“He never had the sex talk with you when you were growing up?”

“Oh, we’ve had the sex talk all right—a few times, actually.” Rowdy readjusts his large body on the bed, folding those thick biceps behind his head, mattress dipping from his weight.

“My senior year of high school, they both sat me down to explain that since I’d signed my letter of intent to play for Iowa, girls were going to be coming out the woodwork.”

“Were your parents right?”

A brief hesitation. “Yeah.”

He casts me a guilty look, thick eyebrows knitted into a frown as if just realizing what that one word implies: he took full advantage. Had lots of meaningless sex with countless meaningless women.

Well.

That information I certainly could have lived without, but I asked, so I have no one to blame but myself for the small crater of jealousy forming in the pit of my stomach.

“They’re always riding my ass about groupies, and safe sex, and using my head—not the one inside my boxers.”

“I don’t blame them. I bet it’s not easy watching your son work his ass off, keep up his grades, and then have to fend off all the girls.”

“I guess I don’t either. The girls are…” He clears his throat, once again directing his gaze toward the ceiling, as if the answers are spelled out for him up there. “I was done with the parties and the casual sex by my sophomore year. That’s why I moved out of the house. It got real old—not for everyone in the house, obviously, but it did for me.”

I can’t imagine what that world is like. Being a biology student is so far removed from the world of athletics, it’s laughable.

“Do you feel like you have to be on all the time?”

“What do you mean?”

“Like…” I prop myself up so I can see him better. “You can’t say or do what you want because people are always watching.”

He nods. “That’s exactly it, yes. Coaches, the media, other students with their fucking cell phones recording us. The popular players can’t even take a dump in a public bathroom without it ending up online.”

I try to picture my face on some stranger’s profile online, or an article written about me on the internet.

“What’s it like?”

“It doesn’t happen to me often—I’m not a big enough name for anyone to give a shit about. I play ball for Iowa, Scarlett, not Miami or Vanderbilt.”

“Are those teams good?”

“Those teams are the best.”

“Could you have played there?”

He goes quiet. “Yeah, I could have played there.”

“Should you have played there?”

“No.” He turns his head toward me and studies my face. “I’m right where I need to be.”

My heart leaps, damn if it doesn’t, and suddenly we’re not talking about baseball anymore. We’re talking about us—him and me and the fact that we’re lying here now, alone in this room, alone in this bed.

“You can touch me, you know.” His voice has a hesitance to it, as if he’s afraid I’m going to reject him. “I want you to.”

His voice is rumbly and low, twisting up my insides like it always does. So deep from fatigue, my stupid, neglected ovaries clench into a tight fist while the space between my legs grows uncomfortably hot.

Rowdy is so achingly handsome. So. Freaking.

Hot.

I could stare at him all day and he wouldn’t have to say a single word to entertain me.

His green eyes watch, transfixed, as my hand glides through the white sheets toward him, waiting with baited breath for my next move. It’s as close to a beseeching look as Sterling Wade has ever given me, a slight tremor in his voice.

He wants me to touch him—bad.

“Do you? What if I don’t know what I’m doing?”

“You don’t have to know what you’re doing, you just have to listen to your body, and hopefully that body is telling you to touch me.”

He delivers that quip with a serious expression, the smile not quite reaching his eyes.

“I can’t believe you can say shit like that with a straight face.”

His chest rumbles. “Sometimes neither can I.”

My hand rests atop the white bedding, tentatively pausing.

He rolls on his side, matching my position. Arm creeping forward, fingers sliding, large, tan hand meeting mine in the middle of the bed. It’s a warm palm covering mine, caressing, the tip of his forefinger tracing along my ring finger.

Touches my shiny, pale pink nails before flipping it over. Continues tracing the sensitive skin there, giving me the shivers before moving up my wrist, drawing tiny circles along my flesh.

Up my inner arm to the crook of my elbow.

Then down again.

I hold my breath when he retraces his steps, the journey headed north, up my bicep.

Stop breathing completely when his fingers splay under the strap of my tank top, his eyes tracking the movements, together with mine.

The boat rocks, waves splashing against the steel hull of the ship as it cuts through the rough sea. A glass of water on the desk slides to one end, hits the edge, then slides back again.

A part of me wants to climb out of bed and open the balcony door; the other part wants to see where his hand goes next.

The ocean wins.

“Give me one second?”

I pull away, scurrying to the door, pulling the latch and sliding it open, greeted by the sound of pounding waves. Stand staring out into the dark, the vast ocean illuminated by the bright moon looming above. Locate a few wayward stars among the overcast sky before turning and settling myself back on the bed.

Climbing on all fours toward Sterling’s body, he’s covered from the waist down by the stark, snowy sheet. A golden god whose tan, size, and chiseled attributes are highlighted by the moonlight.

Rising to my knees, I grabble for the hem of my tank top, gliding it up my torso, pause before exposing my breasts.

Take a deep breath, peel my shirt off, and toss it to the foot of the mattress.

His nostrils flare.

“Can I get under the covers with you?”

He reaches for me then, pulling back the sheets so I can climb inside. Tenderly tugs me over so I’m on top, skin on skin.

Instantly, his hands begin rubbing my back—down, then up—plunging into the waistband of my sleep shorts. He grips my ass gently, caressing, while the ship rocks slightly back and forth.

I run my fingers through his hair. Run them over his shoulders, gripping his biceps. Clasp his hand, lacing our fingers when our lips finally meet.

The ship creaks.

Waves crash.

Tongues roll.

Then, in one swift motion, I’m on my back and Sterling hovers over me, eyes raking down my body, settling on my naked breasts.

When he reaches up to settle his giant hand on one, I arch my back and moan, tipping my head back into the pillow. Teeth rake my bottom lip.

Slowly.

Painfully slowly, he brushes his thumb across my nipple while the rest of his palm cradles the underside, lightly pushing it up. Plump.

His voice is gravelly, low. “I’ve been wondering what these look like.”

Mine comes out breathless. “And now you know.”

His eyes make contact.

Lips curve.

“And now I know.”

I watch, fascinated, as his shoulders dip, presenting me with the crown of his head. Lips find and fasten on my breast, sucking. Licking. Sucking some more.

I moan.

He moans.

The ship? Moans.

Everyone is satisfied.

Tiny nips of his teeth have my lower half wriggling; I’m on fire, and when he makes his way down my stomach, kissing a wet trail down to my belly button, a thousand thoughts go through my mind: What is he doing? Is he about to go down on me? Did I wash well enough when I took a shower? Shit, I never shaved my crotch. What if it takes too long for me to come and I suffocate him?

Even worse: What if he’s terrible and I don’t come at all?

I’ve never, in my life, had anyone with their face between my legs.

But I do now.

Sterling’s thumbs hook my pajama bottoms and underwear, dragging them down together my hips until I’m completely naked. His large hands drift slowly up my torso, over my breasts, weighing them in his palms before working their way back down.