by Ney, Sara
Jackson lifts one of his massive shoulders. “I was usually home when everyone was out, so I don’t know how popular that made me. Pops wouldn’t allow it.”
“Why?” I know I shouldn’t pry, but…
“Wanted me to get into a good college.”
I smile. “And look at you now!”
“Not this college.” Jackson’s sardonic laugh comes with a forced smile, and I’m not sure whether or not to be offended on behalf of the entire Iowa student body. But, given his enrollment status here, I let the comment slide.
“Where did he want you to go?”
“A bigger Big Ten school. Penn State. Notre Dame.” One large hand taps the dashboard. “Anywhere but here, really.
“Ah, I see. That’s why you chose Iowa.” His one act of rebellion. “Do your parents come to see you play?”
“My daddy was so fuckin’ pissed, he boycotted my games for the first two years.” Jackson rubs his nose. “He’s been to a few lately, but only b’cause…”
I wish he’d finish his sentence, so I prod him. “Because what?”
He twitches, fingers gripping the steering wheel. “Cause…” His throat clears. “This is between you and me, now, yeah?”
This is a major moment—Jackson Jennings doesn’t open up to just anyone. I can see the hesitation in his eyes from my spot in the passenger seat, so him offering up information…
Huge.
I suck in a breath. Let it out. Make a tiny sign of the cross on my chest that he can’t see in the near dark. Cross my heart, hope to die, stick a needle in my eye…
“I promise I won’t say anything.”
He can trust me.
“Pops is only comin’ to my games because it’s almost draft season and he wants me to enter, so he’s bein’ supportive to pressure me into it.”
The draft.
Wow.
My little brain can barely comprehend what this means in the grand scheme of things. Here I am worried about my bagel supply running low and what internship I want in my hometown, and Jackson has to decide if he’s entering the draft to play professional football.
My problems seem so freaking stupid. Small. Insignificant.
“Is that what you want?”
“Yes.” Again, his answer is to lift one shoulder. “But…”
I wait, knowing there’s more to this story. Wait while he drives, turning on my street, finding my house, and putting his truck in park.
Jackson’s head hits the back of the headrest, eyes boring holes into the ceiling. “I want it on my terms, not my daddy’s.”
His use of the word daddy is strange to me since I call my father “Dad,” but coupled with his Southern drawl, it sounds adorable rolling off his tongue.
“I want the pros for myself.” His voice is low, gravelly. “Why is that so fuckin’ hard for him to understand?”
I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I wish…
I wish I could do something to cheer him up.
“Hey.” I put my hand on his firm bicep, and he looks down at where my fingers rest. “Where is this kiss happening?” I swallow. “And when?”
His broad shoulders shrug. “You don’t have to kiss me, Charlotte.”
He sounds weary and pathetic, as if he’s just stood in the rain, staring through a window at a room full of dry people laughing and drinking and eating, as if he will never know what it feels like to be inside. As if he deserves to be used by his father and doesn’t know the relationship should be any other way.
“Don’t have to kiss you? A deal is a deal.”
“Not really.”
Oh, I’m kissing you, Jackson Jennings. I’m going to kiss the Southern stuffing right out of you.
“Okay, well now you just sound pitiful. Cheer up, my gosh.” I fake a bright smile, giving his muscle a flirtatious squeeze.
“Tonight then.”
Yes, that’s the spirit! Although a bit more enthusiasm would be preferred.
“Um, okay.” I fidget, weighted down by a sudden case of nerves. I am no seductress, and even though it’s just a kiss, I’m not the one who initiates them. Ever. “You can walk me to the door and, you know—I can do it there.”
Jackson’s laugh is loud and boisterous, truly amused. “Whatever floats your boat, darlin’.”
He hasn’t called me darlin’ since we first met, and I’m reminded how much I hated it at first, because I didn’t know him and he didn’t know me and I just assumed he was a player who called women darlin’ so he wouldn’t have to remember their names.
Darlin’.
I love it.
* * *
Jackson
“You don’t have to do this,” I relent, feeling like a horse’s ass for making the bet in the first place. A woman should get to choose who she’s intimate with, and I’m a dickhead for backing Charlie into a proverbial corner by opening my fat mouth about kissing me. “I’m not going to hold you to it.”
I watch her ass as she marches up her front walkway, making a beeline for the front door.
“Nope. A bet is a bet.”
“In all fairness, it wasn’t so much a bet as me being a cocky asshole.”
She puffs out her chest and poke herself in the breastplate. “I’m a woman of my word.”
“So what you’re sayin’ is, you want to kiss me.”
Holy shit, she wants to kiss me.
Who am I kidding? All girls want to kiss me—this is nothing new. I’m a fucking stud, headed for the goddamn NFL; obviously tail gets thrown in my direction from all angles on a daily basis.
But Charlie wanting to kiss me is altogether different.
Charlie is Charlie, and nothing about her is easy.
So this? This feels fucking great—fantastic, even.
Like a small victory, a euphoria I haven’t felt in a lot of years, including when I’m on the playing field, running a damn football in a stadium full of screaming fans.
This…
This is better.
“I’m not saying I want to kiss you. I’m saying I’m going to.”
Same thing, cupcake.
“And I’m saying you don’t have to.”
“Why are we arguing about this, then? Don’t you want me to?” Her shoulders slump, defeated.
Shit.
“I didn’t say that, either—I’m a guy, we’re idiots. Why do you think I was talkin’ so stupid?”
“Tawkin,” she echoes, turning to face me once we reach her door. Her hands rise to brush the collar of my shirt, a smile playing at her lips. “Tawkin stoopid…”
“You makin fun of me?” It wouldn’t be the first time she mocked my accent, but this time she’s doing it directly to my face, our faces and mouths and hands mere inches apart.
The heat from her body warms the skin on my neck, hands still lingering. Fingers brushing the place I painstakingly shaved not hours ago to look slightly presentable.
Earlier, when I was getting dressed, I’d been tempted to call my mama for advice—not that she’d have any. But I’ve never been on a date before and figured she might be able to, I don’t know. Tell me what to wear. Something, I don’t know. Then I thought better of it; knowing Mama would tell Pops and knowing that when he found out, he’d probably lose his shit.
Girls equals distraction.
Oddly enough, for once, I don’t give a fuck what my father thinks.
I’m twenty-two years old; it’s time to stop living in fear of a man who ultimately has no control over my future. I do.
Me and my agent, Brock—only we decide what I do and where I’ll go when I get drafted.
And I will.
I’m predicted to go early in the second round.
Fingers crossed I go to the Cowboys, but now I’m not sure I want to be so close to home and my meddling parents. Me being a professional isn’t going to chill my pops the fuck out—it’s going to make him worse.
He is the male version of Kris Jenner.
I shake my head. Stop thinking ab
out your parents, dumbass. Charlie’s hands are near your face. Focus on that.
Focus on her.
I stand still as stone, flattening my body against the exterior side paneling of her house, letting her decide how long she’s going to touch me.
I watch her eyes cast downward, sliding to my pecs. They’re firm and muscular from hundreds of hours spent in the gym on the bench press. On the field running drills. On the pavement, running laps.
Charlie seems to be debating; about what, I’m not sure, but she’s tentative, delicate hands now hovering over my shirt, still at the neckline.
I watch the dipped crown of her head; she might be tall, but I still tower over her, and the part in her corn silk hair has me fascinated. I want to touch it—I’ve never, not once, run my fingers through a girl’s hair before, and I’m dying to do it right this second.
Shit.
I want her to touch me. Just for a few minutes, Charlie. Just for a second.
There is a light shining on her tiny porch, but it’s behind her head. She’s shrouded in darkness while my face is stuck in the spotlight, the glare blinding me.
I cringe, ducking my head.
“You don’t like that, do ya?”
“No.”
“Now you know how I feel.” The little shit laughs, the palm of her hand roaming to the scruff on my face. I shaved this afternoon, but a few hours have gone by and it’s grown. “I’ll forgive you just this once.”
Her voice is a murmur, thumbs stroking my cheekbones, almost giving me a stroke.
Shit. I’m getting a hard-on.
“Oh yeah?” I squeak out, nervously.
“Yeah. I suppose I will.” Unlike mine, Charlie’s palms are smooth—callous-free and roaming over the sunburn marring the flesh below my eye. “Your poor skin.”
“I don’t wear sunscreen,” I say stupidly, wishing I’d shut my own mouth.
“I can’t imagine you applying sunscreen—too big a hassle, hmm?” She hums in her throat, and I wonder when the fuck she’s going to put me out of my misery and kiss me already.
Patience has never been my strongest virtue.
Charlie hums again as she studies my face with her fingers, the tips trailing from my brow bone down the bridge of my nose. The tip. The indentation above my top lip.
“You’re so…” Her head gives a small shake, too bashful to finish her thought.
“So what?” I sound desperate for her to say what’s on her mind.
Desperate for words no girl has ever said to me—and I don’t even have a clue what they could be.
“Masculine.”
“Is that a good thing?” Don’t tell me if it’s a bad thing; don’t say it.
“Yes.” She pauses, thumb brushing over my chin. “Yes, I like it. I like this little spot, right here.”
The cleft in my chin? I’ve always hated it. “You do?”
“Yeah. It’s…” She pauses so long I don’t think she’ll say it. “Sexy.”
I’ve been called sexy before, but Charlie isn’t calling me sexy—she’s calling the cleft in my chin sexy, breaking me down piece by piece, identifying the parts of me that turn her on.
The meaningless nothings I’ve heard over the years, the same compliments and propositions from girls bestowed on my teammates…
God you’re hot.
Damn you’re sexy, Triple J.
I’ll blow you right now in the bathroom if you’ll let me…
Generic and ambivalent. I’m just a number on the back of a jersey to those women.
But I’m not just a number to Charlie.
I see it now in the way she’s watching her hands move over my skin, fascinated. Like I’m good-looking when I know I’m not, not really. There are thousands of guys better looking than I am, and any of them would be happy to give Charlie what she’s after—a relationship.
I don’t have a clue how to be in one.
I’ve only touched stripper tits; what do I know about having a girlfriend?
But maybe…just maybe…
I’m distracted by Charlie moving closer, breasts pressed against my chest—a new sensation for me. I squirm at the tightening in the crotch of my jeans when her tits squish my pecs.
“I love this.” Her palms cup my jawline.
I love this. Love this.
Love.
Another word I’ve never heard.
I lean into her warmth. She leans into me, tilting her chin up, mouth pouty.
“Do you?” I whisper.
“You know I do.”
I do. I know she likes everything about me or she wouldn’t be standing with me on her porch; Charlie has principles, and misleading someone isn’t her style.
“What…” I clear my throat. “What else do you love?”
Her lips curl up. “Cheeseburgers.”
Sassy brat.
I frown, and Charlie laughs. “Oh, don’t make that face.”
A hmph sound emerges from my throat, my hands somehow finding their way around her midriff, spanning just above the waistband of her jeans and clasping behind her.
She makes a happy little sound, pressing closer still. “Know what else I love?” Her palms rest on my shoulders, slowly, leisurely roaming down my biceps. “How tall you are. How strong.”
I swallow the lump in my throat.
“And I love your hair.”
My hair? It needs to be cut. Stash could probably use a trim before I start to resemble my friend Sasquatch, who looks like fucking Bigfoot, hairy and unkempt. It’s a damn wonder he has a girlfriend.
“I need a trim,” I tell her dumbly as her fingers continue their exploration of my arms, her head giving a tiny shake.
“Mmm, no. It’s perfect.”
She’s perfect.
I hold my breath when her hands leave my body and wind up behind my neck, fingers toying with the hair at the nape.
“At least you can see with your helmet on, hmm?”
It’s the first reference to football Charlotte has ever made; not surprising since she doesn’t seem to give a shit that I’m an athlete. Hasn’t once pestered me about the draft, going pro, or how much I’m going to make if I get signed.
“I can see with my helmet on. It’s not that long.” Not yet. Sometimes I don’t get it cut until Coach makes me pull it back into a bun, which makes wearing headgear a bitch. Nothing hurts worse than getting clocked on the skull when there’s a fucking bun digging into your scalp.
Good times, good times.
“You know,” Charlie begins. “It wasn’t necessary to make a bet with me so you could kiss me.”
“I’m not kissin’ you.”
“You know what I mean, Jackson.”
Yeah, I know what she means. She would have let me kiss her if I’d have made a move on her—which I kind of did back at my house, in the kitchen, albeit passive-aggressively and by default, since my goal was to comfort her, not make out with her.
“But isn’t this more fun?”
“Maybe.” Her pink lips pucker. “I haven’t made my move yet. I’m playing it cool.”
Not cool enough. Her eyes are shining, a tell-tale sign that she’s turned on, body alert. God she feels good pressed against me. We’re not doing anything besides standing here, but damn if it isn’t amazing.
I wait her out, letting her move at her own pace, for several reasons.
Because I have no idea how to make a move of my own. Mother Nature hasn’t taken over yet, although she could step in any fucking day now to help me along.
Charlie is technically the one who should be doing all the work, since that’s what the bet was about. Sort of.
Kind of.
I haven’t felt this kind of tension since my freshman year, when the football coaching staff made cuts and, even though I had a scholarship to play, I worried my position on the team was in jeopardy.
Naïve fool.
Still am.
Still ignorant about sex and relationships, like a kid trapped in a ma
n’s body.
I might be large, but inside, I’m nothing but a virgin who has no idea what he wants or what he’s doing.
Scratch that: I know what I want—Charlie’s mouth on my lips, her body pressing against mine. And if she doesn’t hurry up and kiss me, I’ll lose my damn mind.
Charlotte Edmonds is everything sweet and soft and sexy, and I have my arms wrapped around her waist, the sound of her breath and the heat from her body throwing mine into turmoil.
Raging. Hormones.
Neglected libido, if you don’t count my jerking off—which I don’t. Masturbation doesn’t count; I have heard it’s a shitty substitute to actually boning someone and can’t imagine it comes close. I’ve never sunk myself into a warm pussy, but common sense tells me there’s no way my right hand feels remotely the same, even covered in lube.
“I haven’t been kissed in a really long time,” she finally says, eyes trained on my mouth. “Not a real kiss.”
“Same.”
“Have you ever heard that saying, ‘I haven’t had sex in so long I forgot how to moan—what if I fuck it up and start barking?’ I feel like that’s me right now, except we’re not having sex. Obviously.”
“I haven’t heard that sayin’.” A laugh escapes my throat. The quote is hilarious and embarrassingly accurate where I’m concerned. “Where’s it from?”
“The internet—Instagram. I didn’t make it up, but it applies to so many things.” Her giggle is nervous as she fidgets, my arms still around her. Charlie has made no move to pull away—a good sign since I want her to fucking kiss me. “I like your lips.”
She likes my lips. My hair. The cleft in my chin. The slope of my broad shoulders where her hands are resting, fingers fanned out, thumbs kneading the fabric of my soft t-shirt. I doubt she knows she’s doing it, moving instinctually as she stands before me, stroking my upper body.
In silence, we watch each other a bit longer. It should feel weird…awkward, even, but it doesn’t. No pressure. Nothing feels forced.
Charlie breaks the spell. “Technically, this isn’t our first kiss.”
“Technically that is true.” We did kiss briefly in my kitchen before my fucking roommates barged in.
“So. No big deal.” It sounds suspiciously as if she has to talk herself into not being nervous—a lot like I had to do when I was younger, psyching myself up for a football game.
