looks down.

I watch as his long, strong pinky finger moves toward mine, slowly but surely creeping those few millimeters to close the gap. Suck in a breath when he strokes my pinky with his. Moves his entire palm over my skin; it’s warm and calloused. Huge.

Engulfs my hand entirely, dwarfing it like a tide sweeping in, onto the beach and swallowing the shore whole. I’m enthralled by the sight of our hands together on his dark blue bedding. Mine pale and light, his tan and weathered. Bruised and battered.

Abused.

It’s rough, but still it sends nerves bouncing around my body when it caresses the skin of my knuckles, the tips of his fingers lightly brushing back and forth. Curious.

“Your hand is so soft.”

It is.

“I, um, use a lot of lotion.” Was that a stupid thing to say?

We sit like this a little too long, neither of us really knowing what to do or say, how to make the next move. And since Jackson still hasn’t said whatever it is he invited me over for…I let him. Let him stroke my hand.

“You haven’t dated anyone in three years?” His question is random and out of the blue. Unexpected.

“Yeah, it’s been three years.”

“Why?”

I shrug. “No reason. I guess I just haven’t felt…” My shoulders rise and fall again. “I haven’t met anyone I clicked with.”

“Do you click with me?”

“Are you asking because you think we have a connection? Or because you genuinely don’t know if we have chemistry?”

“I want to hear your answer first.” So annoying, but I get it; he’s insecure and wants reassurance. Isn’t about to open himself up until he knows how I feel.

Fine with me.

“I think we click. I hope we do? Maybe I’m wrong, but…” I shift on the bed but don’t move my hand. “I think we get along.”

Get along? Ugh, I want to face-palm myself.

“I don’t mean get along—I meant we’re attracted to each other. I think we’re…that. I think we have a connection? Don’t we?” My god, why are you still talking? Shut up, Charlie. “I’ll stop talking.” I sneak a peek at him. “What do you think?”

“I agree.”

“Is that why you wanted to talk?”

Jackson nods. “I’ve been thinkin’ ’bout a bunch of stuff, mainly ’bout how I’ve been wastin’ time—not wastin’ time, that’s not the right word.” He pauses, searching. “My focus has always been on football, but I think I might be ready for it to…not be only on football. Do you know what I’m tryin’ to say, Charlotte?”

Yes, but I want to hear you say it. “Not really? Could you be more clear?”

Jackson’s face turns as red as a beet. “I’m sayin’… Shit, I’m sayin’ I want to spend time with you. In a romantic capacity.”

Romantic capacity? Welp, that’s the most unromantic way to put it, but beggars can’t be choosers, and the poor boy looks as if he’s going to shit himself.

Plus, he’s from the South, and don’t they say flowery shit like that? No offense.

“We already have a head start since we’ve already been on our first date.” I bite my lower lip, remembering how fun that date was. The pumpkins and the boys who live in this house crashing the entire thing. Giant children, the entire lot of them. If I dated Jackson, I’d be spending more time with the football team.

“I’ll probably fuck most of this up. I won’t have any idea what I’m doing.”

“Who does?”

“Plenty of people.”

“Jackson, all you have to do is be sweet and, uh…kiss me when you want to.” I straighten my spine against the headboard, knowing—expecting—him to take the hint. Expecting him to seize the moment and plant one on me.

“Whenever I want to, eh?”

“Eh.”

“I can do that?”

“Yes.”

“Huh.” We watch each other until the energy inside the room crackles. Until he moves his hand from my palm to my thigh, sliding it up my jeans, causing my breath to hitch—it’s so unexpected.