by Sarina Bowen
I laugh, and smirk at the camera, and I tug the hem of my boxers down just a little bit. Ash is going to love me for this. Or hate me.
Same dif.
Ash
* * *
By two o’clock the following day, I’m standing on the porch of Tom’s house in a knee-length plaid skirt and a starched white blouse. And pearls, goddammit. I had to dig to the bottom of my jewelry box to find them.
Totally worth it.
Last night I took seven pages of notes in my bullet journal about the client. (And earned a research sticker—a cute little magnifying glass!) The VanHeimlich clan are Dutch-American multi-millionaires. They set up some kind of pyramid scheme to sell bibles and breakfast mixes or something. They’re super conservative, subscribe to “traditional gender roles” (hence the unflattering skirt.) And they donated a whack ton of money to fund a museum that walks you through how the earth is flat and Darwin was wrong. No lie.
I can work with this, even if it makes my sphincter clench a little.
It’s not about me, though. I’m a realtor, so it’s about them. Their needs. I am here to prove that their needs include Tom’s house and all its expensive, impenetrable surfaces. I’m here for them. Also for the fat commission.
In service to this higher goal, I’m even wearing sensible shoes. All of it makes me chafe, but that’s okay. I can do this.
I have one moment of panic when their car pulls in right behind mine. Usually I like to open up the house ahead of the client’s arrival. The VanHeimlichs are early.
No problem! I won’t let my irritation show. When they step out of the car, I’m all smiles. Mrs. VanHeimlich is wearing a high-collared blouse and several diamonds on her pale fingers. After my warmest possible greeting, I turn to unlock Tom’s door. I am a tiny bit nervous that the doors won’t open, or they’ll be wired in such a way as to give me an electrical shock, but nothing like that happens.
“Watch your step!” I sing as I enter the darkened foyer. “And welcome to your new home!” There is a slight delay while I feel around for the light switch. Was it always this dark in here? I bump into a console table. Awkward! But then my hand finds the switch and I turn it on.
Whew! I’ve opened my mouth to apologize when I just happen to notice there’s a framed photo on the console table that wasn’t there yesterday. It’s…holy shit. It’s a photo of a man’s chiseled chest, the model pulling down on his boxer briefs just to the point where there’s a nice bit of neatly trimmed hair, and a bulge in his underpants THAT I RECOGNIZE.
I recognize the shape, because I had it in my mouth once.
A little squeak of shock escapes me before I can rein it in. And I slam that photo down on the console with a bang.
“Everything okay, dear?” Mr. VanHeimlich asks.
“That wasn’t a bug, was it?” his wife gasps.
“No!” I protest, my voice all high and crazy. “Just clumsy. Knocked it down. Come right this way!” I babble.
I want to kill him. I think I would do it, too, if it didn’t mean a prison sentence. I have to stay out of the prison system so I don’t bump into my ex.
Moving on.
My anxiety notches up again as I lead my clients into the kitchen. “Lovely light in here!” I say, my gaze skittish. “Great space for entertaining!”
There are several new objects in the kitchen, damn it. But they’re subtle. There’s a bunch of long, firm bananas hanging from a hook. Those weren’t there yesterday. There’s also a platter of carefully arranged eggplants on a tray. They’re shiny and bulbous and I choke back a giggle at the sight of them.
I hope the VanHeimlichs aren’t very well versed in emoji humor. But, heck, something tells me they’re not.
This is fine, I coach myself. We’ve still got this under control.
“How many square feet of interior living space is there?” Mr. VanHeimlich asks.
“Four thousand!” I bleat, gesturing to the staircase like a demented gameshow host. “And a generous basement, leading to the boathouse!” I position my body in front of the eggplants. From my vantage point I can see the dining table, where a vase of voluptuous orchids has appeared. They are glistening and peachy pink. Like female genitalia.
I’m going to maim him. I wonder what the sentencing guidelines say about maiming?
My gaze swings in the other direction, and I’m wondering if I shouldn’t lead the VanHeimlichs out the back way, toward the porch. But there’s a suspicious pile of magazines visible by the door, and I’m terrified to learn what’s on their covers.
The dining room it is, then. “Step right this way,” I say, my sensible pumps clicking on the flooring tiles. The VanHeimlichs are right on my heels as I throw on the switch for the ultramodern chandelier.
Mrs. VanHeimlich gasps. I know the place is beautiful, but come on, that’s a little dramatic.
Then Mr. VanHeimlich mutters “Dear God, it’s an abomination!” I know something is very wrong when he whips off his jacket and tosses it over his wife’s head. That would make sense if the room were filled with bats and he was trying to protect his wife. I mean, bats burrow into hair, I’m pretty sure.
There aren’t any bats though. The dining room looks totally gorgeous. It’s all glass and marble and giant framed art posters.
Wait a minute.
Every poster has been replaced with a portrait of…Braht. I gasp too, but damn if I’m going to let Mr. VanHeimlich cover my eyes with a jacket because I want to keep looking and looking and looking at…
At…
“Holy hell,” I breathe and do a 360. There must be six different poses, each one sexier than the next. Beautiful, chiseled, hairless Braht in a variety of sexy, bulging poses.
But it’s the one of him stroking himself on the velvet settee that makes me pass out.
Literally.
4 Going All Outlander
Braht
Thanks to modern security technology, I see my girl go down like a brick wall, right there on Tom’s dining room floor.
And what does that dickhead VanHeimlich do? He steps over her and leads his wife out. I’m speechless, although I’ll be giving him a piece of my mind later. Just not yet. I’m running out the back door of my house, leaping over Mrs. VanDanbunk’s lilac hedge and running toward Tom’s place. It’s only a quarter mile away, because it was me that convinced Tom to buy a place in the same posh neighborhood where Casa Braht is located. I’ve gone the back way, which means I’m setting off motion-detecting lights and sensors like crazy, but I don’t care.
Because Ash.
Good thing I ran track in high school, before I discovered golf.
I’m there in a flash, racing through his yard to the walkway in back, then pound around to the front. Vaulting up the stairs I arrive in the dining room just as Ash is struggling to sit up.
“Oh, fuck,” she says, rubbing the back of her head. “I don’t think I made the sale.” Her eyes seem to come into focus. Then her gaze rakes up my body, from my legs to my, well, most excellent bits. Then up to my face. She frowns. “This is your fault.”
I squat down beside her. “Yeah, it is. I didn’t expect you to react quite that dramatically. I’m flattered, though.”
“You absolute dick.” Her beautiful eyes narrow. “I could have sold this house! You robbed me. You robbed us both? Who does that?”
“They weren’t going to buy it.”
“You don’t know that!” she yells.
Except I do. “They have a similarly sized home just a half mile away that they’re trying to sell so they can move to Bermuda. Theirs is priced too high, so their realtor suggested they stop in and do a comparison.”
“Fuck!” Ash says, sounding even grumpier. “You set me up for no reason?”
“For fun,” I say, feeling sorry. “Those VanHeimlichs are assholes, baby. I wanted to shock them. I should have let you in on the joke. I, uh…” It wasn’t easy to get my mouth to make the words. “I’m sorry. Truly.”
Ash
’s face softens the moment I say it. Note to self: Ash appreciates a good apology.
She still looks a little woozy, though, and my ego isn’t big enough to assume it’s because of my hotness. Well, not all because of my hotness. “You might have a bump on your head. Let me help you up.” I grasp her under the arms and lift her right to her feet.
“Oh,” she says softly. “Thank you.” I keep an arm behind her back, because she’s still a little unsteady. Her eyes wander to the largest poster, the one of me on the settee. It’s a masterwork, if I’m honest. Everybody, no matter how humble, likes to look his best. (Not that I’m humble. What’s the point of that?)
And Bramly really delivered the goods on these photos. Looking your best is 70% confidence, 20% raw material, 10% imported photographic lenses and 5% lighting. Pay no mind to the total of more than 100%, because in my case that’s what you’re getting. The poster is 105% awesome.
Ash’s eyes roam the photo, and she sort of sags against me.
“Come hither, Ash.” I steer her toward an upholstered dining chair. At the last second I sit down first, so that she lands in my lap.
“I’m still mad at you,” she says as I swing her long legs across my lap and wrap my arms around her.
“Okay.” I run a hand down her back until I reach her plaid-covered rump, and I give it a nice, dirty squeeze. “I kinda like the naughty schoolgirl look you’re rocking today. The shoes should really be sleazier, though.”
“Fuck right off,” she says, but her body angles closer to mine, and her breathing accelerates. Her lips brush over the scruff on my jaw. “You’re so prickly.”
“That’s usually my line.”
She huffs out a laugh, and her breath on my neck gives me goosebumps. “I mean your face. Never saw you with whiskers before.”
“It works for you, doesn’t it?” The fact that she’s noticed lights me right up. My hands are full of Ash, and my cock begins to feel nice and thick beneath her weight.
“Scruff is less pristine. More macho.”
“Hmm.” I run a hand down her sleek hair. “That’s your thing, isn’t it? You tell the whole world you want to run the show. But what you really want is for me to throw you up against the wall like a scene from Outlander.”
Her breath hitches. “You watch Outlander?”
“They had it playing at the place where I get my manicures,” I lie, just to push her buttons.
She snorts. “Of course they did. Because they weren’t expecting any dudes to show up.”
“I have a regular Tuesday appointment,” I whisper in her ear. I let my lips graze the delicate edge, and she goes absolutely still in my arms. “Can’t have rough hands.” I pause so I can drop an open-mouthed kiss onto the satiny skin of her neck. “Have to be smooth…” My lips walk a path down her throat, and she shudders. “Smooth hands will feel better on your pretty little clit while I’m making you come.”
She whimpers, and I take advantage of it. I turn her perfect chin and lock our gazes. That’s when Ash notices how near we are to each other—and how easy it would be for her to lean in and fit our mouths together.
With a soft moan, she does just that. Sweet lips touch mine. Tentatively at first. But the kiss is just as good as it was that time in the pantry, so it’s mere seconds later that she tightens her grip on my body. I part her lips with my tongue and wait for her moan.
“Ohhh.”
There it is. Ash and I are a much better team than she would care to admit. I stroke her tongue and she shivers, turning in my arms, tossing a knee across my lap to straddle me.
And it’s on.
Not thirty seconds later we’re grinding and groaning. She’s riding my lap in imitation of, well, riding my lap. Ash is losing her mind a little. She loves to be on top, because she thinks that’s where she belongs. I’d love to press her up against the nearest hard surface and show her how good it could really be, but I can’t. She probably has a bump on the back of her head that’s my fault.
So I’ll have to be content with her bouncing on my dick here in this chair.
I’ve got my hands running up her legs, pushing up that skirt and she does this little thrust that makes me gasp. In the pantry, we had mouths and tongues on each other, but I wasn’t inside her, and all that separates us is a few thin layers of clothing. I groan a little. Can’t be helped because Ash….Ash is a fucking goddess.
“I want…” Ash breathes and I am hanging on her next word. Please say she wants me. Please please please.
But the universe thwarts me when instead of hearing “I want you inside me, Braht, you huge man,” I hear instead...
“Yooooooooo hoo! Is anyone home?”
Ash gasps and practically leaps off of me. She straightens her clothing, pulling down that god-awful yet infinitely fuckable plaid skirt. Even worse, she won’t meet my eyes. “Who’s there?” she says, a little hitch in her voice that I am very proud of.
The sound of footsteps spurs me to action, by which I mean I adjust my spur and let my polo shirt fall over the tent I’m pitching in my trousers.
A little old woman appears in the doorway of Tom’s dining room. “Niiiiice!” she says, then cackles. It’s not a creepy cackle. It’s more like the cackle old grandmas make at a holiday arts and crafts fair when they’ve just found the perfect tea cozy. She fingers the collar of her flowered sweatshirt as she admires Bramly’s work.
There’s something I’d like to finger right now and it’s not a sweatshirt.
“Great aesthetic,” the woman says. “Love the art! That’s a man who has the whole package.” She giggles again, delighted. “Can I see the rest of the house? I saw the For Sale sign in the yard, and the front door was open…”
“Of course!” Ash says with too much cheer, although this woman is obviously just a nosy neighbor, not a potential buyer. She’s wearing her freaking slippers.
But my Ash snaps right into realtor mode. “I’m Ash Power. It’s so nice to meet you. Here is my card. You’ll notice that I’m a waterfront home specialist.” Her spine straightens as she taps the card and hands it over. She smiles widely, the way an electric eel might smile before snatching down its prey.
I wish I were the prey.
Not a glance for me, though. This interruption is working just fine for her.
Ah, well. We’ll connect eventually. You can’t hold back what’s meant to be. I totally believe that. All the self-help audiobooks I’ve been listening to confirm it.
The old lady is in the kitchen already, exclaiming over the top-notch appliances. I hear Ash say, “Thirty thousand BTUs!” My honey is selling the heck out of the Wolf range, possibly in order to make her escape from me.
I can’t resist. I must enter the fray.
My erection enters it first, preceeding me into the kitchen. “Have you seen the butler’s pantry?” I crow. “Ash and I have a thing for pantries. It’s right over here.”
“Oooh!” the old lady says, following me like a happy puppy. Does she give my tent an appreciative glance? Does she? I’d like to think so.
“And then we’ll see the boathouse,” I offer. “You don’t want to miss the boathouse. A rather famous sex tape was shot there. Right this way.”
Ash gives me a growl, just as I knew she would.
I’ll be thinking about that growl later tonight when I...um...take matters into my own hands. Literally.
Then I’ll watch the next episode of Outlander. I’ve got to learn to channel me some Jamie Fraser.
5 Fall Festival Fiasco
Ash
“How do you like my balls?” Brynn asks me.
She’s referring to a new recipe for deep-fried blue cheese nuggets. I swear they cause spontaneous orgasms whenever I pop one into my mouth. Then again, that’s pretty much what happens whenever I pop any kind of ball in my mouth.
It’s, uhm, been a while.
“They’re scrumptious,” I say, referring to the balls. The cheese fritters. Sigh. My mind is elsewhere, and it’s compl
etely the fault of one overdressed coworker.
Today Brynn and I are sharing a booth at the Fall Festival Fandango. There are a lot of F’s in that name, but it’s basically all the great things about fall wrapped up in a Saturday afternoon. Crisp weather. Excellent food. And business opportunities. Brynn is promoting her blog and books, and I’m promoting, well, me. I have a fresh stack of business cards to scatter like seeds in the wind. I should be all fired up to find new clients.
And yet I’m not. It’s strange.
My bestie gives me a hip bump. “What is wrong with you? It’s a beautiful day, and I’ve fed you four different ball-shaped foods. Sadie is off buying us apple pie, pumpkin fritters and coffee. That’s like, all the best things in life, except bacon. Why so glum?”
“I’m not glum,” I grumble. But she’s right. I’m glum on a perfect day. We’re at a fall festival in an apple orchard that’s heavy with fruit. Behind us is a corn maze and off in the distance, a horizon of trees in reds, oranges and yellows. Booths line the orchard, tucked in between the trees. We’re well fed, and I’m wearing cashmere, because fall. Also, because cashmere is just plain sexy and decadent. What could be better than this?
“Rough week?” she pries. “Are you ever going to tell me how that VanHeimlich showing went?”
I let out a little moan of despair, but then I swallow it down because I need to appear friendly. I look around at all the happy families and couples. Everyone here is wearing scarves and looks like they stepped off the set of Gilmore Girls. Brynn has a cute banner advertising her food blog Brynn’s Balls and I’m handing out luggage tags with the VanderMollen Real Estate logo on them, along with my phone number. Always be prepared for luck.
Only my heart isn’t really in it. I’m too busy kicking myself over that fiasco with Braht. I fell for his fucking antics. Again. And then I disgraced myself by rubbing him as thoroughly as if I were trying to wax his Beemer with my body. That guy is my kryptonite. Even worse—his desk is now six feet away from me at work. Everywhere I turn, he’s there!
