Jock Row (Jock Hard 1)

“No, because those are boring, and I don’t really give a shit what your favorite color is—that’s something I can figure out on my own through the power of observation.”

I cross my arms. “You think you can guess my favorite color based on the one time you were in my house, go right ahead.”

He’s quiet a few moments, reaching to dial down the volume on the radio. “It’s blue.”

Whoa. “What makes you say that?”

“The pillows on your couch and the towels in your bathroom are blue, and your purse.”

Holy crap, he’s right—my favorite color is blue.

Rowdy grins, teeth blaringly white in the dim cab. “So I’m right?”

“Yes.”

“You know what else I think? You love this game as much as I do. It’s kind of long and drawn-out, like…”

Foreplay.

He doesn’t say it, but I know that’s what he’s thinking.

My face flushes because he’s right; I do like these games. They’re slightly ridiculous and cheesy and stupidly fun, and even though we haven’t gotten all that racy or sexual, the undertones of our recent conversations are getting more personal. Flirty. Testing our boundaries with each other, neither wanting to make the first move.

Rowdy finds my street without prompting, driving the hundred feet it takes to reach my house, pulling up to the curb and putting his truck in park. Idles, hands on the key buried in the ignition.

“I guess this is you.”

“This is me.”

Gripping my handbag—the one he noticed is blue—I unbuckle my seatbelt, fingers pawing for the handle, and I pause, twisting to face him. He’s watching me—of course he is—eyes half hooded in the moonlight, shadows playing across his expression. Mouth set into a line, almost in a downward turn.

“You look like you want to say something.”

“I’m just wondering…” His voice trails off. “What kind of guy Scarlett Ripley agrees to go on a date with.”

Not what I was expecting him to say. Not in that tone of voice—it’s low and expectant, like my answer might mean something important.

“That’s what you’re sitting there thinking about?”

“Humor me.” His velvety voice encourages me in the dark, fingers tapping on the steering wheel.

“Well,” I begin slowly, releasing the door handle. Sit back and stare straight ahead up the empty street. Clear my throat, buying myself a few more seconds of time. “I’d like to be with someone who makes me laugh, someone funny…um…”

I shoot him a quick, sidelong glance, unnerved that he’s watching me so unflinchingly.

“Charming.”

“That’s your type? Charming?”

“I don’t think that’s a type, but sure, charming is my type. Maybe not…overly friendly. Black hair and big muscles would be my type, too.” I’m warming to the topic. “A sexy dork with a hot bod under his button-down shirt would be my type. A bad boy covered in tattoos would be my type.”

“Now it just sounds like you’re coming up with characters for a new book series.”

I shift in my seat. “What about you? What kind of girl does Sterling Wade ask on a date?”

He faces the street, looking out the window, down the road, thinking. “Not many.”

I wait for him to say more. “Uh, okay, but if you were going to ask someone on a date…”

He considers this, still watching the road. “She’d have to be someone I’d take home to my mother.”

Oh.

Oh.

The purse in my hands is satin, and I glide my fingers along the clasp until I hear the magnetic clasp snap. Open. Close. Adding to the underlying tension filling the cab of this truck.

I hesitate. “I have one bottle of wine in the fridge if you want to come in for a little bit.”

“Two.”

“Excuse me?”

“You have two bottles of wine in your fridge.”

I do? “How do you know?”

“Obviously I was rooting around the other night. The contents of your fridge were a real turn-on, if I’m being honest.”

Oh brother, this guy.

“Your appetite is going to get you in trouble one of these days.”

His grin is wicked. “I hope so.”

“Well…” I hesitate. “Come inside? We can play a proper game of Never Have I Ever, complete with alcohol.”

He unlocks the doors, huge hand already on the driver’s side door handle. “Fuck yeah, let’s do it.”

I don’t have to ask him twice.

Rowdy

Entering Scarlett’s kitchen is déjà vu, the small space exactly as it was the last time I was here: neat as a pin except for a dirty bowl and a plate set beside to the sink, blue dish towel folded into a tidy square.

Shoes neatly placed by the door. Keys hung on a hook. Chairs all pushed in, no clutter in sight.

I remove my hand from the small of her back to remove my jacket.

“You want anything to eat?” she asks, automatically playing hostess, fingers going to the belt at her waist, pulling gently, unknotting it. Her newly tan hands work the buttons, trailing up the front of her jacket, one toggle at a time.

I watch, transfixed—the anticipation of what’s beneath that jacket has me riveted.

Scarlett’s thick, black dress coat parts, revealing a dress, tan skin, and her beneath. Lace and boobs and legs. The jacket slides off and she hangs it by the door, narrow hips swiveling, balancing on a pair of wedge heels.

They add at least four inches to her petite frame.

Scarlett airily skims delicate hands down her narrow waist, sauntering toward me, hips gently swaying. I doubt it’s intentional, but still, it’s mesmerizing to see her this way.

Dressed up and sexy, in an entirely new light. Another layer to this girl I’ve already started falling for, feet first.

“I’m changing out of this dress. Want to pour some wine? Then we can play that stupid game you’ve become obsessed with?”

She runs a hand down her hair, smoothing down her long, silky tresses. It’s a rich brown, streaked near her face with lighter tones, highlighting her warm complexion. Pink cheeks.

“And can you see what the thermostat’s set at? It feels warm in here, don’t you think?”

I stare at her while I still have the chance to see her this way.

Her dress is lace. Delicate and snug and sexy with a gold zipper running the entire length of her spine. It’s short, skimming mid-thigh, showing off her toned legs.

The skirt brushes against me when she passes, swishing on the way to her bedroom, the lingering smell of her perfume wafting around me after she disappears through the only door off the living room.

Scarlett tosses me a casual glance over her slender shoulder. “Be right back.”

My eyes automatically watch her legs departing, calves shapely and what the hell am I doing still standing here. Part of me wants to pour the wine, part of me wants to follow her.

Five minutes later I’m pouting in the kitchen, two glasses of inexpensive, chilled white wine on the table when Scarlett’s lilty voice rings out from down the hallway.

Tentative.

“Rowdy?”

My head shoots up. “Yeah?”

“Can you come here for a second? I need help.”

Immediately setting down the wine bottle, I toss its metal twist top into the garbage, expecting we’ll finish this entire bottle. Shit, I could easily chug the whole thing myself.

I head in the direction of her voice, sticking my head inside her bedroom when I find it, hungrily eying up the space.

She’s facing the wall, one hand holding the hair off her nape, presenting me with a clear shot of her slim neck and shoulders. She turns, offering me her profile.

The pillar of her throat.

“I can’t quite reach the zipper and that little hook at the top. Can you get it started for me?”

Her shoes are gone, legs bare, and in a few more seconds, her back and body will be, too.

“Uh…sure.”

I step into the room, focused on that gold zipper running along the column of her spine. On her long, smooth neck. The dark pieces of delicate hair flirting with the flesh that until tonight, I’ve only ever seen pulled back.