Getting Laid

by Vonna Harper

  Table of Contents

  Legal Page

  Title Page

  Book Description

  Trademarks Acknowledgement

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  New Excerpt

  About the Author

  Getting Laid

  ISBN # 978-1-78651-163-8

  ©Copyright Vonna Harper 2017

  Cover Art by Posh Gosh ©Copyright March 2017

  Edited by Sue Meadows

  Totally Bound Publishing

  This is a work of fiction. All characters, places and events are from the author’s imagination and should not be confused with fact. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, events or places is purely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced in any material form, whether by printing, photocopying, scanning or otherwise without the written permission of the publisher, Totally Bound Publishing.

  Applications should be addressed in the first instance, in writing, to Totally Bound Publishing. Unauthorized or restricted acts in relation to this publication may result in civil proceedings and/or criminal prosecution.

  The author and illustrator have asserted their respective rights under the Copyright Designs and Patents Acts 1988 (as amended) to be identified as the author of this book and illustrator of the artwork.

  Published in 2017 by Totally Bound Publishing, Newland House, The Point, Weaver Road, Lincoln, LN6 3QN

  Totally Bound Publishing is a subsidiary of Totally Entwined Group Limited.

  Warning:

  This book contains sexually explicit content which is only suitable for mature readers. This story has a heat rating of Totally Burning and a Sexometer of 2.

  GETTING LAID

  Vonna Harper

  Opening the door and letting a tall, dark stranger in? What could possibly go right? For uptight Lisi, the answer is easy. A lot.

  An impending divorce means Lisi Hallinan has no choice but to sell the in-need-of-repairs house she’s been living in. Fortunately, she’s found a sucker—oops, an older gentleman—who’s willing to take it off her hands. Except there’s nothing old or gentle about Joe Roop. Not only does he want the house, he vows to bed the lovely seller.

  Sometimes a man lets his libido make all the moves. Sometimes a woman heeds the same desire.

  It’s all good, great in fact.

  Until the interlude ends.

  Trademarks Acknowledgement

  The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of the following wordmarks mentioned in this work of fiction:

  Cracklin’ Rosie: Neil Diamond

  Holy Holy: Neil Diamond

  Cliff Notes: Houghton Mifflin Harcourt

  Chapter One

  “I want to get laid.”

  “I hate to point this out to you, honey, but you’ve been out of the dating game a long time. Your little black book has expired.”

  “Like I ever had one. Kat, I’m serious, I’m about to jump out of my skin.” Propelled by her words, Lisi Hallinan stalked to the window and stared out at the overgrown yard. One good thing about hundred-plus-year-old windows—they distorted reality, making the jungle-like growth easier to ignore. “I had no idea I was so uptight. To know I’m going to be able to get out from under this pressure is a huge load off my mind. I can finally see beyond the end of my nose and listen to what my body’s trying to tell me.”

  “The sale’s a sure thing? Real estate’s such a mess these days.”

  “Tell me about it. Why do you think I’ve been stressed? Get this. It’s an all-cash deal. I figure it’s some old fart with more money and nostalgia than sense.”

  “Cash? You’re shittin’ me.”

  “You think I’d joke about this? I’ll give you all the details, but only if you buy the first drink tonight.”

  “You drive a hard bargain. Okay, tonight it is. The Stagecoach? A little after six.”

  “Of course, the Stagecoach. As much as I plan on drinking, it has to be within walking distance.”

  “What about the rest of the gang?”

  Lisi turned her back on the yard she loved but which in less than a month would no longer be her responsibility and walked into the small kitchen. The floor groaned. “Kara and Callie are on board. I have a message in for Squeaky.”

  “It’s looking good. With the gang checking out the merchandise, we’re sure to find someone willing to scratch your itches. Glad to hear your hormones are finally working again.”

  That they are, in spades, Lisi acknowledged as she hung up. Going by her fortunately limited experience of having only done it once, divorce was super effective in shutting down the sex drive. She’d heard of women who became nymphos before the divorce papers were signed, but not her. All she’d wanted to do was crawl into a cave and hibernate. Instead, she’d been stuck in an aging house with a for-sale sign.

  And a job, don’t forget that.

  Determined to forestall an unproductive session with her inner voice, she deserted the kitchen for the living room and the stereo she’d refused to part with when her ex had insisted that half of the furniture was his. Yes, Neil Diamond! A little Cracklin’ Rosie followed by a lot of Holy, Holy. Loud. As loud as the old windows could stand.

  Mr. Diamond belted. Lisi stood hugging herself and hoping she wasn’t going to start crying. Get laid, that was what she needed. A one-night stand to end all one-night stands.

  The cell phone in her front jeans pocket vibrated, nearly causing her to climax. Thinking it would be Squeaky, she connected.

  “Lisi?” a male voice asked. She had to strain to hear over the music.

  “Yes.”

  “This is Joe Roop. I’m buying your house.”

  “You’re what? Just a minute. Let me—” She spun the stereo volume dial. “There. Now I can hear you.”

  “I hope you don’t mind,” the unexpectedly deep and sexy male voice said. “Your realtor gave me your number.”

  You’d heard I needed to get laid and you have a cock and— “She did? Is there a problem?”

  Joe whatever-he’d-said-his-last-name-was didn’t immediately answer. Her stomach flipped over, then knotted. Not fair! A man with a sexy voice should not be allowed to be the bearer of bad news.

  “With the offer?” he finally broke the silence. “I hope not.”

  Sigh. “So do I.”

  “I’m jumping the gun, but what are you doing right now?”

  Going a little crazy. “I don’t understand.”

  “Sorry. That didn’t come out the way I wanted it to. I happen to be just down the street. I’ve already driven by twice and was tempted to take pictures, but I didn’t want to startle you. Besides, what I’m really interested in is the interior. I’ve started formulating plans for the renovation, but although I took notes when I was there with my realtor, I really need photographs.”

  This stranger with the nerve-tingling voice was a few doors away. Sitting in his car. Talking to her. About renovation. Wanting to step inside and stand next to her so she could see what he looked and smelled like.

  Old fart? He didn’t sound like one.

  “I don’t know,” she blurted, suddenly scared of the opposite sex. “I’m getting ready—I have an appointment—”

  “Would tomorrow be better then?”

  Tomorrow sounded like a million years away. Neil was still making his musical presence known, and with every word Joe Whatever spoke, her skin was becoming more sensitive. Given the current state of her system, she wasn’t sure she trusted herself around the town’s seventy-five-year-old mayor.

&nb
sp; What the hell! Six months of celibacy didn’t mean she’d turned into a cat in heat. She was conservative and competent, an asset to the town’s government, or so the city council said. And at this moment, half-crazy.

  “No, no. That’s all right. I have a little time. This shouldn’t take long, should it?”

  “I don’t think so. But if you prefer I wait until your husband can be—”

  “What I have is an ex. I’ll be waiting.”

  * * * *

  Joe Roop put his car into Drive, glanced at the rearview mirror and pulled a U-turn in the quiet residential street. He hoped no one objected, not just because he didn’t need a ticket, but Gold Ridge was about to become his town. The residents were respectful of the rules, right?

  At least he figured they were. As a consequence of his career, he’d been home so seldom he’d never felt connected to the exclusive condo complex where he and his wife—his ex-wife—had lived. He’d paid his association dues. What he hadn’t done was mow a lawn on Saturday mornings or join his neighbors for barbeques in the evening. Now he was about to become the owner of a lawn in need of a lot more than a lawnmower and neighbors he knew nothing about.

  Lisi Hallinan must believe he was a nut. Maybe the poor old lady was rethinking her decision to let him in. In fact, being kicked to the curb might be better than having to sip tea or whatever elderly women offered their guests these days.

  The sale would close in a few weeks. He could wait, darn it, be patient. He had a lifetime in which to turn the house into what he wanted it to become. Okay, not a lifetime, but waiting until next month wasn’t going to kill him, right?

  As he pulled into the gravel and weed drive, he pondered two things. One, where was Mrs. Hallinan planning to move to? Hopefully not one of those retirement homes. Two, was her ex paying alimony and had said ex traded her in for a newer, younger and less wrinkled model? Hopefully not that either.

  Then he opened the car door and a third thought hit. The air smelled wonderful, like growing things and warm dirt and rocks. Yes, walking away from his former life had been the right thing to do.

  Chapter Two

  Oh shit! Hot shit.

  Joe Whatever walked slow, slow and smooth, head high, shoulders wide, narrow hips made for clamping her fingers around, legs hidden under the damn slacks. At least she could see a certain bulge. Lisi ran her sweating palms down her thighs. Thank goodness, he was focused on the soon-to-be-his turf. Otherwise, he’d notice her nose pressed to the window and her eyes wide.

  Face. Yeah, gotta check that out too. But get a load of the way those legs work and the easy hang to his arms. Some men seemed to never get dirty while others gave the appearance of never getting near a bar of soap. She didn’t think much of the squeaky-clean, check-out-my-expensive-suit males who figured women would be all over them because of the amount of money in their wallets. Her taste went more toward dirt-under-their-nails guys. They struck her as more real.

  Joe? Which was he? The clothes said white-collar but his hair was a bit scraggly, a few weeks past needing a cut. His dress shirt looked as if he’d pulled it out of the dryer, not picked it up at the dry cleaner’s. His footwear confused her. Tennis shoes and slacks? Maybe he was having an identity crisis. If so, welcome to the club.

  Was that what they had in common, she pondered as the doorbell gave a shorting-out buzz. They were both searching for direction in their lives?

  Then she opened her door, determined that he was a good foot taller than her and way broader across shoulders and chest, and suddenly identity crises mattered not at all. He had no smell, no aftershave or cologne or sweat. His eyes were set deep in their sockets, which called for an extended study to determine their color. Gray. With a touch of green thrown in for interest. Shaggy brows, narrow nose, high cheekbones that would make an artist drool, just the slightest bit of shading on his chin saying he was experienced in dealing with five o’clock shadow.

  And hands too broad and strong for a white-collar type heading her way.

  They shook hands, each saying, “Good to meet you.” He kept looking at her, which gave her an excuse to continue to do the same thing. He was frowning a bit, staring with his head tipped to the side and his fingers not releasing hers—as if she minded.

  She stirred. At least her blood did. Nothing was wrong with her circulatory system. Blood pressure elevated, not that she was complaining. Respiration approaching what it reached when she went running. Sweat glands doing what sweat glands did on summer afternoons outside.

  No way was she going to tell him about the rolling knot low in her belly or the absolutely insane impulse to catapult herself at him and drive him backward to the floor so she could straddle him.

  “You aren’t what I expected,” he said.

  Tell me about it. No old fart here unless old starts in a man’s thirties. “Oh. What did you expect?”

  “This house is on the national historic register. I guess I figured the owner would have been in it since the beginning.”

  She laughed, a delighted but nervous sound. “Sometimes I feel historic.”

  “Impossible.” He indicated their joined hands, blinked, then released her. “I’m—again, thank you for accommodating me.”

  For the first time, she noticed that he was holding something in the hand still at his side. Oh yeah, a digital. Pictures. Remodeling this place. Should she wish him luck or wait until she had her money, or rather her half of the proceeds?

  “Not a problem,” she belatedly said. He was getting taller by the second—broader, too. And what was she going to do with the energy leaking out of him and sticking to her?

  This was a bit much, but Joe put her in mind of the area’s bucks when rut season had them going without food or sleep while they mounted or tried to mount any and all does. It was summer, not late fall, so what was he doing getting her, a non-doe, wishing she had a tail to lift in invitation?

  If only she hadn’t been thinking about getting laid.

  “Ah, you said you’re going to remodel.” Had not wiping her hands on her shorts ever been this hard? “It’s something you’ve done before?”

  He laughed, a real and honest laugh that rippled clear through to her bone marrow. “I’m an architect. Business complexes, destination resorts, high rises, that kind of thing, so yeah, I have a little experience.”

  It was her turn to laugh, and she would have if it hadn’t meant she might be tempted to explain about her job. As a city hall clerk in a town with a population of not quite ten thousand, she’d dealt with the occasional architect. But the locals tackled single-family residences, small businesses, a bed-and-breakfast. Not a destination resort pro in the lot.

  “This is hardly a business complex.” She indicated the half-furnished living room, with its worn wooden floor and faded, dated wallpaper.

  “No, it isn’t.”

  Hmm. He isn’t going to say any more, is he? No explanation of the change from the grand and expensive to the maybe a wrecking ball’s the best solution.

  She didn’t like mysterious men. Amend that, she didn’t like men who kept secrets, such as a lover, from his wife like her ex had done. A bit of mystery, however—

  No wedding ring, but pale skin at the base of a certain finger of his left hand. Divorced? Maybe he’d simply forgotten to put it on this morning.

  “Mrs. Hallinan, I—”

  “Call me Lisi, please.” Because I’m taking back my maiden name.

  “All right,” he said, showing a quick grin and perfect teeth. “I don’t want to take any more of your time than necessary so—” He held up the digital.

  I’ve got all the time you want, big boy. Thankful he couldn’t read her mind and hoping to heck her expression gave nothing away, she answered with a smile of her own. So her right eye tooth stuck out a bit—he’d have to deal with her imperfections. “What are you most interested in? Maybe we should start with that.”

  “I’ve been trying to set priorities. Perhaps you can help. If you had t
he time, inclination and funds, what would be at the top of your must-do list?”

  Just like that, her thinking shifted. Oh, she was still acutely aware of the hunk taking up her personal space, but he’d touched one of her hot buttons. Even knowing the place would soon no longer be hers, her fantasy wish list hadn’t disappeared. “I don’t want to scare you off.”

  “Believe me, you won’t. I have my reasons for what I’m taking on—personal reasons—so have you thought about what the place needs?”

  “It’d be impossible not to.” That said, she gave him a few Cliff Notes. The house had been in her ex-husband’s family’s hands for most of its existence. Most recently his grandparents had lived in it. When his grandfather had died, the family had decided Grandma needed to move closer to her oldest child. The house had stood empty for five years.

  “Justin—that’s my ex—works for the trucking business out by the freeway, while I work here in town. When we decided to get married, we searched for housing that didn’t call for much of a commute for either of us. Then his folks said why don’t we move in here, pay the utilities and taxes. We couldn’t turn it down.”

  “Nothing was said about maintenance?”

  As a matter of fact, that had been part of the agreement. She and Justin had been supposed to do a certain amount of updating in exchange for the free rent. They’d had the foundation shored up and the roof replaced, and had been looking for an electrician. Then Justin had moved out and into his girlfriend’s house.

  “Let’s just say he developed other priorities,” she said. “And since he was the only relative still living in this part of the state and he wanted money, the sale was part of the divorce settlement.”

  “Divorce isn’t easy,” Joe muttered, his attention on his camera.