So. Long.: Bad Boy Next Door (13 page)

Demolition work has its advantages.

Free therapy.

Tearing the living shit out of something could be a form of mental
healing.

I carry out another piece of the kitchen cabinetry. The wood
they were made of wasn’t much heavier than plywood, but slinging the sledgehammer
let off some of the pent-up pressure I’ve been hauling around with me since the
other night with Kelsey.

She still hasn’t answered my email. I have no fucking idea
what that means.

Did she not like the pictures I posted? Does she think the
email I sent was creepy or stupid? Maybe she just hasn’t opened her email.

Fuck if I know.

I toss the scraps of broken up wood into the rented dumpster.

Her garage door is up.

Is she in there working out?

Images of the last time I found her in her garage and what
happened directly afterward swamp me. My cock hardens.

Should I casually go over and say hello?

No. Probably not. I bet she already thinks I stalk her. I
don’t, of course—well, not intentionally.

I pull my phone from the cargo pocket of my shorts.

She wouldn’t have given me her number if she didn’t want me
to text.

Then again, after yesterday afternoon with her mom in the
driveway, she may never want to see me again. The look on her face when she
turned and saw me standing there, knowing I’d heard her was fucking priceless.

Well, only one way to find out if she’ll talk to me.

-Hey, Beautiful Girl. How’s the writing going?-

I shove my phone into the side pocket of my pants and get my
ass back to work.

Almost an hour later, her reply comes through.

-It was going, and then Chloe decided to take a nap on my
keyboard and erased a shit-ton of the words I had. Now I have to re-do them,
because I’m too computer illiterate to figure out how to recover them.
L
-

Fuck yes. Perfect.

I skip the return text and head next door.

She answers the doorbell, shoving the kitten behind her with
her foot. “Hey. What’re you doing here?”

Her mussed red hair glints like flames in the evening sun. Even
with no make-up, she’s striking.

“I think I can help you.”

Her expression is puzzled. “With what?”

“Your file. I think I can retrieve your words for you.”

“You can? I mean, you
think
you can?”

The hope in her eyes is almost daunting.

Hope I don’t fuck this up.

“No promises, but I can try. I’ve done some computer work in
the past.”

She steps aside and invites me in with a sweep of her arm. “All
right. It’s back here.”

Kelsey leads me down the hall, past the bathroom where Spike
and the cat did their damage, and into the room at the end. She tosses glances
over her shoulder, as if she’s unsure she’s made a good decision by inviting me
in.

“Everything okay?”

She stops halfway down the hall. “I’m a little embarrass—”

I put my finger over her lips. “About your rump raspberry
yesterday? Don’t be. Everyone lets one every now and then. You’re human.”

She bites her lip and then cracks a smile. “Rump raspberry?”

I give her a one-shoulder shrug. “I was trying to say it
nicer than
ass flapper
.”

Her eyes go wide. Then she throws her hand over her mouth as
she bursts out laughing.

“Well, my mom always has been one to squeeze the booty
belches out of me.” She shakes her head and continues down the hall.

Her booty’s looking mighty fine to me. “You need a more
delicate term…something like turd tulip or panty puffer.”

“Panty puffer isn’t bad.” At a large desk, piled with papers
and books, she pulls out a chair and offers it to me. “Okay, now that we’ve
established that I know how to tush tickle with the best of them, the name of
the file I need is
Rage
.

“Rage? Damn. Sounds like a book I might enjoy.”

She giggles. “Maybe. But I kinda doubt you’d like the read.”

“Oh, you never know. I like to read. What kind of book is
it?”

Kelsey opens her mouth like she might answer, but then she
closes it and shakes her head. “Let’s save that conversation for another day. I
really just need to get this file restored if possible.”

I shrug. “Okay, but—I might like it. I read all kinds of
stuff.”

“Perhaps.” A sly smile plays at her lips.

I turn to her computer and start ferreting through her
files. “Did you check your
recent documents
file?

“I don’t know. I checked all the files I could find with the
file name.”

I pull up a couple of the files that look like they might be
what she wants and I open them on her desktop. “Take a look at these, see if
either one is the one you need.”

I move, and she takes my place, scrolling through the docs.
The first one, she shakes her head and clicks on the red X to close it. About
halfway through the second, she squeals.

“Oh my gosh! This is it. You found it. How’d you find it?”

“A little talent I picked up here or there.”

She jumps out of the seat and throws her arms around my
neck, giving me a big, smacking kiss on my mouth.

I wrap my arm around her waist and pull her to me. “If I’d have
known I was going to get kisses, I’d have showered before I came over.”

“Sorry. I’m just so freaking happy.”

I tighten my hold on her and look directly into her eyes. I
hold my breath until she starts to fidget, then I say, “Let me take you out—on
an actual date this time.”

Her expression goes through a few emotions before settling
on something that looks like regret. “Aw, that’s sweet. It is, but I—I can’t.”

“Can’t?”

“No. I’m busy. Like
super
, super busy.” She tries to
back out of my arms.

Bringing her hard against my chest, I dip my head until our
mouths meet. I nibble her lower lip and slip my tongue along it, silently
asking her to invite me in.

She opens her mouth, and her tongue meets mine like she’s
been waiting for this kiss as much as I have.

And I
have
.

Every time I lay eyes on her, I think of her mouth. How soft
it is. How sweet she is. How her scent fills me with the need to fill her.

I slide my fingers through the hair at her nape and push her
against the edge of the desk.

She lifts her leg and wraps it around my waist. My cock
hardens as she lets my erection press into that soft place it wants so badly to
get into.

Her hands find my ass and squeeze just enough to make my
dick strain even more against my zipper. I lay little kisses from the corner of
her mouth, along her jaw, to the pulse point of her neck, and then I bite just
hard enough to stake my claim.

She lets out a little moan, so I do it again and then soothe
the spot with open-mouthed kisses, sucking softly each time. Kelsey leans her
head back, allowing me to—

“Hey, what’re you—Oh.
Oh
.” As Leigh walks in, her
voice works like a bucket of cold water dumped over Kelsey.

She pushes me away and straightens her top. “Nothing. We’re
not doing a thing.”

I turn to Leigh and grin. “Didn’t feel like
nothing
to
me.”

Leigh’s eyes shine. “Yeah, and it sure didn’t look like
nothing
from over here.”

Kelsey steps around me and grabs her friend by the elbow.
“C’mon. Adam is just leaving.”

“I am?”

She glares at me, her blue eyes ice-cold and hard. “Yes. You
are. I really appreciate your help. Thank you. Have a nice afternoon.”

“Kelsey, that’s not very nice.” Leigh frowns at her friend.

I lean against the doorjamb. “Yeah. That’s not very nice,
considering what a huge favor I just did for you.”

Kelsey props her hands at her hips and looks from Leigh to
me and then back. Her fake smile quickly fades. “You
did
do me a favor.
Thank you—again. Let me know if I can somehow return the favor by helping you
out some
other
time.”

I wink at Leigh and turn to Kelsey. “Actually, there is
something I need.”

She sighs as though she’s exhausted. “And what would
that
be?”

“I need a date.”

“I’ve already told you—”

Leigh interrupts her. “That doesn’t sound like too much to
ask. What kind of date?”

“There’s this thing I’m supposed to attend. It’s a charity
fundraiser for wounded vets. You think you’d mind putting on those sassy red
heels and going with me?”

Kelsey and Leigh answer at the same time. “Charity?”

Leigh cocks her head. “You can’t say
no
to that. It’s
charity. You’re a patriotic American. You don’t want to be
that
person—the
one who won’t support our wounded veterans.”

I hold up my hand to Leigh. She slaps it for a high-five.

Kelsey’s glare could burn a hole through my forehead. “Fine.
One
date. To the fundraiser and home. That’s all. I told you, I’m
extremely busy.”

Leigh coughs into her hand. “She ain’t
that
busy.”

Kelsey throws her hands in the air. “Is this a freaking conspiracy?”

Chloe jumps into my lap.

“Nope. Momma’s working. You need to go play somewhere else.”

Not to be deterred, she hops up again and puts her paws on
my shoulders, rubbing the top of her head beneath my chin.

“You’re lucky you’re cute.”I try to get her to lie down by
pushing her hindquarters into a sitting position. “C’mon, I have work to do.”

Not that any of it is getting done. The well of words that
flowed so freely before my nasty divorce seems to have gone dry.

And Leigh was completely wrong. Getting licked did
not
fix
it.

On that thought, I slide my pointer to the internet browser.

Email is always a good place to find a reasonable distraction.

People have to check their email, it would be irresponsible
not to. Right?

I click the one from DATE.COM.

Never know, could be the man of my dreams.

Chloe looks up at me and lets out an extra-vocal meow.

I scratch the top of her head. “Yeah, you’re right—probably
not.”

From
NextDoor
.

NextDoor?
As in
Boy
Next Door? Oh no—if it is,
with a username like that, I bet he’s one of those wholesome guys who’d be more
than slightly offended that in those word-cloud thingies, when applied to my
books, the largest word to show up ninety percent of the time is either
pussy
or
cock
.

I shrug and open the email anyway.

Hey. How was your day?

Simple. But better than some of the emails I get. At least
he doesn’t sound like a creeper.

I hit
reply
.

Not terrible. You?

I send the email and go grab another cup of coffee.

As I drop into my chair and spin to my desk, my email
notification chimes.

It’s another one from DATE.COM.

And again, from
NextDoor
.

That was lightning quick.

My day’s looking up since I got your email.

I click on his profile name, and his photo pops up.

Oh my.

Damn.

A little déjà vu wriggles around in the back of my mind.

Maybe I’ve met this guy.

But he has a scar across his jaw—a good, strong jaw too.

No. There’s no way I know him. I’d remember a face as good-looking
as his, with a scar like that. Too distinctive not to. Must remind me of
someone else.

Scrolling through his photos, I sit up in my chair, leaning
closer to the screen.

There are only six pictures of him. But man-oh-man—the six he
chose—so much better than the crappy bathroom selfies and half-blurry beach
photos most of the other guys post.

He poses in a desert, his tight black T stretched across his
uber-muscular pecs in one of them. Tats trail down his arms, but from the
distance the photo was taken, it’s hard to tell what they are. Another shows
him in some kind of fancy dress uniform. Must be military. No hairy chest pictures,
which is good because some of those look oddly rug-like.

At least whatever hair he has isn’t all over his face.

Adam comes to mind, but I push him aside. No time to think
of a guy who isn’t going to stick around. That’s not what I want, no matter how
skilled he is with his tongue or how amazing he makes me feel when he holds me.

NextDoor
is more than good-looking, and he’s got
enough photos that he’s probably actually who he says he is—I hope.

Let’s see what he has to say about himself.

The
About Me
page takes a few seconds to load. I tap
trembling fingers alongside the mouse. After a minute, I yank them into my lap.

No reason to be so excited, or nervous, or whatever this is.

He’s just a guy.

Granted, he’s a gorgeous guy who is possibly blind, because
he did email
me
. And sadly, this guy’s way out of my league. Light years
out of it.

Why on Earth did he contact me?

Finally, his
About Me
page loads, but there isn’t
much to it.

This man doesn’t have the tools to write the perfect
romance, but I’d like to try. Help me find the right words, and I’ll help you
find yours.

I catch my breath as my heart melts all the way to my feet.

His
words
. It’s like…like they were written just for
me.

I stare at the screen, reading and re-reading the few words
he used to describe himself again and again.

Warmth curls into my soul from the screen and spreads to my
fingers.

Fuck it. Outta my league or not, I’ll reply to his last email.

I can see if he’s a real guy or some made-up figment of my
imagination—or someone else’s.

Aw. That’s nice. Thank you.

So, what do you do for a living? I’m an author.

It takes fewer than two minutes for his reply to come back.

I own a very small construction and re-model company.

Owns his own company? Small or not, that’s got to be a
positive, right?

We email a few more times.

I learn that he’s just moved to his new home a few weeks
ago. Apparently, he likes dogs and cats. Which is nice, since I have a kitten—a
terrorist of a feline, perhaps, but still a cat.

A lot of men don’t like cats. Matt didn’t like cats. Fuck
Matt. I don’t even want to think about what Matt did or didn’t like. His likes
and dislikes are now irrelevant.

A few more emails go back and forth.

What kind of books do you write?

My stomach sinks.

Fuck.

Do I tell him all of it? That I’m a smut writer? That I spin
dirty tales of sexy couples who can’t keep their hands off each other?

Or do I just give him the pretty version I usually share
with most people, like my mom’s church group and Clarissa’s teachers or her
friends’ parents?

I write romance—love stories. I know, I know…it may seem
cliché, but readers like it, and so do I.

There. If he doesn’t like the fact that I write romance,
then fuck him too.

So what if I didn’t give him
full
disclosure? I can
always expand on it later, right? It’s not lying, after all. My books
are
categorized that way—officially.

His answer comes back fast.

Cool job. You must have a great imagination.

I suppose so. ;)

So, can I ask you a question without offending you?

Go ahead. I’m super hard to offend…on purpose. I think
people are much too easily upset. Ask me pretty much anything, but be prepared
for the bald truth.

Okay, then. We’ll see if he can handle Kelsey—full-tilt.

If not, he’s probably not the guy for me anyway, right?
That’s the whole point of this online thing—to find a guy who will like me for
me and not waste my time on a bunch of dates with guys who want something else.
Isn’t it?

Don’t worry. I can handle anything you dish out,
beautiful. My mom used to read some pretty racy romance novels…exactly
how
good
is
your imagination?

Shit.

Now I have to put up or shut up.

Okay. You asked for it, buddy.

I have a
very
good
imagination. I describe things in vivid, full-color detail, using all the
real
words.

My tummy squeezes as I hit send.

He might decide he doesn’t want a woman who writes smutty
fiction for horny women. We’ll see if I lose him on this one.

Ha! All the real words, eh? So, porn for the ladies?

I smile. Maybe he
can
handle the truth.

Ha, ha, ha. Not exactly pornography. My novels do have plots
and character arcs and all the things real books have, but pornos lack.

Porn flicks have plots.

A sexy librarian showing up to deliver pizza to a gang of
barely legal blondes when suddenly a girl-on-girl orgy breaks out is
not
a plot.

Okay. You got me on that one. Show me something you’ve
written…give me a few lines.

I bite my lip.

Do I dare? I don’t even know this guy.

A wicked, little voice in the recesses of my mind says,
“Exactly.”

I pull up one of my contemporary novels from a couple of
years ago and pick one of the racier bits.

His hand slips behind her knee and pulls her leg up over his
hip. He pushes her back hard against the wall, his cock ramming deeper into her
pussy. Over and over. Harder and harder. Until she’s dripping and screaming for
release.

I hit
send.

Immediately, regret swamps me.

I wring my fingers into knots.

Oh, Lord. That’s it.

I’ve fucked myself on this one. He’s only ever going to
think of that passage when I come to mind. I should have waited longer to tell
him what I do. I should’ve kept things nice and tidy. I should have gone out
with him a few times first.

Now, he’s either going to want to fuck me and run, or he
won’t want to fuck me even with someone else’s dick. And he’ll certainly never
want to build a real relationship with me.

I return to his profile and stare at his photos.

Damn. He’s fucking gorgeous too.

Barring bad breath or diseased junk, I’d probably do him.
And now I’ll never get my chance, and if I do, it’ll probably only be for the
fuck’s sake and not because he actually thinks of me as someone he’d want to
take home to his mom—whether she likes racy reads or not.

For
real
relationships, nice guys don’t want girls
with dirty minds.

My hand goes to my engorged cock.

I’ve read her last email at least six times. With each read,
the image of her sweet, pink pussy gets clearer and clearer in my mind. Each
time, my dick jumps and wants to sink into her slippery wet slit. The taste of
her is still on my tongue, even after all this time.

My dick hardens even more, and I unbutton my jeans, pulling
it from its confines. I yank and squeeze and jerk it until I just about wear my
fucking arm out trying to get off.

Shit. This is never going to work.

I’ve got to fuck Kelsey. Right. Now.

I tuck my shit back into my pants and tug my T-shirt down to
cover the zipper that won’t go over the giant bulge. I stalk next door and
raise my hand to knock. But before it connects with the wood, I pull back.

No. This isn’t the way to do this. Not if I want more than
to just fuck her.

And I do.

I leave before she catches me standing at her door with a
giant erection.

Once home, I sit at the computer again and let my hard-on
out of his prison to get a little relief from the constriction.

Damn, girl. You’ve got some talent. That’s pretty fucking
hot.

I was a little worried I’d scared you off. It’s been a lot
longer between emails this time.

Not so sure I should tell her exactly what I was doing.

I had to take care of something.

Take care of something? Oh shit. Were you paddling your
pickle? Milking your lizard? Polishing your torpedo?

Are we—are we
sexting
here?

I didn’t really mean to do that. I was just sharing some of
my words.