The Six Month Lease (Southern Hearts Club Book 2)

by Melanie Munton

  “Hey,” I respond to Seth, a die-hard fan along with West. “Braves choke yet?”

  Indecipherable words of outrage follow my question. Thankfully, my face is hidden behind the open refrigerator door so they can’t see my grin.

  “Whoa, whoa, West,” one of the two strangers sputters. “What is this disrespect I’m hearing under your roof?”

  “Yankees fan,” West mutters with disdain.

  More shouts of outrage.

  “Well, I guess no one’s perfect,” one of the newbies grumbles. “Even if they look perfect.”

  “For real,” the other new guy loudly whispers. “What is your problem, man? You’re living with that and not hitting it?”

  The first one snorts. “He used to.”

  “Shut the fuck up,” my roommate snaps, his voice cracking like a whip.

  “You guys know I can hear you, right?” I call out over my shoulder.

  “Highest of compliments, sweetheart!”

  I shake my head in bemusement and start off toward my room with a coconut water in hand. Of course, I have to pass back by the living room on my way, so I tell myself to avoid looking at West no matter what it takes.

  As far as I’m concerned, his face is like the video in The Ring. If I look at it, a creepy, long-haired chick is going to spider crawl out of a well and kill me dead.

  “Are you even going to introduce us, dude?” one of the two strangers demands of West.

  Out of the corner of my eye—it doesn’t count if I don’t face him full-on—I see West’s upper lip curl, though his attention remains focused on the game. “No.”

  That adamantly-spoken word has me stopping in my tracks. Knowing death awaits me, knowing I’m staring my own mortality in the face, I turn back to face my…ex.

  You’re dead.

  Everyone’s attention swings to the two of us, even Seth’s, who’s been staring unblinking at the TV screen until now.

  “Yeah,” I say in a deceptively sweet voice. “Don’t be rude, West. Introduce us.”

  West shoots me a side glance without moving his head, no doubt acknowledging the variation of the first name I ever called him.

  Eyes snaring mine, he slowly shakes his head.

  A warning if I’ve ever seen one.

  With a perky smile, I break our eye contact and hold out my hand to the two unknowns sitting on the couch. “Hi. I’m Harper.”

  The first one with the goofy smile lunges across the cushions to shake it. “Todd.”

  The second one, the one with a much more seductive smile, is slower about taking my hand and giving it a firm squeeze. “Emerson.”

  West stiffens from his seated position on the loveseat. Then his leg starts bouncing. Followed by his fists clenching between his knees. Then he swipes his beer off the coffee table and chugs the rest of it down.

  “Nice to meet you both.”

  Why am I trying to goad him?

  Surely, that strategy can only end badly for me.

  “You, too,” Emerson says, his voice pitching lower, gaze remaining steadily on mine.

  “Didn’t you say you had some work to do tonight?” West asks harshly, his head finally turning all the way around to face me.

  I purse my lips, silencing the litany of insults that would fly off my tongue on reflex if this were any other night and we were alone.

  But battle lines are being drawn right now.

  “I’ll leave you to it, roomie,” I sneer. “And good luck with the game, you guys. You’re going to need it.”

  His friends all chuckle good-naturedly, waving me off.

  I shoot one final seething glare at West as I turn to leave. “Especially you.”

  His only reaction is a muscle popping in his jaw.

  Emerson’s low whistle punctuates my exit.

  West’s clear warning signals against challenging him were flashing pointblank in my face in that living room. Like bright orange reflectors on the highway.

  But oops! Looks like I’ve suddenly gone color blind.

  Like I said , I might have a devious streak in me.

  Because half an hour later, I’m sauntering out of my room wearing the tiniest, tightest pair of workout shorts I own and a cropped tank that might as well be a sports bra for how much it doesn’t cover.

  Time to let the demon slut flex her muscles.

  Don’t ask me why because I wouldn’t have an answer for you. At least, not a rational one. There was just something about West’s curt attitude earlier, his whole domineering demeanor, that rubbed me the complete wrong way.

  When I reach the living room, under the pretense of retrieving something from the kitchen, every male head snaps around in my direction.

  West is the first to react, cursing violently under his breath.

  Seth barely spares me a glance. Todd’s mouth gapes wide open. And Emerson licks his lips invitingly.

  My voice comes out breathless as I throw my hand up in a wave. “Sorry, don’t mean to interrupt. Yoga can really work up one hell of a thirst.”

  Truthfully, I was doing yoga in there.

  For about ten minutes.

  I needed to keep my body busy somehow—in a non-masturbatory way—since it insists on reacting to West every time it’s anywhere in his vicinity. His masculine laughter kept seeping through the thin walls of my bedroom, distracting me even over the zen playlist I had blasting in my earbuds.

  This right here is all part of my revenge tactic for the little surprise I found lying in wait under my pillow earlier.

  Another pair of his underwear.

  His stupid orange-honey citrus scent is now permeating my pillowcase and sheets. And for that, he must pay.

  “Yeah, that’s what I’ve heard,” Emerson drawls, his eyes tracking my movements to the kitchen.

  After grabbing a bottle of water from the fridge, I lift it to my mouth and tip my head back, taking several long pulls. Then I make a big show of licking my lips afterward.

  Smack.

  That sounded like skin on skin.

  I peek around to see Todd giving Emerson a rough shove.

  “What?”

  Todd subtly tips his head toward West, whose eyes are flaying his buddy alive.

  “I’m sorry, okay?” Emerson sputters. “But Jesus, I’m not the only one in here with eyes, right?”

  I want to be amused that my evil plan is working, but I’m deterred when my gaze lands on West. He’s glowering at Emerson with such a staggeringly murderous expression, I’m kind of worried to leave the room for fear of what might befall the poor guy.

  Before I know it, that ferocious gaze is drilling into me.

  I immediately dodge the booby trap by looking away. I’m not about to get caught in that.

  “Well.” I replace the cap on my bottle. “Better go finish my workout.”

  Something shiny catches my eye near the edge of the couch as I turn toward the hallway. Grinning mischievously to myself, I bend over to grab it, sticking my ass higher up in the air than really necessary.

  And if I’m not mistaken, that’s West’s growl slicing through the sounds of the game like a steak knife through butter.

  Feigning innocence, I straighten back up and hold the coin out. “Anyone lose a quarter?”

  “Me,” Emerson blurts out, reaching for my hand from his seated position. “I dropped it. That’s mine.”

  “No,” West booms. “It’s not fucking yours.”

  Everyone freezes as the room is hushed into silence.

  Launching to his feet, West pounds across the room, his eyes never leaving his friend. He snatches the quarter from my hand and shoves it in Emerson’s face. “This is my quarter. You understand me? Mine. Don’t even think of touching it.”

  There’s a standoff for several long, tense seconds where Emerson silently studies my fuming ex-boyfriend. Smirking, he eventually throws his hands up in surrender and scoots back on the couch. “Gotcha. All yours, man.”

  Oo-kay. Let’s re-group.


  I wanted to get under West’s skin because I can’t seem to cut him out from under mine no matter how deep I drive the blade. But I did not expect this kind of possessive, territorial reaction. Not after the things we’ve said to each other over the past few weeks. He’s acting as if his name is tattooed on my damn forehead.

  Newsflash, it’s not.

  After making his presumptuous point to Emerson, West shifts back to me, gnashing his teeth like a feral animal.

  Aaaaand that’s my cue.

  “I’ll see you guys later,” I rush out and dash off to my room.

  Not so brave now, are we?

  I barely have one foot inside my room before the doorknob is literally ripped out of my hands.

  I whirl around, pasting on my most indignant expression. “Hey! Rule number fi—”

  “Stop, Harper.” West slams the door shut behind him, jaw clenching, chest heaving. “Just fucking stop.”

  I plant my hands on my hips. “And what am I doing, West? Huh? Walking around my house, wearing whatever I want because I live here, too? It’s not my problem if you can’t handle that.”

  It’s like I just dangled red in front of a bull.

  Mouth quirking knowingly, he advances toward me. Stomping toward me really, though he makes it look more like a swagger. Without laying a single finger on me, he somehow manages to come around behind me and back me up against the door, using nothing but his mere presence to herd me. I’m taken so off-guard that I just keep inching away so our bodies don’t come in contact with each other. And before I know it, I’m plastered against the door, his front pressing up against my back.

  “None of those guys out there are going to come near you, so stop teasing them with it,” he hisses against my neck.

  Keeping my breathing even requires insurmountable effort. “Who says they won’t?”

  Dammit, my voice still comes out thready.

  When his hands lower to my hips, I foolishly don’t protest, don’t mutter in umbrage. I’m not that good of an actress. Embarrassingly, when his talented fingers squeeze my flesh, it’s all I can do to bite back a moan.

  His lips graze the shell of my ear. “I do.”

  I’m not prepared when his hands slide over the slick material of my shorts, lowering until he’s cupping me between my legs.

  Hoh, now. What is he doing?

  And what am I doing by letting him do it? We’re broken up. This isn’t supposed to happen. I shouldn’t be allowing this. Shouldn’t be so weak.

  But God.

  I can feel the heat of his skin through my clothes, and it’s making me crazy. He’s always affected me like this, since the very beginning. He barely has to touch me before I’m writhing in lust, whimpering with need. I don’t even try to control the speed of my breathing anymore. My mouth falls open of its own volition, my panting rising in volume as it echoes off the wooden door.

  And when his index finger puts the slightest pressure on my clit, I’m drenched.

  “I’ve been here,” he whispers wickedly. “I’ve been inside you. I’ve stamped my fucking name on your pussy. And none of them are stupid enough to challenge that.”

  Unconsciously, my legs spread wider for more of his ministrations. I don’t grant them permission to do so. They’ve clearly gone rogue. Fulfillment—the need for release—is seemingly taking precedence over pride, over principle. His deep groan of approval sends vibrations down my body, spurring me on instead of waking me up.

  “Your body reacts without even thinking,” he says in awe. “That hasn’t changed.”

  I want to argue that he doesn’t affect me as singularly as he thinks he does.

  But like X-Files taught us, the truth is out there.

  In this case, it’s in the form of my body undulating against his lingering hand, his seeking fingers. If I tried to lie now and tell him I’m immune to his methods of seduction, it would only incentivize him to prove me wrong.

  And the hard truth is, I’m no less wild for him than I was that first day in the market. Facebook relationship status notwithstanding.

  His finger picks up its pace over that throbbing bundle of nerves, moving more voraciously, rubbing with more purpose. The movement sends my hips rocking, as if muscle memory has kicked in, my body recalling all the times he’s touched me like this. He responds by thrusting against my backside, his steel-rod erection digging into my ass.

  “There’s an expiration date on claimed territory, princess. And we’re not fucking there yet. So, stop giving them glimpses of something they can’t have.”

  He pinches my clit, eliciting a sharp gasp from me. This is all still on top of the clothes, but it might as well be skin-on-skin for how hot it’s getting me.

  “I—” I have to swallow in order to draw moisture back into my mouth. “I-I’m the only one who has a say over my body and what I do with it.”

  The next thing I feel are his teeth at my neck. “You sure about that? Because it feels like this little kitty still knows exactly who her master is.” As if solidifying his point, his entire hand palms me.

  Words of outrage fly to the tip of my tongue at the implication that he owns any part of me. But again, he’s so quick to react that I don’t have time to respond.

  He drags me over to stand directly in front of my full-length mirror, his hand remaining between my legs. Fisting my ponytail, he draws my attention to our image in the glass.

  “Look at that,” he commands in a voice raw with dominance. “Look at your flushed cheeks, princess. Look at the way your hips push toward my hand, reaching out for my fingers, begging for my goddamn touch.”

  I don’t say anything. I can’t. I just stare at us, listening as our tortured breaths fill the room. In my tiny shorts that barely cover my ass, my cropped tank that he’s shoved up to rest just below my breasts, I look wanton and…uninhibited.

  I don’t even recognize that girl.

  And dammit, I like that.

  Not to mention, West is… Oh, flyboy.

  Baseball cap still on backwards, robust body bent over my smaller one, his hungry gaze is locked on where his body is delivering pleasure to mine. I’m captivated watching him watch his own hand moving between my spread thighs.

  “Feel how my cock is searching for your dripping heat,” he rasps, punching his jutting hardness against me. “He’s lost without all that sweetness. This bastard has never begged for anything in his life, except for the way your pussy sucks on him so tight. I swear to God, it’s like he’s been tweaking for it the past three weeks.”

  The need—the pain—is so great at this point, I’m close to tears. I just need him to finish me off so my mind doesn’t splinter into a thousand pieces.

  I’m aching, but I’m also confused.

  He never spoke to me like this before. Before, he was always gentle and considerate, thoughtful and caring when it came to matters in the bedroom. Sex was always good between us. Beyond good—it was amazing. But it was never rough like this. It was usually a slow burn, not a blinding inferno that blazed to life in seconds. He always took his time with it, patiently adding one log at a time, building the fire up higher and higher until the flames licked the sky.

  He never dumped gasoline on the pyre and watched with rapture as those flames scorched the earth.

  This seems like a complete diversion from boyfriend West. Did I just get the relationship special treatment? Is he handling me this way now because I don’t deserve the sweetness from before?

  Or maybe you’re just seeing another side of him.

  I suppose that’s possible. After all, we really haven’t known each other that long. There’s still quite a bit he doesn’t know about me.

  The thing is, I don’t dislike this version of him.

  Quite the opposite, in fact, which disturbs me.

  “So, when I say I’ve staked my claim on this,”—he kneads my mound, rubbing rigorously over that pressure point—“just know that you hold the property deed to this, too.” He drives his hips into me
with shocking force, his hardness slamming right against my entrance.

  A moan finally slips from my mouth.

  The erotic image of us in the mirror—his glazed expression, his parted lips, his hand working between my thighs—is almost too much. I can tell he’s starting to hurt, too, when he turns his face into my neck and frowns.

  “Like it or not, you haven’t gotten past me yet,” he says hoarsely. “And like it or fucking not, I’m not going to sit in the goddamn living room that we share together and watch you get past me. That’s not fucking happening. You need to deal with that.”

  I also don’t remember him sounding this tormented when we were dating. I guess because he wasn’t then. There was no reason for him to be. Not like now.

  “It’s time for you to hear one of my rules now, princess. And learn what happens when you break it. Look at me.”

  I meet his eyes in the mirror. My brow furrows as I feel the precipice of my climax loom before me, within finger’s reach.

  His face darkens. “My rule number one: you never flirt with any of my friends again.”

  My initial instinct is to rant and rave like only a pissed-off woman can. But somehow, and I have no idea how in the midst of impending release, my mind is able to form one rational thought. How would I feel if he was openly flirting with Gretchen, Quinn, or Sloane right in front of my face?

  But I won’t give him the satisfaction of admitting that he has a point.

  Just when I’m about to scream out in blissful ecstasy, he rips his hand away and abruptly marches toward the door. “Like I’d actually let them hear how you sound when you come,” he snarls. “That fucker Emerson already wants to put his hands all over my—” He cuts himself off, pressing his forehead against the door. His disjointed breaths match my own.

  By the time he looks over his shoulder at me, I’ve slumped against the wall, my knees having buckled under the tremendous pressure of an unfulfilled orgasm. His mouth tightens, his hand white-knuckling the doorknob, as if resisting the urge to come back and finish me off.

  His gaze even flicks down to my clenched thighs, appearing…regretful.

  “Leaving you aching like this is your punishment,” he says in a gruff voice. “But if you finish yourself off with your own hand, don’t you dare be loud about it. If I hear even one little whimper, Harper, I’m coming back in here and stopping you.”