Total pages in book: 31
Estimated words: 29738 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 149(@200wpm)___ 119(@250wpm)___ 99(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 29738 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 149(@200wpm)___ 119(@250wpm)___ 99(@300wpm)
I’ve lusted after her, and fantasized about her for way, way too long. And I’m done not having the real thing.
I tuck my still hard cock back into my shorts, and I sigh. I glance over and spot the other pair of panties hanging there—these ones light blue and transparent, and I grab them and stuff them into my pocket. I glance out the window, and my brow arches.
Interesting.
There was a wall here before she remodeled. Now, the big expanse of glass in the fancy new bathroom look right across the yards directly into my bedroom. Totally clean shot, and totally unobstructed. My blinds are even still open from last night, and I suddenly smirk when I remember what I was doing in bed last night.
Well shit. I wonder if she’s ever spied on me. I wonder if she spied last night. My lips curl into a hungry smile.
Bad, bad girl.
I wash my hands and head downstairs to find Layla dressed in cutoffs and a t-shirt. I frown, wanting her in a bikini again. Or hell, out of a bikini would be nice.
“Oh, Mason,” she mumbles quickly. She’s avoiding my eyes, and I start to grin, wondering if she’s wondering if I’ve realized her bathroom view yet and put some dots together.
“I actually have to run and… uh, do some stuff.”
I nod. “I’m almost done, but I can come finish up later.”
“Oh! No, that’s okay, you’re welcome to stay and finish. Just let yourself out when you’re done?” She smiles awkwardly at me and reaches into her bag to pull out a business card. “Here’s my number you…” she blushes, and her eyes don’t meet mine.
“If you need anything.”
I nod, and she quickly whirls and rushes out the door. I hear the garage door, and then the sound of that sweet little Porsche firing up. She pulls it down the driveway and then opens the engine up down the road. I stand there, my cock still throbbing in my shorts, my heart still racing, her panties in my pocket, and my desire firmly lit on fucking fire.
If I need anything? Oh, I need something alright.
Her.
Naked.
In my bed.
All mine.
Chapter Five
Layla
God, what the fuck is wrong with me?
The car winds through Laurel Canyon, along sideroads and around sweeping bends. Needless to say, I don’t actually have anything to do, just like I didn’t actually have a phone call to take inside earlier. I just had to get out of that house before I lost my fucking mind around Mason Dunn. I groan when I think of him, all grown up and looking like pure sex. Yeah, I had to get out of there, before I let God knows what happen.
At some point, my phone buzzes in the seat next to me. At the next light, I glance over and see a text from an unknown number that says “Just about done here. -M,” and I know it’s Mason.
I drive until I feel like there’s no way he’s still at my house. And when I cautiously pull back up my driveway and peek into the backyard, I see that I’m right. Thank God. I turn the car off and walk out the side door of the garage into the backyard. Mason’s gone, though I immediately spot the hose attachment for his cleaning machine laying to the side that he’s apparently left.
I walk over to look at the water, and I blush, remembering his muscles flexing as he pushed the cleaner across the bottom of it. The pool is clean now.
My mind is not.
I busy myself by cooking an early dinner of salmon and wilted greens, along with a healthy, healthy pour of wine. The food does a halfway decent job of taking my mind off of the boy next door, but the wine brings him right back into the center of my thoughts. I try another glass, but damn if that doesn’t make it worse.
I groan and drop my head into my hands, alone at my kitchen counter. I want to tell myself that this… obsession with Mason stems from my total lack of a sex life. I mean Celeste has been telling me for months, since the divorce that I just need to get out there and “get fucked.” But no. Hookups are not my thing, and the idea of getting out there and “dating” as a thirty year old divorcee sounds depressing as shit.
So, the lack of sex might be part of it. I mean, even when I was married, Jeremy and I hadn’t even touched in closing in on two years. God, that was healthy, I think to myself sarcastically. My marriage to Jeremy was dead long before we finally put a bullet in it, too. I knew about his affairs—or at least some of them, I assume there were more. It pissed me off, but I guess I wasn’t heartbroken, because I’d stopped loving him years before. I guess I was too much of a pussy to actually divorce him, or maybe part of me just held on to this idea that marriage is supposed to be forever.