*** A steamy STANDALONE contemporary romance with a smoking hot hero. No cliffhanger, no cheating, and a guaranteed happily-ever-after.***
Knox
The thing I like most about the Ford Thunderbird is the way a chick’s hips fit perfectly onto the curve of the hood. It’s my favorite car to bend a woman over on.
This time it’s a blonde. She’s face down on the hood of my ’62 Thunderbird. Whatever her name is.
Her denim skirt is scrunched up around her waist, and I step back to survey her naked ass in the streetlight.
“Please,” she breathes.
Without waiting any longer, I free my cock from my jeans, pull the condom out of my back pocket and slide it onto my shaft. I press the tip against her entrance and ram into her.
If there’s one thing a classic car ride does, it’s make women horny. And I’m always happy to pick the best looking of them and bend them over my car.
Tonight is no different.
It’s my chance to play.
I keep pounding into her, my cock getting harder and harder with each thrust. She screams, and goes limp onto the hood as an orgasm rips through her. My balls draw tight against me, and my load shoots out of me with such force I’m surprised the condom is strong enough to contain it.
After a couple of breaths, I pull out of her and tie off the condom.
The blonde doesn’t move.
“Get off my hood. I need to go home.”
She turns herself around, resting her bare cheeks on the hood and looks at me, her eyes wide.
“Will you be here next week?” she asks.
“Don’t know.” I shrug.
Not if she’s going to be looking for me. I won’t do the same woman twice in a month. It’s my rule to make sure none of them get the idea of wanting a relationship. I don’t do relationships, it’s my biggest rule.
I have to come to these classic car rides for my business. Without them, I’d make a fraction of what I make now. But I make time for a quick, hard fuck before I go home and have to be responsible.
It’s the only thing I’ve ever allowed myself. The rest of my life is all about her.
Avery
One month later…
“No honking. Boobs are not the horn on an old-fashioned car,” I say, wagging my finger at the webcam.
“If you honk them, your woman will not make the noise you want to hear. You want to make her moan and whimper, not say ah-ooo-ga.”
I yammer on another few minutes about how not to play with breasts, never demonstrating with mine or doing anything to sexualize myself. I’m teaching men how to please women, not titillate them.
The idea is to help people improve their sex lives, at least that’s how it started. Now the goal is to make a living doing it. It’s taken years, but now I have just over two million YouTube subscribers. It finally earns me enough that I’ve been able to buy a house.
Sure, I had to move out of Cincinnati to a small town to be able to afford one, but it’s all mine. I bought it all by myself, without any help from anyone.
“Okay, guys, before I go, I want to give you a tour of my new bedroom.”
It’s not really my bedroom, it’s my spare room done up as ‘my bedroom’ to better connect with my viewers.
“Here’s my bed. This is my desk where I get all my work done, under this nice, big window. Check out my view,” I say and point the webcam outside.
I glance out the window. A man appears in the backyard beside mine. My house is the last on a dead-end street, and his is the only house beside mine, the other side and back of my property borders a park.
I haven’t met my neighbor yet, and I pause to look at him. I guess he’s mid to late thirties with short dark hair and relatively tall. And cute. More than cute, from this distance. I wonder what he’s like up close.
He’s wearing an unzipped gray hoodie with jeans. His jeans look like they’re hiding some sculpted leg muscles, and I’d like to know what the hoodie’s hiding.
He glances up and his eyes zero in on my webcam. His lip snarls and he shakes his head before he turns and walks out of the view of my lens.
It’s already late afternoon and I’m behind on my video. Normally I post one video a day. At least that’s the goal. I do a mix of sex tips, relationship tips, responding to viewers’ questions and product reviews. Product reviews is my real money maker, so I do at least two of those a week.
Companies send me products, and I review them. Not so much review, more display them. Once the monthly viewer numbers of the video are in, they send me a fat check.
Between planning, shooting and editing the videos plus writing a blog to go with them and all the social media promotion, I don’t seem to stop working. Ever.
But I’ve been unpacking and trying to set up my house so I’m a little behind. I always keep a two- to three-week stockpile of videos, but the move has dwindled that down to one week.
After another hour of editing, adding my trademark swirls and flourishes onto the screen, it’s time to switch tasks. I make a quick chicken caesar salad, and sit down at my computer to play on social media.
It’s my favorite part of what I do. Sure there are some ugly trolls who have nothing nice to say, but most people are super fun to interact with. I’ve ‘met’ people from all over the country and world, and have improved thousands of people’s sex lives. I love what I do.
While I chew, I look over at my to-be-reviewed pile. Next up is a feather, which I’m tying in with the boob video. It promises not to lose its shape or break. We’ll see. Also on the pile are all sorts of vibrators and sex toys, lingerie and less direct sex items like books. There are even services like flower delivery. It’s a bit of everything, really.
They always send two of everything, one for me to try out and one to film. Except I don’t have anyone to try them out with anymore.
At least I have a stack of vibrators.
My doorbell rings, snapping me out of a conversation on Facebook about the pros and cons of quickie sex. I review so many products that I’m used to deliveries at all hours.
Leaving my empty salad plate in my fake bedroom-office, I skip down the stairs and open the door.
A child smiles up at me. She’s not a child-child. Middle-school age, I’d guess. Her shirt says ‘Red Hot Chili Peppers,’ and I immediately know she’s cool. She’s slim, with long mousy brown hair and a sparkle in her incredibly dark eyes. Her nose is peppered with freckles.
“Hi, I’m Piper. Your new neighbor.” She speaks with more confidence than ninety-nine percent of adults I’ve met.
“Well, hello Piper. I’m Avery.”
“I saw your light on and wanted to introduce myself.”
“It’s nice to meet you. I haven’t met your parents yet.”
“I know.”
“Where’s your mom?”
Piper shrugs, “Africa.”
“Oh. Where’s your dad?”
“Out.”
“Just out?”
“Yeah.” Piper pushes past me and beelines straight to my brand new navy sofa and drops her notebook on the coffee table. “So, I need help with my homework. Do you know how to find the positions of shapes on a graph?”
“Uh, not really,” I say, still gripping my door handle.
Piper completely ignores me, her face staring intently at her notebook. Confused and resigned, I close the door and sit on the leather armchair that I’ve had since my first apartment. It’s one of the few things I took after breaking up with Nathan.
“Doesn’t your dad help you with your homework?” I lean forward, in a non-threatening way.
“He does if I ask, but I forgot about it and it’s due tomorrow.” Piper looks at me as she answers, as if she needs to speak slowly to me so I understand.
“You should write stuff in a calendar,” I say.
She rolls her eyes to the ceiling and says, “That would only work if I remembered to look at it.”
That sounded like something my sixty-year-old mothe
r would say.
“How old are you?”
“Thirteen. Is this twenty questions or something?”
“We did just meet, and now you’re sitting here demanding I do geometry.”
“Exactly, let’s get cracking. The sooner we start, the sooner we finish. Here’s the worksheet.”
Piper passes me a single piece of paper. Thank God it’s only one sheet. Of math problems. Part of me wonders if this surreal situation is really happening. I’m sitting here with a thirteen-year-old who just barged into my house and demanded I do math homework. And I didn’t kick her out.
She’s simply too charming.
My iPad is on the end table, but I don’t want to use it to help us work out the questions in front of her in case something inappropriate comes up on the screen. This child must never, ever find out who I am or what I do for a living.
“What do you have to do?” I ask while scanning the questions for some sort of clue.
“What’s your wifi password? I’ll Google it on my phone,” she says. Demands, really. I obey and give her the password.
We work together on the task. Once we figure out the first couple, the rest of the questions don’t take long.
With the last question answered, Piper sets her pencil on the table and says, “There, that wasn’t so bad, was it?”
I can’t help but laugh.
“I guess not,” I say, and it comes out as more of an encouragement than I’d intended.
“Let’s watch TV. Do you have Netflix?”
“Obviously,” I say, and immediately wonder why I’m so defensive.
“Are you married?”
“What happened to Netflix?”
“Just asking. But I’ll take that as a no. Do you have a boyfriend or are you single?”
“No, I don’t have a boyfriend. Do you?”
“I already told you I’m thirteen, right? Do many people my age have boyfriends?”
“Oh, right.”
“Do many people in eighth grade have boyfriends?”
I was hoping she’d forget she asked me.
“I have no idea.” I don’t, actually.
“Figures,” she says, tilting her head, and I want to tell her who I am and what I do. I wouldn’t, of course, she’s too young. Even though she seems more grown up than I am.
“When I was in middle school, none of my friends had boyfriends. Or if they did, they were friends who happened to be boys.”
“But that was a long, long time ago.”
“I’m not old, I’ll have you know. I’m only thirty one.”
“That means you were thirteen years old eighteen years ago. Eighteen years. That’s almost twice as long as I’ve been alive!”
I fall silent. It doesn’t seem like eighteen years ago. Is eighteen years a lot of time or not? How different are kids now, or aren’t they?
“Would you rather have one thousand dollars or save a random one thousand people in World War II?” Piper suddenly asks.
I shake off my contemplation about how quickly time flies and focus on her new, random question.
“The people. One thousand people are worth a lot more than a thousand dollars.”
“But you can’t pick which people, so you might be saving Hitler and his friends. You just don’t know,” she says, her palms facing up.
“Oh,” I say, and reconsider the question.
“I said the money, because you can take the money and help people with it.”
“I’m not sure a thousand bucks is going to go very far.”
“But if World War II just ended, then it would be a lot of money.”
There’s no way I’m winning this argument. I smile and say, “Yes, you’re right. If World War II just ended, I’d take the money.”
Piper looks satisfied with my answer. Maybe because she’s made me agree with her.
Someone pounds on my front door. The doorbell would’ve been sufficient. I glance at the clock, it’s just past seven thirty.
“That’s my dad,” Piper says and scrambles to her feet.
Piper and I make it to the door at the same time. My hand reaches the doorknob first, but hers lands on top of mine and she doesn’t take it away.
We open the door, and the man I saw earlier in his backyard stands on my front step, a scowl ruining his otherwise gorgeous face.
He has the same deep dark eyes as Piper, the light catches them and sparkles off them in the same way. His jawline is as strong as his arms, and he’s got a day’s worth of stubble.
I smile, extend my hand and say, “Hi, I’m Avery, your new next door neighbor.”
He grunts at me and grabs Piper’s hand. Nice. She clearly doesn’t get her social skills from him.
“It was lovely spending time with you, Avery. We’ll have to do it again sometime,” Piper says. I swear she’s fifty. No, seventy.
“Anytime,” I say, waving at her.
Knox
“Oh my God, Dad. Dad, she’s so cool. Her name is Avery and she just moved here from Cincinnati.”
“You’re not supposed to leave the house when I go out.”
I’m around for Piper as much as I can, I even built a fully functioning garage in my yard and moved a lot of my tools here so I can work from home and be here when she gets home from school. But on one or two evenings a week, I have to go out. Not that Piper cares. She’s more grown up than most adults I know.
“I needed help with my homework.”
“No, you didn’t. Don’t lie.” The kid breezes through school, her biggest complaint is how boring it is.
“Fine. I wanted to meet our new neighbor. Besides I texted you where I was. You’re so anti-social. You should’ve gone over and welcomed her to the neighborhood by now.”
“Don’t tell me what to do,” I say, but can’t help smiling. If there’s one person in the world who can make me smile, it’s Piper. She’s the only person who can make me smile. It makes everything I do for her worthwhile.
“Oh my God, Dad…”
“Stop saying, ‘oh my God,’” I say as I open our front door.
We sit in our living room, on the denim couch Piper picked out. Piper talks and talks, relaying everything about her evening, but that’s nothing new. The kid talks non-stop. But right now there’s one thing I can’t get one thing out of my head.
My new neighbor is definitely the YouTube video woman my buddy Marcus showed me earlier tonight. The one who talks about sex, and how a man is supposed to please a woman.
Marcus said she’s the most famous person who has ever lived in town.
I’d never heard of her.
Maybe Marcus needs to look on the internet for sex tips, but I sure as hell don’t.
It explains why I noticed a webcam pointing at me out of her upstairs window earlier. She’d damn well better not plan on using me in one of her videos.
“Dad? Dad!” Piper shouts, drawing my attention.
“Yeah?” I start listening to her again.
“Avery’s so awesome, we should totally have her over for dinner.”
“I’m not sure about that. I don’t even think you should be going over there.”
Do I want my thirteen year old hanging out with a woman who posts videos about sex online?
“What? Why? She’s so much cooler than Mrs. Coupland.”
“Of course you’d say that.”
Mrs. Coupland was our old neighbor. An eighty-year-old widow who happily watched Piper for me when I had to work in the evenings. When her daughter convinced Mrs. Coupland to move in with her, and they sold the house to Miss I-know-everything-about-sex, I lost my free babysitter. At least the move happened near the end of eighth grade.
“She’s really pretty, you know,” Piper says.
I noticed. “So what?”
She shrugs, “Nothing.”
“Want to watch Law & Order?” It’s her favorite show. I’ve come to hate it less since she started making me watch it.
“Yes, but can we watch the
original?”
We watch one episode, and Piper yells and talks to the screen through the whole thing. She wants to be a lawyer when she grows up. Which should be a good job for her, given how much she likes to argue.
“Okay, bedtime, kid. Go brush your teeth.”
“Night, Dad. I love you,” she says as she bounds up the stairs.
“Love you too, sweetheart.”
Piper doesn’t want me to read her a bedtime story and tuck her in anymore. She says she’s too old for that. It seems like my little girl is gone. And I’m supposed to be okay with that.
When she’s upstairs in bed, I clean the kitchen. Our supper mess was left because I had to go out. I rinse and load the dishes, and put the rest of the stew in the fridge for tomorrow.
I made the stew from scratch. I make as much from scratch as I can, always one-pot wonders because it’s all I have time for or know to do, plus they last for three meals. Chuck shit in a pot, put in a different type of flavoring and let it simmer. Though, in the summer I barbeque Piper and I nice steaks.
Exhausted, I lie on the couch and stretch out my legs. I flick through the channels for a while, before giving up on finding anything to watch and settling on some movie that’s halfway through. It had a car chase with shit blowing up when I flicked past, and that was good enough for me.
A ’71 Dodge Charger rips onto the screen in another car chase and makes me think of work. Marcus just bought one online for us to restore, I haven’t seen it yet and hope there isn’t too much wrong with the interior. He promised there isn’t, but I don’t trust the fucker.
Normally I vet all the purchases, but sometimes with Piper, I don’t get the chance. When you buy things at auction you have to be able to move fast.
Marcus does all the bodywork and I rebuild the engines. Though we’re both skilled enough to do both jobs. We buy classic cars online, fix them up and flip them for a tidy profit.
It works for me because it’s on my own time, and I’m able to rebuild an entire engine in my garage at home so I can be here with Piper. I even get her to help me. Not many kids her age know what a carburetor is, let alone how to repair one.
Marcus swore this Charger is solid, but last time he bought a car without me, the entire inside looked like it’d been lived in by a family of racoons for years.
Carnal: Pierced and Inked Page 19
