Panty Dropper

by Shawn, Melanie

  PANTY DROPPER

  by

  MELANIE SHAWN

  Melanie Shawn © 2020

  Kindle Edition

  All rights reserved. This copy is intended for the original purchaser of this book. No part of this may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without permission in writing from Melanie Shawn. Exceptions are limited to reviewers who may use brief quotations in connection with reviews. No part of this book can be transmitted, scanned, reproduced, or distributed in any written or electronic form without written permission from Melanie Shawn.

  This book is a work of fiction. Places, names, characters and events are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locations, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

  Disclaimer: The material in this book is for mature audiences only and contains graphic content. It is intended only for those aged 18 and older.

  Cover Design by Wildcat Dezigns

  Book Design by BB eBooks

  Published by Red Hot Reads Publishing

  Rev. 1.0

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Panty Dropper

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Epilogue

  Coming Soon

  A Note From Melanie Shawn

  Charming Cupid

  Playing With Attraction

  Whisper of Love

  Other Titles by Melanie Shawn

  About the Author

  PANTY DROPPER

  (ref: Urban Dictionary)

  Pronounced: Pant-ee-drop-er

  A term used to describe a male with good qualities. Though the definition of a Panty Dropper changes from person to person, the usual standard is a good-looking male, maybe with a special talent; such as being good at music, sports, or any of your typical “sexy” male activities.

  PANTY DROPPER

  2 fl oz Vodka

  1 fl oz Tequila

  1 fl oz Lemonade

  Splash of Cranberry Juice

  Maraschino Cherry and Lemon Slice

  1. Fill tall glass w/ice

  2. Pour vodka and tequila in glass

  3. Pour lemonade to the top add splash of cranberry juice

  4. Garnish with maraschino cherry and lemon slice

  CHAPTER 1

  Billy

  “Sugar, you are one hot and tasty snack of a man!”

  The delicious piece of ass who’d just murmured the remark made no secret which parts of me she thought were hot… or tasty… or manly. Her bold hands required no invitation before tugging at the hem of my shirt and sliding them beneath the thin cotton. The material bunched up as she spread her fingers out on my torso.

  I took a slight step back, putting an inch of space between us to give her better access and my back bumped against reams of paper stacked in the tiny supply closet we were holed up in. She giggled and I grinned down at her as she licked her plump, red lips. Auburn hair draped across her face as she lowered her eyes to my body and damn near purred while her expert touch wandered the ridges of my pecs.

  “Mmm, yummy.” Her breath caught as she continued her exploration up to my chest.

  My muscles automatically flexed beneath her touch.

  “You must work out all the time,” she commented in awe.

  I didn’t.

  My old man didn’t have many traits I was proud to have inherited but his naturally muscular frame was sure as hell one I didn’t mind having. The Comfort genes were strong and generations deep.

  My father, James Comfort Sr., had two brothers, Henry and William. Just like genes, names also ran deep in our family. My younger brother Jimmy had been named after our father, and my brother Hank and I had each inherited an uncle’s name.

  The OG Comfort brothers all shared the same broad shoulders, chiseled arms, and washboard abs, which they were good enough to pass down to us.

  None of us had to work for our athletic frames. Besides slinging cases of booze and kegs of beer at Southern Comfort, the bar I ran with my brothers, I didn’t do much in the way of exercise. Unless you counted hooking up with pretty little things like this one as physical fitness training. If that was the case, I suppose you could call me a workout junkie.

  Sadly, as of late, my “fitness routine” was getting a little old. Stale. Played out. I wasn’t finding the same results as I once had from my favorite sweat-breaking activity.

  For the past year or so, each encounter I’d had left me feeling empty instead of satisfied. Numb instead of invigorated. Don’t get me wrong, in the moment, I felt a whole lotta alive, but after the surge of a heart-racing release, I flatlined.

  Variety sure as hell wasn’t to blame for my declining enthusiasm. Before my diminishing results, I broke a sweat on a regular basis with a myriad of workout partners.

  Firefly Island might have a population of less than five thousand but it drew close to half a million tourists a year. My humble Georgia hometown was renowned for deep sea fishing, breathtaking beaches that lit up nightly with lightning bugs, a downtown area with both historic and arts districts, the tallest Ferris wheel in the East on Firefly Pier, and Abernathy Manor, an estate that was regularly on “The Top Ten Most Haunted Places in The U.S.” lists and had been featured on several paranormal investigation and reality shows.

  Thanks to those diverse attractions, there was a constant stream of visitors, and a good percentage of them were women ready to cut loose and let their hair down. Vacation sex with a local seemed to be high on many a traveler’s to-do lists. And being the Southern gentleman that I was, I was more than happy to oblige.

  Instead of an open door policy, I had a revolving door policy. Women entered and exited my life, and I was just as happy to see them go as I was to see them come.

  At least I had been. Over the past year or so, I hadn’t been the least bit tempted to exercise. Next week kicked off spring break, which was normally the candy store with me as the kid.

  But not this year. This year, it seemed my sweet tooth hadn’t got the memo.

  I’d just grown tired of being women’s vacation hall pass. And as far as local talent was concerned, in Firefly, Comfort men were dirty little secrets. They weren’t fit to bring home to their mamas.

  They were the men that women snuck around with and didn’t take to Sunday service. We were the sinners, not
the saints. Not that I was looking for anything serious.

  But sometimes, there was just no replacement for a woman’s touch. And the reason wasn’t always what ya’d think. This encounter, for example, was born out of emotional necessity, not carnal desire. I needed a distraction, a fleeting amusement. Things were a little too heavy and I was chasing a mental diversion through physical activity.

  Acrylic fingernails scraped along the ridge of my straining erection, trapped behind the zipper of my Levis. “Damn. You’re not a snack, you’re a whole meal,” she said, her voice low and throaty.

  I brushed soft, auburn hair away from my current distraction’s face as she toyed with my belt buckle.

  It wasn’t that I didn’t appreciate her efforts at seductive back and forth, but there was some time pressure at work here. I was due in a meeting and she was on her ten-minute break. I wanted to see those luscious lips wrapped around my thick cock, no matter how cute her smile might be.

  And it was cute, if nothin’ special. Kind of like the girl herself. Reddish brown hair, fair skin, brown eyes. A mouth that looked like she knew how to use it for more than talking. And hell, I wasn’t in this thing for conversation—I’d only met her fifteen minutes before. Not to be blunt, but we weren’t holed up in this closet because I was curious to know what she had to say.

  Of course, I’d never put it to her like that. That was no way to talk to a lady.

  “I hope you’re hungry, darlin’,” I encouraged in my huskiest, sexiest, highest-batting-average voice. I’d found that “honey” or “darlin’” were always good choices when I couldn’t remember a female’s name, and… Lily? Or Posey? Or something floral… didn’t seem to notice. Quite the opposite, actually. Her fingers unhooked my belt buckle and then deftly unbuttoned my fly.

  The brown-eyed cutie giggled as her fingers brushed across my waist. “My auntie warned me about you Comfort men.”

  I’d never seen this girl in my life before I’d walked in to find her sitting behind the front desk. She’d explained that she was a temp and I’d figured that she was new to town. I had no idea that she had people in Firefly. “Your auntie?”

  “My Auntie Caroline.” Her brown eyes twinkled as her fingers continued to explore my torso.

  “Caroline Shaw?”

  “Yep. That’s her.”

  Miss Shaw was in her late sixties and a staple in Firefly. For decades, she’d owned Pretty in Peach, which had been the sole beauty salon on the island until the Montgomerys bankrolled The Beauty Mark for their daughter Kendra. It was the family’s attempt at “rebranding” her, which had become necessary after their only daughter was “cancelled” as an Instagram model after a brief stint as a spokesperson for diet pills that caused major organ failure.

  “What did your auntie warn you ’bout, honey?” Miss Shaw had always been kind to me and my brothers, which was a hell of a lot more than I could say for a lot of people in this town. I figured it was because she’d been engaged to my Uncle Henry before he’d been killed in a plane crash.

  “She said that y’all were cursed.”

  Naturally athletic physiques weren’t the only thing that was passed down in the Comfort bloodline. The “curse” ran three generations deep.

  The story went that Lucille Abernathy, of the famed haunted Abernathy Manor, had been engaged to my grandfather, but he fell in love with my grandmother and left Lucille at the altar. She’d put a curse on him that day, folks said, dooming any male in his bloodline who found love to either die or to lose that love tragically.

  The “Comfort Curse” was not something I put much stock in. But if anyone would believe in it, it was Caroline Shaw, considering my uncle had been killed a month before they were set to walk down the aisle.

  “And she said,” she continued, “that all the Comfort men had strong jaws, wide smiles, big hands, and kissed like the dickens.”

  Those weren’t the words that were normally used to describe us. We were well-known for being associated for descriptors that started with F.

  I ran my fingers along her jaw, and bent down ready to show her that I lived up to our reputation. “Is that right?”

  My lips brushed across hers as she whispered, “And that you and your brothers were known for three things. Fighting. Flirting. And fucking.”

  There it was. The three Fs. My older brother was the fighter. He could knock anybody out cold with one punch. My little brother flirted with anything with a pulse, and that left me. And as far as the last F…well hell, there was a reason that my nickname was Panty Dropper, and had been since high school.

  She tilted her head and met my eye, a coquettish smile playing on those luscious lips. “Wonder which one you’re known for?”

  I grinned. “Well, darlin’, I think it’s time to find out.”

  She had just dipped her hand inside my pants when the door of the closet flew open.

  There, standing on the other side and holding the handle, wearing his usual baleful expression, was my oldest brother Hank. The fighter. His jaw was set and his tone flat as he spoke, “Put it back in your pants.”

  It was more words than he normally strung together and I knew playtime was over. Avoidance had fueled me, allowing me to be sidetracked by the temp receptionist who ended up being Miss Shaw’s niece, but it was time to face what I’d been running from and get down to business.

  I had a will reading to attend.

  CHAPTER 2

  Reagan

  I reclined in the leather high back office chair and tapped my pen against the file sitting on the table. It was the one sign of impatience I allowed myself. Being a lawyer, I often found myself in situations where I had to control my emotions in the face of conduct I found distasteful.

  In most cases, it wasn’t from corporate raiders or criminals, but rather was fellow attorneys displaying deplorable behavior. As progressive as I’d like to think this field, or any field for that matter, was—I found that, for better or worse, it was a boys’ club. So I had a lot of practice not allowing repugnant attitudes and comments to affect me.

  But the one thing I absolutely couldn’t stand was disrespect of people’s time. It was my Achilles’ heel. I didn’t need to have a PhD in psychology to figure out where my aversion came from.

  Growing up, my mother had never been on time for anything. In first grade, I’d started waking her up to take me to school, and I still ended up rushing in after the bell rang half the time.

  She was so late to my high school graduation that she missed my walk across the stage. And considering my last name is York, she’d had more than enough time to get there.

  So, for that specific pet peeve, I allowed myself a small pen tap.

  Right now I was employing the pen tap of judgment on William Comfort, AKA the missing offspring. He was keeping his entire family waiting while he did—God only knew what. When Daisy, the temporary receptionist, informed me that the entire Comfort family had arrived, I’d asked her to show them to the conference room and swiftly finished up the call I’d been on.

  I’d expected to have this meeting concluded by now. Instead, we hadn’t even begun, since William had disappeared in the time it had taken me to wrap up with a potential client and walk down the hall from my office to the conference room.

  He’d been gone so long, in fact, that his older brother had headed off to hunt for him.

  After buzzing the reception area and not getting an answer, I’d suggested that perhaps William had become ill, but Henry, the eldest Comfort brother, mumbled something under his breath that sounded a lot like, “if you count being a jackass an illness,” before standing and walking out of the room.

  The look on his face when he’d left said that this wasn’t the first time his little brother had pulled a stunt like this.

  The remaining siblings and I sat in a loud silence, the only sound coming from the rhythmic beat of my passive-aggressive pen taps.

  No one else appeared to be bothered by the delay.

  I’
d relocated to Firefly Island two days ago and was still getting used to the slow-as-molasses pace. Technically, I’d lived on an island before moving here, but comparing Firefly to Manhattan was like comparing a house cat to a mountain lion. Sure, they were the same species, but one was dangerous and wild, something you’d encounter on an adventure. The other was docile and tame, something you’d curl up in bed with.

  This was my first official day and case as an attorney at Abernathy & Associates and I was doing my level best to keep my cool. It wasn’t easy considering the delay was only partially to blame for my current headspace. My life had just imploded and I was having a difficult time processing it.

  A vibration cut through the deafening silence and I realized that it was the alarm on my phone. I looked down and immediately cleared the notification informing me I was due to meet my wedding planner at The Plaza, where I’d been scheduled to walk down the aisle in just two weeks’ time. I’d already canceled that meeting. And my wedding, for that matter.

  Last Monday at this time, I’d had the next sixty years of my life plotted out. I was going to marry Blaine Lincoln Whitford, IV. Become a partner at Whitford, Thomas, Mane and Associates, where I’d worked for the past five years. Have two children. Live in a brownstone on the Upper West Side complete with a golden retriever named Buddy. The blueprint of my happily ever after was drawn up and signed off on.

  But one ill-fated—or perfectly-fated, depending on how I looked at it—unannounced visit to my fiancé Blaine’s office when he thought I was in court, and I found myself single, unemployed, and homeless.

  After making the X-rated discovery, I’d gone back to the penthouse overlooking Central Park we shared, packed up my things, and left. I’d had no idea where I was going, just that I couldn’t stay there.

  Ultimately, I’d ended up checking myself into a hotel and scrolling through social media, as one does. That’s when I saw that my college roommate, Nadia, had commented on a job posting for a law firm in her hometown, seeking an attorney with estate and family law experience.