by Ryan, Lexi
And if that doesn’t just sum up the clusterfuck my life’s become, I don’t know what does. I won’t shave my beard because I don’t want Stella to be less attracted to me, even though I’m trying like hell not to be attracted to her.
When I turn on the shower, the pipes rattle in the walls. I need to check for a clog in the plumbing vent—need to do about a hundred things where this old house is concerned.
To prepare for my day, I try to make a mental checklist of the house-related tasks I want to get through while Hope’s with her mom. But as I step under the hot spray, my mind quickly wanders from what I should be thinking about to what my still-hard dick wants to think about. Those too-brief minutes in the pool house yesterday. The dream before it got weird. Stella in my arms, turned on and gasping, rocking against me. “Please.”
I close my eyes as I focus on that one word, stroke my hand up my aching erection, and play that part of the dream on repeat—her perfect lips as she whispered, “Please.”
I didn’t want to send her home last night. I wanted to bring her into my empty house and strip her naked. I would’ve peeled off her cover-up and then taken my time with the bikini. She would’ve trembled beneath my touch as I slid my hands down her arms and kissed my way up her neck. Her skin would’ve been soft under my mouth, but her hand in my hair would’ve been a little rough, just like when I had her alone earlier in the day. I would’ve kissed my way down her chest and flicked my tongue beneath the cups of her bikini until her legs wouldn’t hold her up anymore and I had to lead her to the couch. She would’ve held my gaze as she peeled my swim trunks from my hips, and when I tried to move to sit beside her, she would’ve given me that wicked, sexy smile of hers and guided me to stand.
I palm my balls and shudder as I imagine her pink lips grazing the tip of my cock. I’ve fantasized about that mouth countless times in the past few months . . . fuck, years. So often that it’s second nature to conjure the image now. I grip myself tight and slide my hand up and down in long, slow strokes as I let the fantasy take over. Stella teasing my cock with her tongue. Her hands on my thighs then sliding around to grip my ass as she moves to her knees and takes me deep.
My strokes become shorter, my grip tighter, and I jerk into my hand at the mental picture. Her mouth would feel amazing, but I’d need more, so I’d pull away before I came, bend her over the couch, and drive—
My orgasm hits me like a fucking freight train, and I come all over my hand and stomach with a groan. I keep moving through the aftershocks, clinging to that image of taking Stella from behind, her knuckles white on the back of the couch as she begs me for more.
“Fuck,” I mutter when the last of the pleasure is wrung out of me and the water’s washing away the evidence. I needed that, but I already know it won’t be enough, because no matter how many times I use my hand and vivid imagination to deal with these increasingly frequent Stella fantasies, it doesn’t change that she’s all wrong for me.
Didn’t stop you last night, a voice whispers as I wash. If Smithy hadn’t interrupted us, I wouldn’t have stopped unless she’d asked me to. And if Dean hadn’t suggested I give her a place to stay, I know exactly what would’ve happened after everyone left—or, at least, what I wanted to happen.
But now she might be moving into your backyard.
Do I really want to continue this unrelenting lust-fest when she’s that close? Can anything good come of that? There are a thousand reasons why I should stay away from Stella and only one why I shouldn’t. And since my libido isn’t the greatest decision maker, I guess my decision’s been made for me. Maybe I wouldn’t be so fixated on Stella if I was dating around, like Amy suggested. I should use that damn app—find someone I can enjoy myself with, have sex for the first time in way too long. Then maybe Stella won’t be the temptation she is now.
By the time I climb out of the shower, my mind’s made up. I grab my phone and log on to Random.
There are a few potential matches waiting for me—women who’ve already indicated they’re interested. The girl with the cleavage shot Amy swiped on left me a message last night, and I almost laugh when I see her username. I click to read what she said and—nope, make that four messages.
Bambi: Hey, gorgeous. You want to meet up?
Bambi: Hey, I’m still around if you’re down for this.
Bambi: Hello?
Bambi: WTFever. Don’t swipe on women if you don’t have the balls to follow through.
I blow out a breath. Looks like I fucked up my first interaction on Random—not that I would’ve met up with her anyway. Do people really do this? Hey, you looked hot in one picture. Let’s fuck!
Shaking my head, I close out the text stream with Bambi and scroll through the women who swiped interested on me since Amy set up this account Friday night. LisaLuvsRoosters is a blonde with blue eyes who reminds me way too much of Amy, so she’s out. CarrieBerry is cute. Her dark hair brushes her jaw line, and she has big brown eyes and a pretty smile. She strikes me as the kind of girl who smiles a lot, but she also looks like a girl. As in, I’m not even sure she’s old enough to be on here. Her profile says she’s twenty-three, but I would’ve guessed much younger. That “barely legal” thing has never been my fantasy.
Then there’s JimmysGirl. Weird profile name, but she’s . . . Okay, she’s fucking hot. In her profile picture, a white dress hugs every inch of her body. She has full tits, curvy hips, a tiny waist, and long, dark hair that cascades down her back in soft waves. I’d bet she gets a lot of interest with that pic, but I try not to think about that as I click through to her profile.
28-year-old female. Pharmacist.
I’m Jimmy’s girl, just like my username says, but Jimmy likes to watch. Wanna play?
Yeah, not my kink. Pass.
I’ve pulled up my texting app and started typing out a message to Amy before I realize what I’m doing. The fact that I want to talk to my ex about this experience says so much about why I haven’t moved on. I delete what I’ve typed and head to the kitchen to make coffee.
Amy would love to hear about these early matches. She’d get a kick out of JimmysGirl and probably call me an old-man prude for my concerns over CarrieBerry’s age. It’d be fun to laugh together, but that’d only set me back and . . . well, she’s right. It’s time to move on.
After my coffee’s done brewing, I sit down with my phone and decide to try again. Just because those were the only women who swiped on me in the last fourteen hours doesn’t mean they’re the only ones on the app who might be interested.
My stomach sinks as I scroll through. I can’t stop thinking about why these women are on here. Are they crazy? Desperate? And my awareness that I too am on Random and am a hypocritical asshole only makes me feel worse.
Every profile picture is an attempt to convey a message. I’m sexy. I’m confident. I’m harmless. In a space where there’s so little opportunity to communicate, it’d be foolish not to use the avatar to say something about yourself, but the whole thing just feels so damn contrived.
Maybe that’s why the sight of the Jessica Rabbit avatar has me grinning. The cartoon image from the movie Who Framed Roger Rabbit is a hypersexualized redhead in a tight red sequin dress that shows lots of cleavage and even more thigh. If a woman had posted an actual picture of herself dressed like this, I’d roll my eyes and keep scrolling, but the fact that this girl chose to use a cartoon instead of a picture of herself intrigues me. I tap through to her profile.
ItsyBitsy123. 27-year-old female. Wanderer.
I’m living my best life, and that means having fun. No cheaters, creepers, or trolls, please. I’ve had my share. Bonus points if you enjoy reading anything more advanced than your morning cereal box.
That makes me laugh. She’s the most interesting person I’ve seen on here yet. So I swipe. And I wait.
Chapter Six
Stella
The banner hanging above the entrance of the Orchid Valley branch of Mountain Laurel Community College says,
Welcome, students! And I can’t help but think I wasn’t the kind of person they were imagining when they hung that sign. The admissions office assured me that community colleges are full of nontraditional students of all ages, but every time I imagine a full classroom, I picture a bunch of eighteen-year-olds, fresh out of high school . . . kind of like the gaggle of laughing girls vaping together a few cars away.
This summer is all about general education for me. I already have a bachelor’s degree, but I need to take chemistry and anatomy and physiology before I can apply for the nursing program. Since there are always more applicants than spots, I also need to do well in those courses—a prospect that was terrifying enough before I realized I don’t know where I’ll be living this summer or how I’ll be paying the rent.
“Are you going in?”
I turn toward the voice and smile at the tall guy who’s asking. He’s in jeans and a polo shirt and has a messenger bag slung over his shoulder. Most importantly, he looks closer to my age than the posse of girls giggling a few yards away.
I adjust my own bag and step toward him. “Yeah. I guess so.”
He beams at me, showing off his straight white teeth. Not bad at all. “First day?”
“Yes. And I’m totally nervous.”
His gaze flicks over me in that way guys do when they’re checking you out but trying to be quick about it so they don’t come off looking slimy. I’m going to work a shift at The Orchid right after class, so I’m dressed professionally in a black pencil skirt and a flowy yellow tank. There’s definite interest in his eyes when he brings his gaze back up to meet mine. “What department?”
“Oh . . . science, I guess.” I take a deep breath. It’s too easy to assume I’m going to suck at my science classes just because I struggled with them in high school, but I’m trying so hard not to let negative thinking drag me down. I’m older, more mature, and my study skills are way better than they were back then.
Beaming, he offers a hand. “Same here. You’re a part-timer too, I assume?”
I shake my head. “Just for the summer. Full-time starting in the fall,” I say with a confidence I don’t feel. Need to ace a couple of classes first.
His eyes go wide. “Really? That’s great. Maybe you can put in a good word for me.”
What? “A word with who?”
He chuckles. “I know, right? I can’t figure out who makes these decisions, and I ended up piecing together a full-time schedule from three different schools, but good for you. That’s great.”
I’m confused but too nervous to worry about it. “Hopefully it will be.”
He offers a hand, and it’s warm and a little rough against mine. “I’m Anderson. It’s nice to meet you.”
“I’m Stella.”
“Listen, I have to meet up with someone and then I have class, but I’d like to buy you a coffee or something later.”
I bite back a grin. Here I was worried I wouldn’t have classes with anyone my age, and I’ve already made a friend before setting foot in the classroom. “Yes. That’d be amazing. I have a break at noon.”
“It’s a date. Meet me in the Starbucks in the Commons?”
A date. With a cute fellow student. Eat your heart out, Kace Matthews. “Perfect.”
“I look forward to it,” Anderson says. He heads toward the building, tossing me one final wink over his shoulder before he pushes through the doors.
A few deep breaths later, I muster the courage to walk in after him and find my classroom. Unfortunately, as I expected, the majority of the students around me look like they’re fresh out of high school. There’s an older man I recognize from The Orchid, and I wave to him as I enter.
“Stella,” he says, smiling at me. “What are you doing here?”
“Same thing as you, Charlie.” I nod to the open notebook in front of him. “Taking a chemistry class.”
He taps his notebook and shakes his head. When he speaks again, it’s in a low, conspiratorial tone. “I told my kids I’m too old to be doing this, but they said I might as well. Always wanted to go back to school, and I’m gonna be old whether I do it or not.”
I slide into the seat next to him. “I was kind of figuring the same thing.”
“Does Brinley know you’re here?” Brinley’s not only my lifelong best friend, but she owns The Orchid, where I’m a receptionist, and is therefore also my boss.
“She does, and she approves. I’ve already trained my replacement, and I promise she’ll take good care of you.”
He shakes his head. “Nah. Nobody can take care of me as well as you do. Always made sure to get me scheduled before my favorite massage therapist booked up. It won’t be the same there without your smiling face.”
“Well, I’ll still be there on weekends and some evenings, so no worries.”
He pats my arm. “Then I’ll keep coming back.”
“Good morning, everyone. I’m Professor Burns, and I’ll be your chemistry instructor this term.”
Our attention shifts to the front of the room and the man standing at the dry-erase board. My heart skids to a stop at the sight of him. Anderson. He wasn’t a fellow student but a teacher.
His gaze lands on me, and the shock that rolls across his expression tells me he’s as surprised to see me as his student as I am to see him as my teacher. Fuck.
He clears his throat and looks away, schooling his expression as he takes in the rest of the class. “This is Chem 101, and I hope you’re ready to work, because this is a condensed term, meaning we’ll be doing in six weeks what I normally teach in sixteen.” He picks up a stack of papers from the corner of his desk and proceeds to pass them out. I sink down into my chair, willing myself to become invisible as he goes over the course requirements.
By the time class is over, my brain has shifted gears and instead of panicking about having a date with my professor, I’m spiraling into panic about the course requirements and how much we’ll be covering this six weeks. I might be more mature than I was in high school chem, but the concepts still make my head spin.
“This should be fun,” Charlie says when Anderson—no, make that Mr. Burns—dismisses us. “I always loved chemistry. It was my favorite in college.”
I force a smile and hoist my bag onto my shoulder. “Maybe you can be my lab partner and teach me your tricks.”
“Ms. Jacob,” Mr. Burns says. “Could I see you before you leave, please?”
Charlie waggles his salt-and-pepper brows. “Uh-oh. In trouble already?”
I snort. He has no idea. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Charlie.”
He winks and heads out behind the other students.
Once everyone else is gone, I approach Mr. Burns’ desk. “I’m sorry,” I blurt at the same time as he says, “I owe you an apology.”
We laugh, and he sighs, holding up a hand. “When we talked outside, I thought you were an instructor.”
“And I thought you were a student,” I say.
He runs a hand through his hair. “So you understand why I need to cancel our coffee”—he clears his throat, clearly unwilling to say the word date—“why I need to cancel our plans.”
“Oh my God. Yes. Of course!”
“It’s just that you’re a student, and I . . .” He shakes his head, and his gaze briefly skims over my body before he brings it back up to meet mine. “I really am sorry.”
“We both made assumptions.”
He makes a face that seems to say, Did we, though? “I mean, I asked what department you worked for.”
I frown. That’s not the way I remember it, but what did he say exactly? “I guess I misunderstood.”
Something about his expression makes me feel like a child who’s just broken the rules and is trying to talk her way out of it. “Let’s just not misunderstand anymore. Okay? Because I don’t . . . I’m not interested in spending time outside the classroom with a student.”
Yowch. Okay, I get it. “Understood.” I back toward the door. “See you tomorrow.”
&nb
sp; God, it’s going to be a long six weeks.
* * *
My day consisted of accidentally flirting with my chem professor, barely avoiding a panic attack in anatomy and physiology, a shift at The Orchid, and a futile search for a place to live. By the time I get home, I’m beat.
I still haven’t talked to Mom about the available condo at Lakeview Acres, and I know she won’t bring it up if I don’t confront her. In fact, I know she won’t move if I don’t move first. I hope to avoid the conversation entirely until I can tell her I’ve found an affordable place to stay.
That won’t be a problem tonight, since she’s already asleep when I get home. I keep my steps quiet as I head down the hall to my childhood bedroom and change into my pajamas. Rusty, Mom’s twelve-year-old golden retriever, meets me at my bedroom door, a pair of my underwear hanging from his mouth.
“Rusty!” I scold, yanking them away. “No!” But Rusty looks up at me with big brown eyes full of adoration, and I can’t stay mad. “You’re lucky you’re the best guy in my life.”
I pad to the bathroom to return the undies to the hamper, brush my teeth, and wash my face. By the time I’m in my sleep clothes and climbing into bed, my bone-deep exhaustion has shifted into a restlessness. Damnit. I just want to sleep for ten hours and try to start tomorrow with a good attitude.
I scroll through social media, smiling when I see Brinley’s latest Instagram post. It’s her and Marston, splattered in paint, with Cami’s newly painted bedroom in the background. I give it a like and ignore that “some girls get everything” jealousy. Truth is, Brinley deserves everything, and she had to fight for it, so I refuse to resent an iota of her happiness or success. I also refuse to impinge on that happiness by asking to bunk with them. She’d say yes, and Marston would go along with it just because he’d do anything to make Brinley happy, but they’ve had enough come between them to get where they are. They deserve some peace and a chance to enjoy each other without me tagging along.
