by Ney, Sara
Perfect. Just perfect.
“No.” He pulls the keys from the ignition and hits the button to shut garage door, closing us in. “I live here alone.”
“You live here. Alone.” In this house, which is a thousand times nicer than the one I grew up in.
He doesn’t look at me, instead pushing on the driver’s side door and hopping out. “Are you coming in, or are you gonna ask me thirty more questions?”
I roll my eyes and grab my purse. “That was only like, three questions.” Hop out of the car. “Why are you being weird?”
But he’s already opening a door, light streaming from a small room at the side of the garage.
It’s a laundry room—he has an actual laundry room!—shoes lined up by the door, a few sets of shirts and pants neatly folded and stacked in tidy piles atop the washer.
I am so confused.
Bending to unzip the booties I’m wearing, I slide them off, placing them by the door. Next to his giant ones. Smoothing my hands down the front of my dress, cringing when I hit the wet spot, I gingerly follow him across the tile floor and into a well-lit kitchen.
Onto the polished hardwood floor.
The kitchen looks state-of-the-art and updated, almost like a showroom, and I rest my hands on the cold counter, clasping my fingers to give them something to do.
I am so out of my element. I wasn’t raised in a place like this, let alone live in one at age twenty-one.
Who is this guy and where does he come from?
Not the backwoods of Arkansas, that’s for damn sure.
I bite my tongue to stop the steady stream of questions in my brain from vomiting out of my mouth.
Why does he live here? Who pays for it? Is he selling drugs on the side to pay for all this? Is he a trust fund baby? Who owns this joint? Why doesn’t he have roommates? Does he have a job?
“Want something to drink?” he wants to know, standing at the sink, running the tap. Filling a glass and lifting it to his lips.
“Uh, surrre.”
His long arm reaches over, retrieving another glass from the cabinet made of rich wood. Fills it and slides it slowly across the center island.
I cradle it between my hands, thumbs stroking the cool, smooth glass. Fidgeting, unable to keep still.
This whole thing is so bizarre.
***
KIP
Me: On a scale of 1 to fucking terrible, how bad of an idea was it to bring a girl back to my place?
Ronnie: Depends on the girl
Me: Hey big sister, I’m shocked you’re awake! What the hell are you doing up?
Ronnie: The text notification woke me up, asshole!
Me: Liar
Ronnie: You’re right—your brother-in-law just got done doing nasty, unspeakable things to me. Oh, sorry, was that TMI?
Me: Jesus Christ Veronica, I didn’t need to know you were just having sex
Ronnie: Who said anything about sex?
Me: ANYWAYYYYYYYYY—about this girl…
Ronnie: Right, well, if she’s already at your place, not much you can do about it, yeah?
Me: Gee, thanks
Ronnie: It’s true. Besides, if you brought her home, she must not be terrible—we all know what you’re like
Me: What am I like?
Ronnie: A complete freak?? I mean, look at what you did to your beautiful face just so girls would leave you alone. Now you’re bringing them home? You must be hard up
“Um…so, you live here alone?” The girl’s sweet but incredulous voice carries through my kitchen, her finger sliding along the edge of the cold, hard granite countertop.
“Yeah.” I can’t look at her as I dump my keys and phone onto the built-in desk next to the double ovens where I store all my crap, the texts from my older sister, Veronica, already forgotten. Everything glistens and shines because the cleaning lady was here yesterday morning picking up my shit, washing my clothes, folding them, and dusting what little putzy stuff I have set out.
Not my choice—she was hired by my mother—and Christ, if anyone found out I had a cleaning lady, I’d never live it down.
“Where did you find this place? Jesus, it’s so nice.”
“The landlord takes great care of the place,” I joke, because I’m the landlord—but she doesn’t need to know that.
She scoffs. “Who the heck are you renting from? No one who owns anything around campus, that’s for sure. None of those guys give a shit—those houses are complete dumps.”
She’s correct; most of the houses are total shitholes, which is why I don’t rent. I own this place—well, my parents do, but that’s always been their thing: buying whatever house my sister and I happen to be living in at the time so we don’t have to deal with rent and landlords.
“Who do you rent from? It can’t be DuRand—his places might be nice, but they’re not this nice, and not in this neighborhood. What’d you do, rob a bank?”
“Yeah, it’s not DuRand.”
I feel her staring at my back—my bare back because I still haven’t put a clean shirt on—the wheels in her brain turning.
“You don’t own this place, do you?” She pauses, eyes getting a bit narrower. “It’s not a crime if you do, stranger person, I’m just curious. I’m not judging you for having a nice place to live in.”
Stranger person? Is she talking about me?
I finally turn to look at her. “Stranger person?”
She plucks a grape out of the bowl sitting on my sleek center island. “I have no idea what your name is.”
“It’s Sasquatch.”
“Stop it.” She snorts. “I’m not calling you that—it’s the dumbest name ever. What’s your real name?”
God, I hate when people ask that.
She rolls those pretty eyes at me. “Just tell me. Stop being a baby about it.”
“Kip.” I push the word out grudgingly, squeezing it through the thin line of my lips.
“What!”
“Yup.”
“Kip?”
“Yes,” I grind out, nostrils flaring.
“Stop it,” she repeats, wide eyed. “You’re making that up. That is not your name.”
“If I was going to give you a fake name, trust me, that wouldn’t be it.”
“Wow. Kip. Not at all what I pictured. I’ve been calling you Paul Bunyan in my head, sometimes Roy—you know, super redneck names.”
What the fuck? “I do not look like a redneck.”
“Yes you do.” She tinkles out a laugh.
“No I don’t.” Do I? “Paul Bunyan has black hair, and his hair and beard are short.”
“How would you know?”
“Haven’t you ever been to Paul Bunyan’s? The restaurant? There’s a giant picture of him on the sign out front. It’s like two stories high.” Duh.
One of her brown eyebrows rises. “Can’t say that I have.”
“He has short hair.” Why the hell am I repeating myself? Defending myself?
Christ.
She’s eyeing me up and down—she’s done it a few times tonight, always covertly, thinking I don’t notice.
I do.
“No man bun.”
I jerk my head and tug at my hair. “Nope.”
“Well then. Kip.” Her pert little mouth pulls into a smirk. “How very preppy of you.”
“Shut up.”
“Come on, it’s super Vacationing on Nantucket—admit it.” She’s thinking again. “What is it short for?”
“Are you ready for it? Because your next laugh is on me.” I sigh, long and loud. Rip off the proverbial bandage and wince. “It’s short for Kipling.”
She’s holding back a smile, biting down on her bottom lip—so fucking cute—crossing her arms over her beer-soaked dress when my eyes roam down the front. Over her high, round breasts and slim waist.
“Kipling. That’s a pretty fancy name, you know.”
“I know.”
“I wasn’t sure that you did, Kipling.”
&
nbsp; “Stop.”
“It’s also the name of a poet, Kipling,” she informs me, as if I didn’t already fucking know. “Rudyard Kipling—yikes, that’s a mouthful.”
“Can you not keep using it in sentences?”
Her brows go up, animated. “But it’s so, so good.”
“It’s really not though.”
“If you were wearing a polo shirt and khakis right now, it would make so much more sense to me, and maybe I’d lay off, but you’re not—you were in construction boots tonight, and you’re wearing a torn up T-shirt.” Her eyes roam across my chest. “And brown cargo shorts.”
When she averts her gaze, I’m surprisingly disappointed.
“I’m comfortable.”
“Oh, I have no doubt about that.” She snickers, looking me up and down, pops another grape into her mouth and chews. Swallows. “You don’t mind that I’m stealing these, do you?”
I gesture widely. “By all means…” In goes another one, and I lean a hip against the counter, studying her. “Since we’re sharing, what’s your name?”
“Teddy.”
“Like—the bear?” I can’t help goading.
Teddy lets out a soft, lilting laugh. “Yeah, I guess. It’s short for Theodora, my grandmother’s name.”
Theodora.
Romantic and pretty—kind of like her.
She has on a dress tonight, this one a little more daring than last week’s cheerfully prim yellow one. It’s baby blue, the thin material now plastered to her skin, with one of those necklines that goes over the shoulders and ties around the neck. I don’t know what it’s fucking called—halter or some shit.
Whatever. It’s blue and short, and has matching ribbons in the back tied into a delicate bow, making the entire outfit way too feminine had it not been for the brown boots. I noticed them before she took them off in the laundry room. They’re cute.
Way too cute for the rugby house.
Way too cute to be soaked in cheap beer.
Goddammit.
I run a hand down my face—down my beard—to prevent myself from totally checking her out. Or looking too long and hard at her tits.
“You want to shower while you’re here, Theodora?”
“Teddy,” she corrects good-naturedly.
“Right, like I’m not going to latch onto that one.” I laugh. “Nice try.”
“For real, call me Teddy.”
“Only if you never call me Kipling ever again. Kip I can handle, but Kipling? Fuck that. No. Or just call me Sasquatch like everyone else does.”
“I will not be calling you by that hideous nickname, no matter how much it suits you, but I’ll call you Kip if you call me Teddy.”
A groan escapes my throat. “Fine.”
“Good.” My eyes shoot to the crown of her head as she nods curtly. “Then we agree.”
“Shake on it?” When I stick out my callused hand, she draws hers back.
Pushes an errant hair behind her ear, glancing down at her feet. “We’re good.”
She’s not scared of me, is she? I shove my hands inside the pockets of my cargo shorts.
“Shower?”
“I…yeah. I want to say no, because this whole thing is just so awkward for me, but since I’m starting to stink like a distillery, I probably should.”
“You already stank in the car.” My lips twitch at her shocked expression.
Her nose wrinkles. “Gee, thanks.”
“I’m just fucking with you.”
“Okay, well…” She hoists her clean clothes in the air. “Lead the way, I guess.”
I don’t. Instead, I point toward the staircase and flick my finger in that general direction. “Up the stairs, first door on the right. Root around for towels—I think there are some in there.”
There should be, because my mom and sister came one weekend and didn’t leave until the place was stocked and spotless. I had everything I needed when I moved in, like the pampered son of a billionaire would.
God I hope Teddy doesn’t get all weird on me after she spends the night.
I listen to her softly padding away, her bare feet climbing to the second story then the door to the guest bathroom clicking closed.
The sound of the lock being turned.
I grin at that—her caution—leaning back against the counter, scratching at my stomach. Rise to my full height and stretch. Make my own way up the stairs to the master bedroom, intent on washing the filth off myself.
Which I’m used to—I’ve never left a house party without being covered in something disgusting, just like I’ve never left the rugby field without being caked in mud, grass stains, and dirt.
The hot water sluices off my body, my mind wandering to the girl in the shower down the hallway. She’s not overtly sexy in any way, but I’ve never had a girl in my house, so naturally my hand strays south of the border.
I don’t purposely picture her curvy hips in my mind, or the shape of her breasts pressed against the pale, thin fabric of her cheaply made dress.
It just…happens.
It also just so happens that I haven’t had sex in—Jesus, I don’t even know how long. Since sophomore year, if I had to guestimate. The year I decided I didn’t want to be fucked simply because of my face or my last name, the year I grew the beard and let my hair get long and developed a chip on my shoulder because of the fairer sex.
It’s not their fault—it’s mine for believing a few of them actually gave a shit about me.
The boner grows between my legs when I stroke it slowly, water lubricating—wet and warm—my eyes sliding closed as my fingers grip the base of my shaft.
For a tall guy, it’s average as far as cocks go, but it’s thick and always ready for a pull.
An arm goes up against the tile wall, empty hand bracing my body as the other one strokes. Glides up and down, up and down.
I moan, picturing Teddy in my shower, naked skin, tits and ass. Wondering if her pussy is shaved, waxed, or natural. Picturing her nipples in my mind, the color of her areolas. Their size. Whether she gets off on having them sucked…
I moan.
Mouth falls open, obviously, because it feels fucking great pumping away at my own cock. Yeah, I feel like kind of a pervert, but it’s not my fault I’m suddenly having fantasies about her—I’m a warm-blooded, hormone-filled male, and there is a naked female in my house that I cannot—and will not—ever fuck.
Plus, I’m horny.
A hand is one thing, a pussy another entirely, and I haven’t banged one in so long. Too long.
I barely remember what it feels like to sink inside one, so there is no reason I should be hard over Teddy…whatever her last name is.
She’s cute, but not gorgeous. Wholesome, like the girl next door. Studious. Hardworking, if I have her pegged right—probably here on a scholarship.
I know her type.
Cheap clothes. Cheap jewelry. No car.
Worried about what her friends think and too afraid to tell them to fuck off.
I’m surprised she doesn’t have more of a backbone, honestly. Her type usually does—the ones who have to fend for themselves, have to make their way in the world without the help of their parents.
My head dips, bowing, shoulders hunched as I stroke my slippery dick, tongue darting out to run along my bottom lip. Teeth biting down.
Eyes still squeezed shut.
Teddy filling the void behind my lids.
My cock filling the void in my cupped hand.
It’s not enough, and I stroke harder. Rough. The grunt from my throat is low, echoing off the tiles in my shower, and I refuse to say the name tripping off the tip of my tongue.
Don’t say it.
Don’t you dare fucking say it.
I don’t—but it’s close—and when I come, it’s hotter than the water that washes it down the drain.
I don’t know how long I stand under the shower spray before rinsing the rest of my body, but it’s long enough that Teddy is dressed and dow
nstairs, curled up on the living room sofa when I finish and find her.
Nothing has been turned on, not the television or radio, and she’s not playing on her phone. There’s just the light from the kitchen streaming into the room casting a glow. Knees drawn to her chest, Teddy has a blanket in her lap, pulled to her chin, shoulders bare except for the straps of what must be a white tank top.
“Hey.” She looks up when I enter the room, snuggling deeper into the blanket.
“Hey.” I plop down in a leather chair across from her, propping my feet up on the wooden coffee table. Spreading my legs, I lace my fingers behind my neck—a better position to observe her in.
She eyes me up in the dark, but not in a calculating way. It’s more like she’s trying to decide if I’m going to pounce on her or whatever—if she should get the fuck out of the room or stay put.
I want to laugh at her aversion to me, and at the same time, I want to push her buttons.
It’s late and dark, and I’m fucking beat, but I can’t just leave her sitting here, alone.
Today ended up being shit, and it looks like that’s how it’s going to end. I have a strange girl in my house—the house that is my sanctuary—and I pray to God she can’t remember how to get here. The last thing I fucking need is her dropping by unexpectedly, expecting something…
Then I’d have to be a complete dick, which would make me feel like an asshole. And I hate when I have to be an asshole.
Actually, that’s a lie—I fucking love it.
But looking at her? I’d hate to be an ass to Teddy. She looks so sweet, curled up on my couch, snuggling in my blankets and Jesus H. Christ, what the fuck am I saying?
“Tired?” she asks softly.
“Yeah.”
“You should go to bed.”
“You trying to get rid of me?”
“No.” She laughs. “Besides, it’s your house. You probably want to get rid of me. I’m the one invading your space.”
That’s true.
“Nah. It’s cool.” I glance toward the staircase—the dark cherry balustrade, polished to a shine along with the counters, cabinets, and whatever else Barb scrubs when she’s here. It leads to the second level, to the two guest bedrooms. “Take whichever room you want. They’re both on the same side of the hallway as the bathroom.”
