“He wants you to decorate his house?” Asher had asked.
I’d nodded, slinging my computer bag across my chest. “He might not want it, but he admits to needing something fun to shake the blues away. This is our household offering to an ailing neighbor.”
Holden had fixed me with a dubious once-over as he’d fussed with the buttons on the Tudor-period doublet he wore with breeches for the Shakespearean fall festival in the park. “Don’t take this the wrong way, Chet, but I have a feeling Mr. McSwoony is pulling one over on you. There’s a good chance you’ll tell him your grand holiday plan and end up ducking for cover when his son tries to wrap you in silly string.”
“If he does, call us. We’ll rescue you,” Asher offered.
I’d chuckled, lowering my face when I felt a telltale heat bloom across my cheeks. “That won’t be necessary.”
Holden and Ash shared a look. “Oh, no.”
“What?”
Asher sighed. “You have a crush on Mr. McSwoony.”
“What? No. Don’t be silly. He’s our injured neighbor.”
“Our straight, injured neighbor,” Ash had corrected.
Right.
I’d smiled and raced out the door. It was infinitely more mature than yelling, “He kissed me!”
See, I’d already decided not to share that tasty tidbit. There was no point. It was a one-time thing, never destined to occur again. Odd circumstances sparked unlikely events. I’d read titillating tales about forced-proximity dalliances.
You know, the “no room at the inn” storyline where two grown men share a full-sized bed at an over-booked hotel and find themselves cuddling for warmth. Next thing they know, they’re naked, and the man who swore he was straight as an arrow is on all fours, jacking his cock, and begging his lover to fuck him like he means it.
Confession…naughty romances were my secret pleasure. I allowed myself to download five at the beginning of each week, along with my usual nonfiction selection about space and technology. I hadn’t had a live boyfriend in a while, and I wasn’t ashamed to admit that I possessed an active libido. And reading erotica before…you know, masturbating—didn’t happen every night.
Except it had this past week, and it was Sam Rooney’s fault. And maybe mine for being a darn pervert.
He’d guest-starred in all of my erotica-induced fantasies since last Sunday night. I’d read one about a sexy cowboy-slash-sheriff who spanked a cowhand over his knee, then fucked him over a bale of hay in a barn. And another about seatmates on a plane who sneaked into the bathroom to get each other off. Of course, the likelihood of two grown men fitting in an airplane restroom together, let alone maneuvering to give a proper blowjob, seemed highly suspicious. The author had obviously taken creative license, so why shouldn’t I?
In my mind, Sam was the cowboy and that was me over his knee, and over that bale of hay, begging him to give me more and fuck me harder. That was me, squeezing into a confined stall, pulling his dick out and sinking to the floor to swallow him whole.
There were a dozen more, and every story ended with the usual happy ending…starring Sam.
I was obsessed. I didn’t know what to make of it or how to get my epic bout of horniness under control. I might need to consider purchasing a fleshlight. Which would be funny if I could tell him. Of course, I would never do that. Geez, I hadn’t even talked to the guy in days.
Not spoken words, anyway. We’d exchanged a whopping two messages this week. Sam had texted me Monday morning to verify that I hadn’t frozen to death or been murdered.
Just wanted to make sure you’re not a human popsicle and that Mike Myers didn’t come by the house last night.
Negative on both counts. I’m warm and alive. Thank you, I’d replied.
Glad to hear it.
See you Saturday to discuss the holidays.
He followed his, Oh, joy with a winking and thumbs-up emoji.
I stared at the thread for a while, reading far too much into it. Winking was flirtatious, but a thumbs-up wasn’t. One gesture canceled out the other. Or did it?
I wasn’t sure. But it didn’t matter either way. I had a mission to accomplish.
So here I was…at the end of his driveway, mustering up the courage to—
“Excuse me, sir? You might want to get out of the way. These cars are about to blast by you.”
I did a double take, snapping my head toward the garage tucked at the rear of the house. A small boy with a mop of brown hair waved his arms and gestured at what looked like a ramp with toy cars positioned at the top. He squatted behind the ramp and gave a short countdown before pushing both toys at once. Then he raced after them, barreling at me like a wild monkey.
I started to move but stayed put when I realized the cars were on course to jump the sidewalk and careen into the street. We didn’t get much traffic, but the potential for a hazardous outcome was extremely high. Either the toys, the kid, or an unsuspecting driver could be hurt. I couldn’t let that happen. I pulled my computer bag over my shoulder and set it strategically on the ground to block one of the oncoming toys before stepping sideways to block the other one, bending to pick it up when it hit my foot.