“I know. You’d think I’d be better at it, working at a strip club,” she says.
“They are coming back in a couple of days, because the yard was in really bad shape.”
“Thanks to that asshole, Nick.” No matter the time of day, Brittany never misses a chance to disparage him.
“The yard is my responsibility now. I should have called someone sooner.”
“And who better to trim your bush than four hot strippers?”
“Oh my god, Brit. I can’t. I’m hanging up.”
7
Leo
Lorraine Martin gets better looking every time I see her, and that’s saying something, because she was pretty damn hot the first time she answered her door.
Today, she’s wearing a sleeveless pink shirt and black shorts, and her body looks amazing. Trim waist, full hips, and a chest I want to bury my face in. It took her a minute to answer my knock on her back door, and her cheeks are flushed. Again, I get the idea that I’ve interrupted activities in the bedroom, but she ends up setting me straight, as if she could read my thoughts.
“Sorry, I was on my stationary bike,” she says, tilting her head toward the unseen piece of exercise equipment somewhere inside the house.
“No problem. We’re just getting started, but I wanted to check in and see if you had any requests.”
She looks at me for a few seconds before responding, and I swear I see a dirty thought cross her mind. “No, nothing yet,” she says. “You’re still in cleanup mode, aren’t you?”
“We are, but the worst is behind us. We can move ahead with planting whenever you’re ready.”
“Okay, I’ll be out before you leave,” she says.
“Sounds good.” I let my eyes drag down the length of her before I head back to join the others, and it’s a mistake, because the memory of what I see is a distraction the entire time I’m working. Her skin was glistening with a thin sheen of sweat, and I wanted to lick it off of her, starting at her shoulder and going —
Fuck! My dick’s getting hard while I rake up the weeds that Dante pulled.
There’s just something about the woman.
And don’t think I missed the way her thin shirt clung to the hollow under her breasts. I’d like to grab her by the waist and tug her against me and —
“Leo!” Troy calls me over for a question, and thank god, because if I let my thoughts keep running in the same direction, I’ll have to go jerk off behind the trash cans on the side of the house.
I manage to stop being a perv long enough to finish my work, but the explicit thoughts return instantly when I spot Lorraine on the patio. She must have finished her workout, because she’s wearing different clothes and her hair is damp and combed straight back away from her face. It seems intimate, seeing her post-shower, and my dick gives a little warning kick in my pants, which I ignore.
Drinks are already on the table, and now she’s carrying out a tray with sandwiches and chips.
“You’re our new favorite customer,” Dante tells her, rushing over to take the tray out of her hands. “None of the others feed us.”
“You didn’t have to do this,” Darian says, joining his twin.
“But it was very nice of you,” I add. “Much appreciated.”
Lorraine smiles, and I think about all of the things I’d like to do to her to make her smile more. And to make her laugh, and make her scream my name. My one-track mind is on a particularly narrow track today.
“Sit down and rest for a few minutes,” she tells us. “I saw how hard you were working out here.”
I wonder if she saw how hard I was a little while ago. I’d love to show her.
“Are you performing tonight?” she asks.
“We are,” Dante says. “Are you thinking of coming to the show again?”
She shakes her head, strands of her drying hair catching the sunlight. “I don’t think so. Here, eat.” She passes the tray of sandwiches to Darian, who’s sitting on her right. He takes one and passes it along.
“Why not?” I ask. “Doesn’t your husband like you to go?” She doesn’t wear a ring, but I’m pretending not to have noticed that.
Lorraine takes a drink of lemonade before answering. “I was actually at Club Red the other night to celebrate my divorce.”
“Oh, I’m sorry,” I say, not liking that my question made her grimace.
Her voice is low and soft when she says, “Don’t be sorry.”
“The club seems to get as many women celebrating divorces as marriages,” Dante tells her.
“How long were you married?” Darian asks.
“Twelve years.”
“Any kids?” he asks.
“No,” she answers with a shake of her head. “How about all of you, since we’re getting personal. Wives? Girlfriends? Kids? Skeletons in your closets?”
I laugh as I tell her no, as do the other guys.