by Elodie Colt
‘Then I’m going to make the decision for you.’
A decision that has been making my contented plantation life a daily torture ever since that fucking book fell into my hands.
You see, I’m not an avid reader. Quite the opposite, actually. My fastest read-a-thon was a two-hundred-something pager in three months.
Sam’s book? I fucking devoured it within eight hours, robbing myself of much-needed sleep that first night until the neighbor’s rooster reminded me it was time to get to work. And after I screened the author bio on the last page, I had no doubts that Samantha Kent was behind it.
It was the first (and definitely last) Dark Erotic Romance I’ve read. Granted, the story was amazing. Captivating from beginning to end with sex scenes hot enough to make Hugh Hefner blush. But what kept the book glued to my hands was… her.
The heroine in the story is a replica of the nice, sweet, down-to-earth girl I’ve come to know. The mature girl who’s been forced into responsibility from an early age, feebly trying to strengthen the relationships with her parents despite their repeated rejections. The sad girl who became a loner, never experienced true love, and feels so insufficient, she’s learned to suppress her desires. The deceived girl who avoids close relationships and pushes others away before they have a chance to leave.
The picture I took granted me a glimpse into her soul.
Her book granted me a glimpse into her very heart.
Now, here’s the catch. I’m willing to give Jillian and me a shot. I’m willing to put Mom’s ring on her finger and see where our relationship will take us. I’m willing to marry her, to put love aside if my heart is not up to letting her in.
But.
I can’t vow to be truthful to her for all eternity as long as there’s another woman in the picture (figuratively speaking, not the actual picture). Jokes aside, I can’t get Samantha Kent out of my fucking head. The girl just pops up everywhere, all the fucking time. When I stroll through the crops and touch my oranges, I see her face brightening with a smile that day she proudly told me my Valencias were her favorite. When I water the goldenrod flowers growing along the fence, I see the golden fleece of her hair. When I take the sapphire ring out of its box, I see the blue blouse she wore when we shared dinner. Hell, even my body produces weird, fluttery reactions whenever one of her texts lights up my phone.
Jillian’s texts make my lips quirk for a second, but Sam’s have the power to unveil a smile that remains on my face for the rest of the day. Except for the one she sent me an hour ago, informing me that she already recycled the rubbish, so I don’t need to bring a trailer this week. That pinched my lips in nothing short of pathetic disappointment.
Case in point, I’m not a saint, but I won’t watch my future bride striding down the altar while I imagine someone else’s body wrapped in a white gown.
I had a taste of Sam, and it’s made me crazy ever since. The only way to get her out of my betraying thoughts, once and for all, is to devour her. To take everything she has to give until I have it all. Until there’s nothing left to yearn for, nothing left to crave, nothing left to consume.
Call me selfish, but maybe I’m doing her a favor, too. She can’t fool me. She’s wanted my hands on her since I whispered the first dirty words into her ear.
I’ve read her book. I know her deepest desires. I know what she wants. I know what she needs.
And this just so happens to be the same thing I need.
Sixteen
Matthew
When I return to West Palm Beach the next day and roll my truck up Christina’s driveway, both Porsches are gone. Instead, the Chevy next door has found its way out of the backyard, complete with a new windshield and a fresh paint job.
I punch in the code to open the entrance door, hurry up to my room to get rid of the sweaty flannel sticking to my back after the long drive, and quickly hop into the shower. Christina left me a message this morning, informing me that she’s spending the day with a bunch of MILFs at some Golf Resort, and that Jillian has to pull a double at the rehab center. They assume I won’t return until later that evening.
And I won’t. Not before I’ve set my bang-the-girl-next-door-out-of-my-head plan into motion.
After changing into fresh clothes, a quick email check, and the impossible task of keeping my hands off my pocket flask, I bypass three of Christina’s goons-for-hire and take my usual over-the-fence route to the neighbor’s house.
I smirk to myself when I cross her backyard, making my way up to the porch. My girl has gone to town to whip her place back into shape. The lawn is freshly mowed, and the pool water shimmers in electric blue again. The broken pots have vanished, replaced by that funky self-made table she even painted in white.
Wait, did you just say ‘my girl?’
“Just a figure of speech, dammit…” I mumble to myself when I slip into the house and start up to the first floor, taking two steps at a time.
I pause on top of the staircase, straining my ears. Music echoes from the kitchen, mixed with the sounds of clattering bowls and the chop-chop of knives. No chatter or any voices, as far as I can tell. Whoever is preparing a meal in the kitchen seems to be alone. Hopefully Sam, or this is going to be super awkward.
I venture a few steps further inside until I can peek around the door. A golden bun wobbles on top of a head in sync with the sway of sexy hips clad in dirty-white cut-offs. Her blue tunic flutters around her waist as she cuts strawberries in half, softly humming to the awfully familiar song blaring from the radio. Hit Me Harder by whatever that celebrated DJ with the long hair is called again—a song that’s becoming an annoying earworm after enduring it about fifteen times on repeat during my ride down from Tampa.
But now, the only worm I’m trying to shake off is the one stiffening in my jeans as the girl cocks her hips from side to side, following the deep drums during a saxophone solo.
Before she can tease me any longer, and I give in to the temptation to grab those damn cut-offs and yank them down, I rock up to her with silent steps and cover her eyes with my hands.
She gasps. The knife drops from her hand and clutters onto the counter. I smirk when she squishes her eyebrows under my hold, trying to figure out who’s standing behind her.
“Uh, normally I’d say Kendra, but those hands are way too big,” she muses, waiting for me to reveal myself, but I keep her in suspense. “Okay, uhm… Kurt?”
I blink, befuddled. This won’t get me anywhere, it seems, so I drop my hands. “Who the fuck is Kurt?”
She whirls around with a bugged-eyed look as if I was the last person she expected to see.
“The postman,” she confesses with a sheepish grin, clearly guilty she mistook me for the guy in yellow with a beer belly bigger than the tire from my tractor. “Christina said you wouldn’t be back until evening.”
“The postman,” I repeat, arching an eyebrow. “Yeah, the resemblance is startling.”
“Sorry, I didn’t want to… Uhm, you know what? Scratch that,” she interrupts herself, stemming her hands onto the counter behind her and narrowing her eyes at me. “I have a door. And a bell, in case you were wondering. A big one, too. Leo actually drew a logo for us in the form of a flower with the slogan ‘Florida Flowers.’ You really can’t miss it.”
My lips press together as I hold back a grin. God, I love her sass.
“I’m happy to give you some introductions. Here. You just use this”—she grabs my right hand, wiggling my forefinger—“or any other finger, really, and press it onto the button. Now, here comes the challenge. You have to take the right door. It’s the one situated at the front of the house, facing the street. Don’t be surprised if you’ll find it locked. This is done on purpose. You—”
I push my finger she’s still holding into her mouth, nearly far enough to make her gag. Her eyes widen in surprise as she clamps her lips around it, because other than biting it off with her teeth, there’s nothing she can do but suck it in. I watch her cheeks hollow, m
y fantasies running amok in my head. A noise bubbles from her throat, some sort of complaint or curse she can’t utter without the free movement of her tongue currently sliding across my finger.
“If you don’t want anyone to sneak in, you better lock all the doors next time,” I say, pulling out my finger at last and brushing it over her lower lip for good measure.
My rash, intrusive action has rendered her speechless, and I use her dazed state to grab her waist, hoist her up, and park her ass on the counter.
“What—”
“Here,” I interrupt her, just so she can’t voice her concerns about our proximity, and pull an orange from the back pocket of my jeans that has already been poking my butt. “Freshly plucked this morning. One of the few undamaged ones from this year’s crap-ass harvest.”
Her eyes follow my fingers as I peel off the orange, and I edge closer until I’ve boxed her in, her legs dangling against my hips. I pluck out a slice.
“Open your mouth.”
She chews on the inside of her cheek before she complies, parting her lips slowly. I push the slice halfway into her mouth. As soon as her teeth bite down the middle, juice gushes out, running down the corner of her lips. At this point, she surrenders to my smoldering gaze, a silent request to play another dirty game with her.
“Mmh,” she moans as the flavor explodes on her taste buds, using a seductive purr on purpose. “Delicious.”
My eyes pin the drops of orange juice trailing down her chin. I lean in, licking them away with the tip of my tongue. “Yes, fucking delicious.”
I only swirl a path around her mouth, careful not to come into contact with her lips. I want to tease her just like she’s teasing me. To tantalize her and give her a taste of how it feels to have the thing you crave within reach but never within your grasp. To push her concerns and pangs of conscience to the back of her head, just long enough to throw her inhibitions out the window and give in to what we’ve both wanted since she threw her rage into my face.
Taking the other half of the slice, I press it against her throat. Her head rolls back as the juice dribbles down her collarbone, leaving a sticky trail along her skin. Again, I catch the drops with my tongue and lick a path up to her chin, this time aiming for the mouth I skipped earlier, but before I can dive down and go for the kiss, she puts a finger over my lips, keeping me an inch away from her face.
“I think you missed one,” she purrs and juts her chin down to the single drop rushing to hit the valley of her breasts.
Smirking, I tear my gaze from her challenging one and bend down to catch the stray drop before her top can soak it up. Once sucking her sweet skin into my mouth, I debate where to go next—north or south?
Neither, it seems, when the distinct jingle of keys takes the decision from me before the door in the hallway bangs open.
“… try it out. Makes your hair super soft,” I hear Ruby say to someone.
I like the girl, I really do, but at that moment, all I want is to grab the rest of the orange and smash it into her face.
Sam gasps. I rip my lips from her skin as she pushes at my chest and jumps down, hissing when her bandaged hand scrapes over the edge of the counter.
“Huh,” Skyla drones when she enters the kitchen with Ruby, half in response to her friend’s advice, half in question to me standing in their kitchen and to Sam whose cheeks are taking on the color of an overripe grapefruit.
I save us both the embarrassing conversation I can feel coming down the pipeline and snatch her bandaged hand, focusing on her wellbeing instead of my sexual frustration. Carefully, I tug the fabric away an inch and examine the fading red line.
“Looks good,” I mumble. “We can take out the staples tomorrow, I think.”
Sam gives me a tight-lipped nod. “Okay, thanks.”
“Seriously, that song again?” Ruby complains with a huff, oblivious to the tension in the air as she turns down the radio’s volume. I hadn’t noticed that damn song was still blaring through the speakers. Have they added a twenty-minute extended remix now? “Kendra is already playing it on repeat night and day. I swear I can rehearse the lyrics backward by now.”
This drags Skyla’s attention from Sam to her dark-haired friend. “That song is the hit of the year. On top of the charts for over a month now and…”
“I better get back to work,” I say to Sam, deciding to make my exit. “Maybe I can finish your porch by evening.”
Work throughout the afternoon is a welcome distraction. The weather has decided to be graceful for once and hide the sun behind long strings of clouds, adding a slight breeze to cool the skin underneath my sweaty flannel.
Christina hasn’t returned yet, so the only eyes riveted on me when I hop over the fence and back to fetch stuff from the neighbor’s cellar, are two brown ones sneaking glances at me from behind the curtains now and then.
And I fucking love it.
Despite my mind constantly trailing back to the fantasy of taking Sam right there on the kitchen counter after sucking orange juice from her chest, I keep my focus on my task. That rotted tree caused a shit-load of damage, but for what it’s worth, Sam can count herself lucky it smashed her porch to pieces. She told me her dad built the porch himself. Clearly. The guy is as much a skilled craftsman as I’m an expert on makeup art. The one-inch slope he used for the drain beneath the floorboards was about as useful as the brad nails he hammered in randomly. Give it two years or three, and the framework would have collapsed like a house of cards.
Shortly before the sun sets, I sweep the broom over the last heap of sawdust—drained, dog-tired, and deeply contented with today’s accomplishments.
“Sam, come down here!” I call out when I dust my hands on my dirty jeans, knowing she’ll hear me.
A few seconds later, Sam emerges. With a lighthearted smile, I watch as she skids to a halt, her jaw going slack as her uninjured hand seeks support on the doorframe. She gapes at her rebuilt porch, her other hand hovering over her mouth. It’s the sort of in-your-face astonishment that makes her dark eyebrows quiver and a sheen of tears grow over her eyes.
Something scary-ass weird happens with my heart. Something that blows the vital organ up like a balloon, inflating it with a warm substance it pumps all the way down to my toes.
“Oh my God, Matthew. That’s…” Her choked words break off when she tiptoes over to the spot where I’ve created a higher tier bed for her beloved flowers with a few loose bricks I’d found in Christina’s cellar.
I tuck one hand into my pocket, using the other to scratch my nape as I give her the time to get acquainted with her new porch.
Then she throws me off guard when she snaps her head in my direction only to hurl herself at me. She flings her arm around one side of my neck, mindful of the finally band-aid-free cut below my ear, and slams her lips onto mine so hard, I stumble back a step. The unexpected closed-mouth kiss steals all the air from my lungs, but before I can set my lips into motion, she eases our mouths apart. Smiling up at me with tears glistening on her rosy cheeks, she shows me a heartbreaking look of gratitude and sheer happiness. Dammit. I swear, at that moment her eyes could drown a fucking goldfish.
“Thank you, Matthew Mallory,” she whispers, voice wavering. “This is so much more than I could have ever asked for. Can I invite you over for dinner tomorrow?”
I just gawk at her, bopping my head in a nod. Oblivious to the battle cry that just went off inside my head, she tosses me another heart-slashing smile and bounces off to vanish inside.
I suck in a shuddered breath and grab the porch beam next to me, staring at the spot she was standing in just seconds before.
‘Love is a fickle thing, my boy. You never know when it strikes. It can hit you like a lightning bolt.’
“No,” I mutter under my breath when the warm goo in my heart turns into a bone-melting lava stream. “Please, no.”
I fear you don’t have much to say on that matter, buddy, my heart responds to my panic.
I’m in
trouble. Big, fat trouble.
I came here to fall in love with the right girl.
Instead, I fell for the wrong one.
Seventeen
Samantha
“Don’t start with that again, or I’ll put your new surfboard in Christina’s shredder.” I send Skyla a warning look, even though I should rein in my threats right now, seeing as she is the one with the staple remover in her hands.
“Aw, come on,” Skyla pleads for the fifth time, removing another staple from my skin. “Please.”
“Please, what?” Kendra asks as she saunters into the kitchen in a pair of black leggings that show more skin than they hide.
“Sam won’t spill the beans,” Skyla replies in a whiny tone, going for the last staple with the tool in her hand.
Ever since Matthew’s hard-on was on full display last week, the girls have been pestering me with questions. I’ve evaded them all, shrugged them off, or sidestepped them as best as I could, because the truth would reveal secrets far from my comfort zone. Secrets I wouldn’t even tell my twin sister if I had one. Needless to say, the more I’m pushing them to drop the subject, the deeper they’re digging.
Skyla heaves a dramatic sigh, shoving a lollipop into her mouth before she bandages me up again. “Did you watch porn with him?”
I roll my eyes. “No.”
“Did you give him a blowjob and leave him hanging?” Kendra launches into the conversation.
Only yes to the second. “Nope.”
“Did you show him your tits?” Ruby muses from the sidelines.
I showed him nothing, yet so much more. “Nope.”
On the bright side, the chances of them striking home equals zero, so I figure the best course of action is to keep my mouth shut until they grow tired of this Spanish Inquisition and drop the subject once and for all. Having said that, I forgot that there’s an annoyingly clever girl in our gang whose bluntness turns out to be my downfall tonight.
