Shane steps into view and my stomach flips.
I haven’t seen him since our run-in yesterday morning, though I did hear the low rumble of his car’s engine as he pulled into his driveway late last night. A date, maybe? A booty call? Thankfully, I was distracted with my friends and the house to think too much on it.
I watch as Shane kicks his shoes to the side, and then his hands are moving, grasping the hem of his black T-shirt and lifting it up … up … and over his head, revealing a smooth, taut chest, his muscles prominent and shapely.
I groan. He was built in high school when he was seventeen. He’s thirty now, and that is all man.
I shouldn’t be spying on him. But he shouldn’t be undressing in front of a window. It’s his fault, really. Though he’s probably used to having his privacy. He likely knew the Rutshacks slept downstairs. He hasn’t considered the possibility that a pervert moved in.
And that’s what I am right now.
I fully accept this as I take a safe step back into darkness and watch Shane casually toss his shirt into a corner, my fingertips tingling. What would those powerful shoulders feel like beneath my nails? What would they look like, tensing above me as I lie on my back beneath him, my thighs splayed?
He fumbles with his belt buckle and zipper. His jeans fall to the floor, taking my jaw with them as I get a good look at that delicious V-cut of his pelvis, leading down to dark gray boxer briefs. His legs are powerful, his thighs down to his ankles perfectly proportioned.
“Why do you have to be so perfect?” I mutter with bitter envy, staring in unabashed admiration as he steps out of his jeans, leaving them in a heap.
His thumbs hook around the elastic waistband of his boxer briefs.
I should not watch this … I should not watch this … I need to turn away now …
Shane’s hands pause, his position shifting to give me his side, his attention riveted on the corner of the room. The TV, I realize.
“Come on …” I hold my breath like the scoundrel I am, desperate to catch a glimpse of what I fought so hard to resist for an entire summer.
Suddenly, as if only remembering his uncovered window then, he turns and peers out of it.
I yelp and stumble backward, though there’s no way he can see me. Right? I frantically glance around, confirming there isn’t a beam of light in here that would give me away.
After a few beats, he strolls into his adjoining bathroom, his sculpted, round ass in cotton shifting deliciously with each step. He still hasn’t drawn curtains or blinds. He’s either unconvinced that I’d be lurking in the dark at midnight on a Sunday, watching him undress, or he’s unconcerned by the idea.
My guess—because Shane Beckett is an arrogant ass—is the latter.
What would it feel like to be with him after all these years? He used to be able to make me hot with a simple touch against my neck, a fingertip trailing along my skin. But maybe he’s a terrible lay. Maybe his talents end with those sensual, all-consuming kisses and magic hands.
Who am I kidding? Penelope was more than willing to tell everyone within earshot about Shane’s ability to find a girl’s G-spot when I doubt Neanderthals like Steve Dip had any clue that females could orgasm.
Shane is gone from view just long enough that I can calm my breathing and evaluate whether I want to be this person who spies on her neighbor from the shadows. Then he reappears.
This time, without his boxer briefs.
“Oh my God.” My mouth goes dry as I take in all of Shane Beckett for the first time. The sight of him naked has heat flooding my body. It’s only for a few seconds, and then he taps a switch and the room falls into darkness, save for the flashing glimmer from the TV. There’s a mirror on the wall to the right of his headboard, and it reflects the sportscaster on his screen. Sports highlights. Still a jock.
Punching the pillow a few times to fluff it, he slips into bed, hiding half his beautiful body from view, hooking one arm beneath his head, his free hand resting on his bare stomach. It’s like his bed was positioned for prime viewing from my room.
His gaze seems to settle on my window.
And his free hand disappears beneath his sheet.
I hold my breath, waiting to see a rhythmic rustling around his groin, evidence that he’s jerking off, but he simply lies there, a naked Adonis catching up on stats.
What is Shane like when he comes? Does he grit his teeth? Does he yell and moan? Or is it a series of guttural noises? Does he hide his face or is he unabashed, letting you see the intense pleasure seize him? Does he come fast and hard or after a lengthy grind? It’s funny—these weren’t things I thought about as a seventeen-year-old girl but as a thirty-year-old woman, just imagining the sound of him orgasming turns my breath ragged. I can’t remember the last time I was this turned on. Certainly not with Red Wine Golden Retriever Man, and I was drunk and desperate that night.