6. Jett
SIX
JETT
I’m dragging ass today. Absolutely, unequivocally running on fumes.
My alarm on my phone didn’t wake me, it released me from a six-hour sentence of pure torture.
I spent most if not the entire night tossing and turning in my hotel bed, tangled in the sheets, trying to purge one specific male from my brain.
Nothing worked.
I tried everything, including logging onto my laptop at two in the morning to organize content calendars.
It didn’t work. I took a scalding-hot shower at four to wash away the phantom memory of his scent and his touch.
That also didn’t work. Then, in a moment of sheer desperation, I gave in.
I couldn’t help it. I slid my hands between my legs, closed my eyes, and tried to chase a release that would finally let me sleep.
Too bad the second my fingers touched my slick center, his voice echoed in my mind: If you were in my head tonight, Jett…
you wouldn’t be getting any sleep at all.
I buried two fingers in my pussy, and the palm of my hand pressed on my clit.
My eyes rolled in the back of my head, the feeling was that good.
But like all good things, they come to an end, and not even five minutes later, I was arching my back into the orgasm, chasing the high.
That only left me more wired, more frustrated, and wanting Rowdy more.
By six thirty, I was standing in front of the bathroom mirror, using twice the usual amount of concealer to hide the dark circles under my eyes, telling my reflection to remain professional and flipping my hair to one side to give it volume.
I proceeded to tell myself, he’s a client, a giant, cocky, incredibly sexy client who is wrecking my sanity.
An hour later, I’m pushing open the double doors to the Lonestars’ athlete training facility.
The heavy scent of rubber, floor cleaner, metal, and expensive gear immediately hits my nose.
I walk down the quiet hallway toward the treatment room, my bag hung over my shoulder, fully prepared to be the unbothered social media strategist I am.
Until I cross the threshold and stop dead in my tracks.
Rowdy’s sitting on the edge of a therapy table in the center of the brightly lit room, and he isn’t wearing a shirt.
Again. Of course, he isn’t. Does he ever?
Doc, the physical therapist, is standing behind him, applying a strip of black kinetic tape across Rowdy’s left shoulder and upper back.
The morning sunlight streams through the windows, illuminating every single carved muscle of his torso.
His chest is impossibly massive, smooth skin stretching tightly over hard contours.
His abs are sharp and defined, a deep six-pack that tapers down into the low-slung waistband of his gray shorts.
His dark hair is slightly messy, falling in rumpled waves over his forehead, and his sharp jawline is shadowed by a dusting of dark stubble.
“Well, well, well.” Rowdy’s gravelly tone fills the room. “Good morning, sunshine. Glad to see you’re awake, Sleeping Beauty.” His smoldering eyes focus on mine, and the moment he recognizes my paralyzed stance, a slow, lazy, sexy grin spreads across his face.
“I’ve been up for hours, Bouch. Some of us have other jobs to do besides you.” I roll my eyes, attempting to cover up the words I just used. Good grief, Jett, get it the fuck together.
“Sunshine.” He groans the two-syllable word out. I swallow the lump in my throat and force myself to take three deliberate steps into the room. I reach for my armor, pulling my phone from my pocket and flicking open the camera app to give my hands something to do.
“Anyways,” I reply as Rowdy’s eyes sparkle with a playful heat. Doc smooths down another piece of tape on his shoulder. I set my bag down on a nearby stool and pull out my camera.
Rowdy chuckles, leaning back slightly on the palms of his hands, bulging his biceps and stretching his chest. A T-shirt would have sufficed, I think to myself, bringing my camera up and framing the shot.
Click.
The shutter sounds, but he doesn’t blink. The tension between us is so thick Doc actually pauses, glancing between the two of us with a raised eyebrow before wiping his hands on a towel.
“Alright, Rowdy. You’re taped up. We’re moving to resistance bands next. Try not to break anything while you’re handler is watching,” Doc says, thankfully breaking the spell as he steps back.
“Can’t make any promises, Doc,” Rowdy grumbles, sliding his long, thick legs off the edge of the table.
He stands up, all six-foot-plus of powerful muscle, and takes two purposeful strides toward me.
The heat of his body hits me, carrying his maddening scent.
I hold my ground, keeping the camera at my chest, and his eyes sear me as he takes in each inhale of mine.
Apparently, he’s decided to turn up the flirtations a notch or ten.
It also seems he can turn his mood on and off with the flick of a switch.
His broody temper from yesterday is gone, and in its place is a magnetic confidence that is dangerous to my self-control.
“So.” Rowdy leans down slightly, bringing his face a few inches from mine. “Get anything else done beside me?” I knew he’d bring up my earlier slip-up.
“Definitely,” I lie, tilting my head up to meet his gaze head on.
“Right.” He lets out a low, rumbling laugh that vibrates in his chest. My stomach decides to dip to my feet.
I step back a half a pace to create some distance before my hand reaches out to touch his bare skin.
“We both know you’re lying.” His tone drops an octave.
The playful banter is gone, and in its place is a hunger simmering on a low boil.
“Time to get to work.” I take a deep breath, ready to shift into work mode. “I’ve got one more clip I want to work on to show the fans you’re putting in the work.”
“You really are a work horse.” He smirks, shaking his head as he walks over to the wall-mounted resistance cables.
“I guess it’s time to give the people what they want, sunshine.
” He grabs the handles, then steps back until the heavy bands are taut across his back.
His feet are shoulder-width apart, thighs flexing, and he begins to pull his left arm back in a slow, controlled motion that makes every muscle flex.
Click. Click.
“Keep your jaw set like that. Now look slight to the left.” I raise my camera, step closer to get the right angle, and say, “Perfect.”
“Like this?” he mutters. He does another heavy pull, turning his head so his profile is illuminated perfectly. “Am I soft enough for you yet?”
“You’re getting there,” I tease, stepping up to his flank to capture the sweat beginning to bead at his collarbone. “Though a smile would convince them.”
“I only smile when I get what I want, Jett.” He pauses mid-rep, turning his gaze directly at me.
“And what’s that?” The question slips from my tongue before my brain turns on a filter. He holds the band, keeping it steady with one arm, his breath coming in a low, even cadence as he looks down at me, his eyes dropping deliberately to my mouth before his teeth catch on his bottom lip.
“You know what I want,” he rasps quietly, so low that Doc can’t hear over the sound of the ice machine across the room.
“And it has nothing to do with a better public image.” I stand there, completely undone by the sheer weight of his focus, forcing a small smile as I tap the camera screen to save the video.
“Okay, back to work.” I’m rewarded with a deep, throaty laugh as he lets the resistance handles move back into place. He grabs a gray towel off the rack, throws it over his shoulder, and moves to another area in the room.
“Whatever you say, boss lady. Don’t forget we’re on the road bright and early tomorrow, and you’re with me.
” I’m greeted with his back as he makes his way out of the treatment room.
I’m supposed to be taming his wild reputation, but as I trail after him, I’m realizing the only thing that’s going to be ruined is my ironclad rule.