My dick hums in satisfaction, not bothered in the slightest. After receiving a hummer sent from the blow job gods, he would happily roast in hell. And that’s where I’ll end up after what happened last night.
Groaning, I reach for the spare pillow and crush it over my face. I wonder if anyone has managed to suffocate themselves to death. I’ll happily volunteer to try because it’ll erase the images of me eating Keira out before she came all over my face.
I thought we were done, but then she dropped to her knees, ripped off my pants, and sucked on my dick until I cried mercy and saw stars. For a virgin, she sure as shit knows her way around. But I don’t judge. Glass houses and all that jazz…
Once I stopped weeping for my mom to save me from the jaws of life, I zipped up my pants and took Keira home. She chatted in the car like five minutes prior, we weren’t all up in each other’s business. Maybe this casual sex thing can be done.
So why was that aching void still lingering around like a bad smell?
I came home, showered, and crawled into bed. And here I was planning on staying for a long time to come if not for the infernal ringing of my fucking phone, which is sounding once again.
Throwing the pillow against the wall, I sit upright, brushing the snarled hair from my face. Whoever this caller is, I’m going to find them, rip off their hands, and wear them as a hat. The moment I reach for my cell, it stops ringing. So fucking typical.
My screen is lit up with fifteen missed calls and a bunch of nonsensical texts from Dixon.
Wake the fuck up!
Are you wearing pants?
For the love of god, please put on pants.
This is the general gist of what kind of crazy talk I’m dealing with.
When the phone rings once again, I have the urge to throw it out the window, but don’t. “No, I’m not wearing pants, for your information. And if this is your attempt at phone sex, don’t give up your day job.”
“Shut the hell up and listen.” He’s so cranky in the morning.
“Hello to you, too.” I yawn, in desperate need of an Irish coffee, preferably just the Irish portion. “No, I didn’t sleep with her, if that’s why you’re calling at”—I look down at my imaginary watch—“stupid o’clock. And by the way, you do realize it’s Sunday morning, as in a day of rest, as in fuck the fuck off.”
“Hunter…”
He doesn’t get to finish whatever spiel I was in for as it appears everyone is on crazy pills because someone is at my door. “Oh, for the love of camel piss, who the hell is that?” I remove the phone from my ear to ensure I’m not hearing things.
When the bell sounds once again, this time however in a long, continuous drone, I kick off the blankets ready to murder whoever won’t remove their finger from my buzzer. “Dixon, if this is you at my door, I swear to god I’m going to burn you alive.”
“Would you stop talking already and put on pants…”
Mid-stride to my bedroom door, I realize I am butt naked, and had no qualms answering the door this way, considering whoever is at my door is not staying. But I suppose the big man is right. Wouldn’t want my ninety-five-year-old neighbor to keel over and call it a day if she’s the one at my door.
Hunting through my drawers, I slip into a pair of CK boxer briefs and that’s it. Charging through my apartment with Dixon still on the line, I bark, “Where’s the fire? I know you love me and miss me terribly, but these stalker phone calls couldn’t wait until after breakfast?”
“I’m calling to warn you that…”
“That you’re the world’s most annoying friend who has nothing better to do on a Sunday morning?” I offer as I stampede through my living room, three steps away from committing murder. “You better cherish that motherfucking finger, asshole, because I’m about to rip it off and shove it so far up your ass your—” The moment I yank open the door, my words die in a tangled heap and I forget how to speak.
If I knew sign language, I would be signing holy fucking shit a brick fuck me dead and call me Elvis because Mary is standing at my door. Not the Virgin Mary, as that’s a lot more plausible than Mary Mitts, but it’s her. She’s here, on my doorstep, with her finger pressed to my doorbell.
“I’m calling to warn you that Mary is on her way over,” Dixon concludes, his tone laced with complete hilarity.
“This is information that would have been helpful five seconds ago, genius,” I wheeze, thankful my speech has returned.
The doorbell dies in a strangled cough when Mary’s finger slips from the button. Her usual rosy complexion is suddenly set alight when she scans me from head to toe. Oh, for fuck’s sake, the indigestion returns. I rub a circle over my chest, and am surprised when Mary follows the movement, her glossy lips parted. Is she unwell?
“Are you going to stand around like a primate? Invite her in,” a voice which sounds an awful lot like Dixon demands. That’s when I realize it is Dix and that I’m standing at my front door, in my underwear, with my cell pressed to my ear as I visually consume the hottest woman on earth.
I go against Dixon’s suggestion because I’ve seen Buffy, I know what happens when you invite the pretty ones into your home. “What are you doing?”
“Smooth, Hunt, real smooth.” Dixon’s running commentary can go eat a dick.
Licking her lips, she appears to remember that she’s here voluntarily and clears her throat once. “You invited me, remember? Or did you suffer short term memory loss overnight?”
Scratching my head, I wonder if maybe Keira’s pussy was a black hole and she sucked me straight into the twilight zone. “I do remember, but I also remember you telling me you’d rather poke a grizzly bear in the ass with a short stick than come anywhere near my home.”
Dixon exhales loudly.
“Well, I’m desperate,” she states, which opens up a whole different can of worms. She closes her eyes for a split second, realizing her poor choice of words.
Every part of my body inflates, so ready for the challenge. “Shortcake, I’m flattered…”
“Oh my god, just forget it.” She goes to turn, which is like a swift karate chop to my throat.
Both Dixon and I yell, “Stop!” at the same time. I should hang up, but he’s here for moral support, and god knows I need it, because I’m wading in shark-infested waters. I thank the angels above when she doesn’t punch me in the nuts and stays rooted to the spot.
Her emerald eyes hold me prisoner as she waits for me to make the first move. “Please, come in.” I stand back, sweeping my hand toward my home.
She narrows her eyes, waiting for a punchline, or catch, but none follow. I’m too tongue-tied to even remember my own name. After a slight pause, she nods and walks past me. The polite thing to do would be to move out of the doorway so she can enter, but polite and me have never really seen eye to eye.
She doesn’t allow my hulking frame to intimidate her and strolls past me, her arm brushing my bare chest. Sweet Jesus and all that’s holy. I have seen the light and her name is Mary Shortcake Mitts. From a single touch, my body goes into overdrive and my cock is poised and raring to go. She smells fucking delicious. My mouth actually waters and I quickly dab at my chin to ensure I’m not salivating.
She’s wearing skinny jeans, Chucks, and a baby pink knitted sweater which has her fiery red waves coming to life. Her ass is absolute perfection, bound compactly in the tight denim. When she turns back around from inspecting my living room, I flick my gaze upward, pretending I was not checking her out.
“Nice home.”
“Thanks.” I refrain from saying nice ass. See, I’m learning.
When she clears her throat again and tugs at the diamond stud in her ear, I realize she’s finding this as uncomfortable as I am. “I really could use your help, and as much as I hate admitting that, I need you. Your home,” she quickly corrects as I’m on the cusp of doing a victory dance around my coffee table.
“Sure, no problem. What do I have to do?” I ask, the phone hanging limply by
my side. Dixon is probably stuffing his face full of popcorn, eagerly awaiting to see how this unfolds.
“Nothing really. Just allow me to take over your home and office for the next two months. You won’t even know I’m here.” She attempts to grin, but it fades as she swallows hard.
That’s very fucking unlikely, but I nod. “Okay, sounds easy enough.” She rubs her hands together as if she’s suddenly nervous that I agreed.
Cocking my head to the side, I notice she’s a lot more twitchy and fidgety than I’ve ever seen her. She’s usually as cool as a cucumber, but her flushed cheeks are rosier than usual. What is up with that?
“Awesome, so, um, did you want to get dressed or something while I get started?” She’s pinning me with those drop dead gorgeous eyes, but when she averts her attention downward and then back up again, I actually get winded.
Is she checking me out? No, that’s not possible. She’d rather dig out her eyeballs with an ice cream scoop than look at me of her own accord.
Running a hand back and forth over my scalp, mussing up my hair, I nod. Her interest floats to my arm, or more specifically, my bicep. I tilt my chin, peering up at my bowed arm, with my hand still resting atop my head.
When she becomes aware of me attempting to decode what the hell is the matter with her, she literally takes a step backward and fumbles with her backpack straps as she removes it from her shoulders. “I haven’t got all day. Go get dressed before I throw up my bagel.”
Ah, there she is. The Mary we all know and lov…okay, now this is just getting weird.
What I once thought, or hoped was desire, I now know was repulsion because Mary will always look at me like the Hunchback of Notre Dame. It doesn’t matter that I’m in peak shape, run five miles a day, and am not a bad looking dude, I just don’t get her whistle wet.
Not interested in being a sideshow freak any longer, I leave her to comb through her things and ransack my home while I shower and sing “Beautiful” by Christina Aguilera to my reflection.
I close my bedroom, pressing the phone to my ear. “Well, I would say she’s not a morning person, but that was her being friendly.”
“You really are an idiot,” Dixon says with a laugh. “What was with all the long pauses?”
He heard, or rather didn’t hear it too? Interesting.
Opening my drawers, I pull out a clean t-shirt and some socks. “I don’t know. She was looking at me funny.”
“Were you standing at full salute?”
I pause from rummaging through my underwear drawer. “I should be offended, but I’m not. And the answer to your question is no. I don’t think,” I add as a sidenote.
“Regardless, this is your opportunity to show her what a great guy you are.”
“You realize you’re talking to me and not Finch, right?” I close the drawer and search for a pair of jeans.
“Hunt…just talk to her.”
“What am I supposed to say?” I ask in all seriousness, because if there is a handbook, I need to do some serious cramming.
“I don’t fucking know. Ask her about her course. Or if she likes Schnauzers or not.”
I scrunch up my face. “She likes Schnauzers?”
Dixon groans. “I don’t know. The question was rhetorical.”
“Oh right. Shit. I need you to feed me lines through an earpiece. I’m going to crumble.” Rubbing the perspiration beads from my brow, I know this is a taste of what’s to come.
“You’ll be fine. You’re already a changed man.” When I wait for him to elaborate, he explains like I’m Tweedledee. “You didn’t sleep with Keira.”
And he’s Tweedledum. “Well…” I rub the back of my neck.
“For fuck’s sake. You’re going to give me an ulcer.”
I bite back my smirk. “I didn’t fuck her.”
“Oh, thank the lord.”
“…with my cock,” I reveal before he gets too excited and nominates me for a Nobel Peace Prize. “I’m a giver, Dixon. You know this.”
“No, you’re an asshole. How did this happen?”
“Don’t tell me it’s been that long you need me to draw you a diagram,” I reply, thoroughly amused.
“I don’t know why I bother.” He sighs.
Needing to cut this conversation short because Mary is just outside my door, I enlighten him. “I tried to fight her off, I know you don’t believe me, but it’s true. Then she made reference to her pussy and me eating it out with a spoon, and then one thing led to another and I was bending her over my desk. She wanted me to fuck her, but she’s a virgin, a fucking virgin, and I may be a bastard, but I’m not a fucking bastard. So I blew her, she blew me. All in all, a pretty low key Saturday night.” Only then do I take a breath.
“She’s a virgin?” Dixon questions suspiciously. “But yet she was fine with you feasting on her kitty like a fucking key lime pie before she dropped to her knees and sucked you off like it was no biggie?”
“Language,” I playfully scold. “But yes, that’s about it in a nutshell. Speaking of nuts…holy shit.”
Dixon isn’t interested is me relaying a step by step account of my sexscapades. “Dude, something isn’t right. Remember what happened when someone was bent over my desk?” I can hear him reaching for a sick bag from over here.
“Yeah, she double clicked her own mouse. So what?”
“I just don’t like this.”
Rolling my eyes, I make my way into my en-suite. “I made it perfectly clear I wasn’t interested in an office romance. And neither is she.”
“That logic is one of a dumbass, especially if she really is a virgin.”
“Now you’re doubting her virginity. You have serious trust issues. Go hug a teddy bear.”
“It’s your funeral,” Dixon says, the fight fading for now.
Stripping down to my birthday suit, I smirk. “You’ll have to speak up, I’m naked.”
“And on that note, I have to go find my fiancée to burn that image from my mind. Don’t forget your pants.” The line goes dead.
Tossing my cell onto the basin, I turn on the shower and wait for it to warm up. Dixon has no idea what he’s talking about. Yes, Keira surprised me last night with her unexpected sexual aggression, but everything is kosher. There wasn’t an ounce of embarrassment in the air once the deed was done, and she didn’t even drop a ‘see you at work on Monday.’
As I step into my glass shower and stand under the spray, I begin to wonder if maybe there is a problem with this picture. Was I not memorable enough for her?
Groaning, I reach for the shampoo and quash such soppy bullshit from my mind. This is just Dixon’s touchy feely crap messing with my head, that’s all. We had casual sex—well, oral sex. Just because she’s not banging down my door and getting a tattoo to commemorate our union doesn’t mean something is askew. Whatever happens tomorrow, I’ll deal.
Washing the shampoo from my hair, I condition and then reach for the soap. My body is already heightened thanks to Mary being feet away, so when I wash over my semi, there’s no guessing what happens next.
The girl who has been my go to for months is in the next room. That thought has my cock straining and I grunt at the force. This would be the time I rub one out, but I suddenly feel like a vile pervert for even considering it.
My dick twitches, a silent demand I stop procrastinating and get the job done, but I just…can’t. It feels wrong for some reason and I don’t know why. There is no doubt I’m turned on by her, so why can’t I get this show on the road?
Slamming my fist to the wall, I lean my forehead to the tile, allowing the water to cascade down the back of my neck. I’m frustrated, not just sexually, but inside as well. I’ve had no qualms jerking off to her before, so why the sudden change of heart?
The stupid whimsical center in question does some sort of flip flop in my chest. I put an end to such nonsense by thumping over it once, kickstarting some sense into it. This hard on isn’t going anywhere, so I switch the faucet to cold and t
hink about The Golden Girls.
Five minutes later, and suffering a mild case of hypothermia, I dry off and dress. I don’t bother with tying back my hair, but instead run my fingers through it. Splashing on some cologne, I’m ready to face the storm.
Mary has been left unsupervised for far too long and I won’t lie, I’m a little scared, as I have no idea what I’m walking into. My bare feet pad across the carpet as I amble down the hallway and take a right to enter the living room.
When I round the corner, I stop dead in my tracks, because what I’m greeted with requires my undivided attention. Mary is stooped over, measuring tape in hand, as she looks from left to right, as if attempting to calculate the measurement in her head. What is heart stopping, however, is the fact she’s bent over, ass in the air.
I can’t help myself and lean against the doorjamb, admiring the view. Her apricot-shaped behind is just too much. I’ve always been an ass man, but this takes my obsession to a whole different level. Arms and ankles crossed, I angle my head to the side, needing to view this marvel from every viewpoint there is.
Her long hair is flipped forward, all wild and ruffled, just how I’m feeling right now. If this is what I’m in for, for the next two months, I just may die one happy man. She mumbles something under her breath. It sure sounds a lot like she’s giving someone an earful, but there is no one in the room other than me.
Maybe she’s gathering ammo, because god knows the next two months are going to be interesting. No time like the present, I suppose. “You really should bend your knees. Unless it’s your intention to look like Quasimodo.”
She springs upward like a pogo stick on the juice. Turning over her shoulder, she glares at me, while I don’t bother moving from my perch. I’m most comfortable seeing her jacked off. “It’s my intention to get in and out as soon as possible. Where’s your bedroom?”
If only those words were spoken in an entirely different manner, but never mind, it’s still an open door. “If this is your plan to seduce me, let me tell you…it’s working. I don’t need hearts and roses. Good ol’ fashioned dirty talk works wonders.” She rolls those beautiful eyes and turns around.
The Hunt - Monica James Page 9
