by Elodie Colt
Good Lord and all angels in Heaven. Shoot the whole scene in slow motion, underline it with a kick-ass rock song, and you’ve got the Coca-Cola TV commercial from the nineties.
With a yelp, I shoot straight for my laptop, my fingers hitting the keys in a haste. Two hours later, and I’ve produced enough words to fill an entire chapter.
I swivel on my stool, swelling with triumph. If my next book goes well, I might get my pretty, white flagstone pathway after all. And with Matthew Mallory as my secret muse, I have the notion the words will be gushing out of me like an exploding water tank.
“… wear panties? Or at least wrap a towel around?” Ruby’s desperate voice floats from a few rooms down the hallway.
“Why, my tattoos not concealing enough for you?” Leo counters in her usual bored tone of nonchalance.
“That’s not the point, I…”
Groaning, I slam my laptop shut. What I wouldn’t give for one fucking day of solitude. One day without the water running cold in the shower because Kendra took a swim in the bathroom. One day without wiping my feet every minute to get rid of the sand Skyla dragged into the house. One day of running around naked inside these walls like Leo (just without an audience). And one day without forcing myself to ignore Ruby having phone sex with Jesse because the walls are so fucking thin, you could hear a pin drop from the adjacent rooms.
Time to retreat to my tree house.
Fetching the key, I make my way out onto the porch. My garden is still resembling a junkyard, but I don’t let the sight dampen my mood as I water the plants that have survived the thunderstorm.
“You get prettier every year, beautiful,” I croon to my Fuchsia, thumbing the silky, red blossom. “Once I’ve cleaned this mess, I’ll get you a nice basket.” I nod to the scratched, brown clay pot that looks as if it survived both world wars.
“Morning, gorgeous,” someone calls out, and it takes my hormone-driven brain no time at all to recognize the deep timbre.
Instead of disintegrating into a puddle of sticky goo, because my insides sure as hell feel like liquefying right now, I set down my can, slap an easy smile onto my face, and saunter over to Matthew in my black-and-white dotted polka dress. He’s leaning on the fence, two heavy, strikingly gorgeous arms underneath a sweat-soaked T-shirt propped on the top as he throws me a rakish smile that could disarm an entire cheerleading squad. A band-aid is covering his injury again.
“What did she say?” he asks when I reach the fence.
“Who?”
“Fuchsia, over there. You’ve got the hots for her. Admit it.”
I shrug, snorting back a laugh. “What can I say, I have a thing for redheads. We agreed on another date. Tomorrow, same time.” I hold a hand to my mouth, lowering my voice to a whisper. “I think we’re ready to hit the next base.”
Smirking, he drags his teeth over a lush lower lip and leans closer to whisper back, “Yeah? And what base would that be?”
“The one where I shove a fertilizer stick into her.”
His head falls back as he barks out a loud laugh, thick cords twanging in his neck. I swallow before the saliva dribbles out of my mouth bulldog-style. It takes him almost a minute to gather his composure and flops back his shaking head. “When do you want me to start today?”
“Whenever suits you.”
“In an hour, then.” He sends me a wink that shoots a bullet into my body, leaving a graze on my heart.
A heart that needs a bulletproof vest. Now.
Clanking sounds from outside draw my gaze to the window. Matthew has already set up his stuff in my garden, now busy refilling the tank of his chainsaw. I open the window.
“Hey,” I call out. “You need any help?”
His head whips up. The motion flops that damn strand of hair in front of his eyes. He slicks it back with a hand, cracking a smile. “Let’s see… You’ve got one intact hand right now, so I can only think of one task to hand over to you. A quick one, no extra tools needed. You just need a strong grip and make steady up-and-down movements until—”
“Got it.” I roll my eyes. “I’ll get you some refreshments.”
He shoots me another one of his subjugating winks that delays my reactions. Instead of closing the window, I stand there like an idiot, watching as he hoists up the chainsaw and yanks hard to start up the tool. His eyes don’t leave mine as he lets the engine howl twice before he props one knee onto the trunk and starts cutting.
I almost stumble over my feet in a hurry to slam the window shut. Goddammit, this guy is so fucking hot, he should come with an overheat warning.
Needless to say, my book writes itself. The words flow out of me as if they’ve been brewing in my head for months, a full pot eager to spill onto paper and shape letters. My fingers fly over the keyboard with rocket speed, yet still too slow to catch up to the story unfolding in my brain. Not even Matthew can break my steel-hard focus with his sweaty body bending and bowing and stretching in the sunlight.
Until…
The chainsaw’s engine dies down. Focused on my story, I throw a furtive, sideways glance out the window. Matthew pulls up his shirt, and I swivel my head back to the screen, my fingers punching the keyboard as—
Hang on. Rewind, please.
I snap my head back just as Matthew yanks his shirt over his head, the movement swift, precise, and calculated. Like a porn star who rehearsed the act for his next clip to make the willing girl in front of him wet before he even spared her a glance.
The Microsoft Word file scrolls on my screen. I forgot to remove my fingers from the keyboard and added about five-hundred f’s to my last sentence. Stunned, I drop my hands into my lap.
My jaw pops open, the lower part sailing to the floor until I can almost hear the hinges squeak when he snatches the garden hose, turns it on, and… takes a cool shower.
“You’ve gotta be kidding me…”
Matthew wets himself from head to toe, the water gushing down his toned chest and abs, soaking his pants. I nearly need the desk for support (yes, I’m still seated) when he opens his mouth and takes some greedy gulps before he rubs a hand through his wet hair.
Like a sleepwalker, I rise and approach the window with robotic steps. Scratch the thing with the bachelorette party. I want a stripper, I just decided. This one, got it? Him, and no one else.
Suddenly, Matthew’s eyes dart up to my window, and I quickly spin in a one-eighty to flatten myself against the wall, cursing the damn curtains as they sway from my movements. I feel hot all of a sudden despite the air conditioning running at full speed.
Letting my head fall back against the wall, I close my eyes. This man is shattering me to pieces, rattling every nerve in my system until they crumble like dried cookies. Ever since he stole my attention, dignity, and general self-control in the thrift store, he’s depleted every vacant space in my head. Sometimes, also the occupied ones. My thoughts, my dreams, my desires.
I’m about to burst. And I need to let it out.
Right fucking now.
Hastily, I push down my thong, toss it aside, and take my pink rubber friend from the drawer before I scramble onto the couch. Leaning against the backrest, I bunch my dress up to my hips, spread my legs, and shove the cool tip inside. I’m already wetter than a rainstorm in the tropics, a heavy breath wheezing out of me as I push the tiny button.
I try to keep my eyes open, to focus my gaze on my hand holding the toy vibrating deliciously inside me, but I give up at some point and succumb to the fantasy invading my mind. The fantasy of a hot farmer with eyes the color of melting caramel, eyes holding the power to singe a straight path through my sanity.
Dropping back my head, I let the vibrator do its magic without my aid and stretch both arms over the backrest. My upper body arcs, lifting my spine off the cushions. All kinds of soft and hard sounds try to crawl their way out of my mouth, pushing up my throat with a pressure I can barely endure, but I clamp my lips together, reining them in.
An annoying part of
my brain reminds me that I haven’t locked my door. If the girls storm in just because I couldn’t hold back a scream, I’d be the running joke at every dinner for the remainder of the year.
You should lock the door, a rational voice cautions through the sex-induced fog, one that quickly fades into oblivion, overpowered by the raw pleasure sliding up my limbs. My breaths quicken, sweat breaking out on my hairline and at the back of my knees. I spread my legs wider, stretching my bare feet up on my tiptoes to increase the sensation.
Meanwhile, Matthew’s fingers do all kinds of naughty things to my mental me—stroking me, rubbing me, teasing me as he nails me into another galaxy.
My breaths break out into pants as my heart pumps all kinds of endorphins through my bloodstream. A soft crunch coming from somewhere in the room almost drags me out of my lust-injected world, but I put it down to the sound of my fingers clawing into the backrest, making the fabric squawk.
Maybe you’re not alone. Maybe someone walked in on you.
The thoughts drown in the first pre-orgasmic wave washing over me. I could open my eyes and check, but I’m too far gone. Too high up. Too fucking close.
The air changes, stirs, thickens. Like a heavy cloud curling over my clammy skin, loaded with electricity, suspended in the heat that becomes gooey, almost tangible. As if a ghost just floated into my room, alerting me to his presence with the smallest hints, leaning so close to me, I can taste his essence on my tongue.
My toes cramp. Something is going to crash down on me. Something tremendous with the power to char my organs.
An eerie sensation prickles down my sweaty neck and up my nostrils as I near the point I’m chasing with vigorous desperation. A whiff of something musky and woodsy. An ambrosial scent I inhale with every heave of my lungs.
And then it slams into me.
My neck almost snaps as I push my head into the backrest so hard, the springs squeak. My nails dig into the upholstery until I almost tear the fabric. My mouth opens in a silent scream, trying to suck in air, but I can’t breathe.
And out of nowhere, just as I reach the highest high, and fireworks explode in my core, something clamps around my chin.
My eyelids flicker up. A pair of smoldering eyes nails me down, the light brown twinkling like glowing lava. His face is so close to mine as he leans in from behind me, I can count the hairs of his beard growing on his chin. Could count, if I remembered the fucking times table because in that cruel, unholy, heart-shattering moment, everything in me turns to stone.
His lips crush on mine. Just like that. Without forewarning. No tongue, just lips. Hot, hard, and demolishing.
It’s as if he pulled the plug of an inflatable mattress. All the air pushes out of me in one heavy blow, a choked, tormented grunt. He dominates everything—my heart rate, my scream, my fucking oxygen—locking his lips to mine and keeping my chin in place, not allowing my tremors to move me a fraction of an inch until they subside.
Too fast, he rips his mouth from mine, his fingers leaving my burning cheek. I shut my eyes and shudder in a breath—a soft whimper, the only sound my body can produce when brutal reality kicks in. Mortification washes over my body, flooding any euphoric sensations I’d hoped to feel. My heart jumps erratically in every direction, unable to decide if it should pummel into my stomach, heave up my throat, smash through my ribcage, or pop out of my ears.
The door slams behind me. I whip my head around.
He’s gone. Vanished. Like a ghost.
And he left me nothing. No spoken word, no air, no sliver of dignity. Just shame, bitter humiliation, and the first signs of an everlasting borderline syndrome.
What the fuck have I done?
Ten
Matthew
I’m so plastered, my hand-eye coordination is in the dumps. Instead of jumping over the fence as I’ve done a dozen times before, my foot catches on top, and I tumble down the other side like a clumsy toddler.
And I haven’t had one fucking drop of booze yet, for God’s sake.
I stumble back into Christina’s house in a daze. Goosebumps slide along my skin as I torpedo into my air-conditioned room, drying the sweat on my neck, but I’m as feverish as that time I suffered blood poisoning after I rammed a rusty nail into my foot, so I shoot straight for the shower and turn on the water to ice-cube temperature.
What the fuck just happened?
And why the fuck did you step into her room?
These two questions are fighting a gladiator battle in my head, making me wince every time they clash their swords.
Clenching my teeth, I ride the pain as the cold water hammers down on me. My cock is still so hard, I could use it as a tool to dig for diamonds in Death Valley. I glare at him, warning him with an extra spray of cold water to back the fuck down.
No satisfaction today, my friend. This is your fault. You threw me into the lion’s den.
He lowers his head a little, capitulating with a guilty look. Groaning, I stem my hands on the wall.
I just wanted to check on her, dammit. Sam said she would get some refreshments, so when she didn’t show up for another thirty minutes, I went inside to see what was taking her so long. Make sure she didn’t cut her hand again or something.
You had a hunch what she was doing, my cock grumbles from below. Admit it.
I vehemently shake my head. No, I had no fucking clue.
Fine, I wanted to break down her reserve with that striptease number. I knew she was watching me and wanted to make it worth her while, show her what she’s missing out on. To my defense, the temperature in West Palm Beach reached bubbling Volcano levels today. I was about to combust in the midday sun. Sam’s swimming pool has been an algae mud puddle since the storm, and Christina’s is about as refreshing as the hot springs in Iceland, heated even in the summer months.
So I figured, why not make use of the water from the garden hose? I could have left my shirt on, but the swaying curtains of Sam’s window revealed I had an audience, so I went the extra mile and disposed of the sweat-soaked thing.
And then I found myself taking the stairs to the upper level, scanning the names on the ‘Florida Flowers’ doors until I reached her room at the farthest end… and heard the buzz. An electric toothbrush, I thought. Or a fan. Or an overheated laptop.
Or…
The rest is a haze. I think I fell into some sort of catatonic state. No idea how long I stood in the doorway, watching, listening, panting, dying, unable to blink until my eyes began to water. I was sure she heard my heart slamming against my ribs, that she heard my shoes crunching as I moved closer, dragging my eyes from the thong on the floor to her hair spilling over the backrest.
My teeth start to chatter, and I turn off the water before my balls shrivel to raisins. I step out of the shower cabin and pat myself dry with a towel. My cock sags limply against my thigh, looking like a purplish, malnourished earthworm.
I head back to my room, searching for a fresh shirt, when movement in the neighbor’s room opposite draws my attention. Sam is pacing in front of her window, wearing the same dress, phone pressed against her ear, a huge smile on her face.
I grimace. How can she smile now? How the fuck can she smile when I want to play wrecking ball with my head and bash it through the wall?
Grunting, I help myself to some swigs from my pocket flask before I collapse onto my bed. I grab my phone, about to roam through my emails, but the first thing flashing back at me from the screen is the picture.
The one I shot half an hour ago. The one I took before the needle on my moral compass went crazy as the girl on the couch pulled me in like a magnet.
The one I took in secret.
A tormented groan bubbles up my throat, my cock waking from its state of numbness with a jerk that almost slaps my phone from my hands. The picture is askew and a little blurry on the sides. I took it in a haste. Half of Sam’s head is cut off, hiding her eyes and most of her hair, but the rest is shot at the perfect angle from above—lips parted, cleavage g
listening in the sun, dress bunched at the hips, and mound looming over the pink thing sticking out of her.
Tired of telling my dick to stand down, I fling my phone to the side and start pumping.
She heard you, he tells me as he grows harder under my assault. She twitched when she heard you approaching. You stirred the soft hair above her ear when you leaned down. She swallowed your air when you breathed down on her. Buddy, she knew you were there the second you opened the door.
I come as hard as she did, the spurting juices spraying me from neck to waist. I take a breather before I grab my damp shirt and wipe the sticky stuff away.
Of course, she knew I was there, I think bitterly. I kissed her. Claimed her lips without her permission. Licked the desire from her mouth and gulped down her release when she was at her weakest.
And shot a damn picture of the whole act.
Delete it then, my dick jabs, now smug after he got what he wanted. Get rid of it and destroy the best porn you ever got to see in your lifetime.
“Shut the fuck up,” I grumble to myself like an idiot and stomp my feet into a new pair of boxers.
Due to these inconvenient circumstances, I haven’t got far with the fallen tree in Sam’s garden, but I need an hour or ten to get my shit back together before we run into each other again. Better to switch my band-aid for a pillow, because I have the notion I’m in for worse than just a slap in the face next time we run into each other. And if she feels particularly vindictive, she might call the cavalry, and her four roomies will rip me a new one with my chainsaw.
Dragging a hand down my face, I plop down in front of my desk and open my old monstrosity of a laptop. Sofia has sent me an email, letting me know that Dad’s condition has remained unchanged so far and asking me to approve some of the overdue invoices she put in the attachment. A ball of dread bumps up my throat as I flip through them, checking the totals. Two-thousand, eight-hundred, one-thousand, two-thousand-five-hundred…
