She’s a writer, and she’s busy writing all the articles for her travel blog now that she’s home from traveling. She’s writing a book, too. The few times I’ve met her out front, she’s told me how she’s doing, but I’m always half distracted by the little flecks of gold around her pupils and the way her dimples set in before she’s properly smiling.
Tonight, she has the window open and she has some sort of mellow country music I’ve never heard wafting gently outward. I’m sitting on my veranda in a rocking chair, eyes half-narrowed, watching the sun as it sets on the horizon and throws streaks of red, orange and purple across the sky. My eyes happen to wander to Wren’s window and I freeze, my heart jumping into my throat.
She must’ve forgotten the window’s open, because she whips her shirt over her head and reaches around to her back to unclasp her bra. I look away before I see anything—turns out there is a limit to my ability to watch her without feeling like a creepy stalker—but the silhouette of her figure, all softness and curves, remains seared into my mind.
I dig out my phone and scroll to her name in my contacts list. My thumb hovers, briefly, and then I place my phone down and look up and over to the window where she’s tugging down the hem of a shirt. Over the course of the next ten minutes I watch her pace. She’s mentioned that she does this when she’s feeling frustrated or suffering writer’s block.
Our chats have only been brief, five minutes here, ten minutes there, but they always leave me feeling like she’s the one. She’s the one I want to live in this big mansion with me, the one I want to have my babies, the one I want to be with, ‘til death do us part.
But I’ve never been the crazy spontaneous type, and to have such strong feelings well up inside me so quickly has been disconcerting. When she laughs I feel a flutter behind my sternum. When she smiles I want to take her face in my hands and kiss her dimples, one by one, and tell her how beautiful she is. But courtyard chats haven’t really seemed like the right place to make any moves.
When I glance back over to the cottage, she’s in the window. I see her looking quickly away, pretending she wasn’t watching me, and then she looks back to me, feigns surprise, and waves.
“Now or never,” I say out loud, waving back. I pick up my phone, scroll to her number again and hesitate over what to say. Hi, Wren. Want to move over here and make babies with me forever? Seems a little too forward, but it’s definitely how I feel.
SMS: Hey. Looks like someone’s frustrated. Want a beer?
My heart is in my mouth as I hit send. It’s the first time I’ve sent a message to her that wasn’t a formal bit of business or information about the rental, though I’ve stared at the blank message box a few times over the last few weeks.
The minutes that I sit there waiting for a reply seem to pass like hours.
Wren
Some days I sit down and place my fingers to the keyboard and everything just pours out, almost complete, onto the page. Other days it feels like I could offer human sacrifice to the gods of writing and never get anywhere. Today is one of those days. The sun is setting and I’ve barely managed a hundred words.
When I realize I’m pacing, I decide to take a shower. Tomorrow is another day.
I leave the window open a little and I purposely forget to close the blind, much like I have a few times when I’ve showered since I moved into the cottage. I know Lucas sits out on the porch and looks over here sometimes, and I want him to see me.
Judge me all you want, but the guy is literally too good to be true. He is tall, dark, handsome, works with his hands, comes home covered in grease smears every day—to his mansion, no less—and from the conversations we’ve had on the courtyard every now and then I can tell he’s funny, kind and smart.
Once I’m dressed, I go to lean against the window and look over, feeling a little thrill when I see that he’s sitting out. Did he see me? I hope he did. I also hope he didn’t, because the way I feel about the guy has me on edge. If we start something, I’m not sure I’ll be able to stop it.
He looks my way and I quickly turn my head, then pretend I’ve only just spotted him. He probably knows I saw him already, and the thought of it makes me cringe. As he waves back, I hear the familiar sound of an incoming video call on my laptop, behind me.
“Hey!” I grin when I hit to accept the call.
“Hey, bitch!” says my best friend, June. “How’s the book coming along? All done yet?”
We’ve been friends since we were in kindergarten together. More like sisters than friends. And she can smell my BS from a mile away. She reads the grimace on my face and purses her lips.
“Girl, you gotta stop letting that man distract you. Jump his bones already. Get it out of your system.”
Just then, my phone vibrates beside my laptop. I pick it up and thumb the screen to read the message, and I freeze.
“What?” asks June. “Wren? What is it?”
I look up at the screen, biting my lip. “Uh,” I say. “He’s asked me if I want to go for a beer.”
“Well, godspeed, sister,” says June. She does a little salute with her hand that is neither Star Trek nor Scouts. “Be safe, have fun, and make sure you go twice before you let him go once.”
I snort at her, but the familiar little bleep of the call ending sounds, and she’s gone.
It’s probably her presumption that spurs me on, because I don't put much thought into it before I’m on my feet and rifling through my wardrobe, trying to pick out something pretty to wear. Something that isn’t the oversized T-shirt I planned to wear while I streamed junk TV all night, but also doesn’t look like I’ve purposely made a big effort to go across the courtyard to the porch.
I reject every LBD in my wardrobe—of which there are many. I have ample curves, and there is something about an LBD that just sets them off perfectly. As I push the last LBD to the side, I realize I’m consoling myself with the idea that he will get to see me in a LBD when he takes me out. Despite the fact that there’s been no suggestion that he wants to take me out anywhere.
“Get a grip, Wren,” I mutter, just as I happen across a beautiful fashion kimono I picked up in Peru—of all places—and then a denim skirt and a white, loose cami practically fall into my hands. A pair of tan sandals later and I’m admiring myself in the mirror, deciding it looks casual enough to be a casual evening outfit at home, but also accentuates enough curves and brings out enough of my colouring to hopefully turn Lucas’ head.
When I’ve done my no makeup makeup and my “effortless” curly hair is fully diffused and styled, it’s almost an hour later.
SMS: Sorry! I only just saw your message.
Don’t look at me like that. He can’t know I just spent the best part of an hour getting ready for him.
SMS: I’d love a beer. Just need to find some shoes. See you in 5?
I hit send, take a quick look in the mirror, push my shoulders back, pinch my cheeks, and head out across the courtyard.
Chapter Four
Lucas
I’m just on the verge of marching over there like a crazy person to tell her to check her damn phone, when mine rattles on the glass-top table. I pick it up, smile, and head inside for a couple more beers.
“Knock, knock!” she calls, poking her head around the open door.
“Hey, come on through,” I call. “We’ll head out back. I don’t think you’ve seen the gardens, right?”
I know she hasn’t. She’d never have left if she had. I hate to brag, but they’re stunning. Wide open lawns mixed with patches of wild meadow flowers and grasses, merged into an old style hedge maze and some sculpted fountains that have been here way longer than I’ve been alive.
Popping both bottles open, I lead Wren through to the back, flick a switch on the way out of the door, and wallow for a little while in the audible gasp I hear from her when she stands there taking in the beauty of it all bathed in strategically-placed lights.
“Wow, this is…”
“Really so
mething, right?” I ask, handing over her beer and looking out across the garden. There’s a pool, a hot tub, a sauna. Way off in the distance, though we can’t see it in the dark, is a tennis court.
“Really, really something,” she breathes. She looks amazing. She has some flowy top on over a vest and denim skirt, with those strappy gladiator type sandals—but a lot daintier and much sexier on her curvy legs. As I pass her by to open the doors that run along the side of the games room, I get a waft of floral, summery perfume from her.
“You smell good,” I say, unable to stop myself. She smiles, bites her lower lip, and drives me halfway round the twist.
“Thanks.”
“You shoot?” I ask.
“Like hunt?”
“Nope,” I shake my head, pulling the door back to open the entire side of the games room to the cool night air. I hit the lights and the centre light comes on and illuminates the full size pool table. “That.”
“Oh, wow!” She grins, and I instantly know I made the right choice.
“Matter of fact, I got myself out of a sticky situation in Thailand with 8-ball,” she says with an adorably smug grin. I nod for her to go on, so she sets her beer down on the side of the table and rests her ample ass on the edge of it.
“I got my purse stolen in Thailand. Which is an inconvenience at the best of times, but a million times worse when you’re overseas and you can’t get your new cards delivered the next day. I needed cash. I’d noticed this pool place that was always busy, but I hadn’t gone in because I just didn’t have time, right?”
“Aha,” I nod, swigging my beer. The sound of her voice, the way she animates when she speaks about her experiences, all have me rapt.
“So when I was in college I didn’t have many classes in my final year. Creative writing is a lot of research and writing and not a lot of classes. And I already sort of knew by then that I’d be dropping out before finals to pursue the blog. So I shot 8-ball a lot. Anyway, these guys in the pool hall in Thailand let me play with the pocket change I had, and they took one look at me and said I could have a double turn at the start of every game. Which… I may have played into my fluttering my lashes a bit, but I was kinda desperate.”
I laugh. “As if you didn’t already distract them enough, being as beautiful as you are,” I say, and the slight flush on her cheeks delights me.
“Well anyway, I ended up with enough to last me until I got all my documents sorted out.”
“Oh-ho!” I say, and let out a whistle. “A hustler, huh?”
She pushes her shoulders back, which pushes her tits up in a way that instantly dries out my mouth.
“You could say that.”
“So let’s up the stakes,” I say, stepping closer to her. I’m so close I can feel the warmth of her body radiating against my skin.
“How?” she whispers, and her tongue flicks out to wet her perfectly plump lips.
“Strip 8-ball,” I say, with a challenging smirk. “Winner chooses what the other loses.”
Wren
The butterflies that have been flitting around in my tummy all night every time Lucas looks at me suddenly take flight and flutter behind my sternum when he suggests strip 8-ball.
I stare at him, my core suddenly thrumming, nipples pebbled under my kimono, and bite my bottom lip. I’ve noticed him noticing when I do that, and tonight is no exception. I can feel the blush rising up my neck and painting its presence on my cheeks.
I can’t pretend anymore that there’s nothing between us. After he came to my rescue that first night, I barely stopped thinking about him until he showed up the next morning in his Porsche. And now, thanks to him, my days are spent in the most idyllic little cottage, and the moments when I’m not actively writing are spent gazing out of the window, wondering where he is, what time he’ll be home, if he’ll look up at my window and wave.
Despite the fact that he’s gone out of his way to come and check on me whenever I’ve seen him in passing, and the fact that I’m sure he’s occasionally found himself on his porch on purpose when I’m near the window, and the way he’s looking at me with hunger in his eyes, I still find it hard to believe. Hard to believe that a handsome, smart, filthy rich man fifteen years older than me could be interested in a curvy girl who hasn’t even had a proper job yet. Not that I ever want what most people would call a proper job, but you know what I mean.
I feel nervous energy ripple up my spine and tingle all over the back of my head when I realize what I’m about to say, but I still don’t stop myself.
“Or we could just strip,” I say. My throat is tight so it comes out as a strangled sort of whisper.
Lucas doesn’t seem to notice.
He is on my in a heartbeat, his lips crashing into mine as his hand wraps around the beer bottle in mine and pulls it free from my grip.
“I was hoping you’d say that, little bird,” he says, and the way he instantly takes charge is a siren song to some lascivious, primal part of me I never knew existed.
His lips are soft but demanding, and I suddenly understand how it’s possible to “lead” a dance in a way I never have before. He places his hands under my ass and lifts me so I can perch on the end of the table. My legs automatically open and he moves forward between them, holding the back of my neck and kissing me deeply, his other hand exploring my body as though he’s been waiting for me his whole life.
I can feel his breath hot beside my ear. He slides his hand up my thigh, his thumb running up and down, tantalisingly close to my panties.
“I’ll never let you go if we do this,” he whispers. I can hear the strain in his voice, like he’s expending all his effort to restrain himself.
I reach down in a move bolder than any I’ve ever made, and slide my fingers over his thumb before pulling my panties aside. I kiss him harder, suckling on his tongue, and the groan he releases leaves me smugly satisfied. I grin against his mouth.
“Oh, you like playing games?” he asks, pulling back. He has a wicked glee in his eyes as he looks down at me, his gaze scanning my face, taking everything in.
He slides his thumb suddenly into my already-slick core, and I gasp. My face contorts with an open-mouthed pleasure frown, and it’s his turn to grin.
“Good girl,” he says.
I place my hands behind me and lean back, and I feel his hand leave my neck a second before I hear the sound of his zipper.
I can’t see him from the angle I’m at, but I have to know what he’s like. I bring my hand forward and reach down between us, then open my eyes and look up to him with surprise when I feel his length in my hand, hard and thick and heavy. He sucks in a gasp when my hand closes around him,I watch his face as I slowly stroke him, and he continues to run his thumb up and down over my most sensitive little bud.
“I’ll have to go and get a condom,” he tells me, in hurried whispers between kisses.
“Don’t,” I whisper.
“You don’t want to?” he asks, and all of his touching and kissing stops abruptly.
“I do,” I say, pulling his hand back between my legs and his head back toward me. “I do. But no barriers. I don’t want anything between us.”
He catches on to what I say instantly, and my last syllable tails off into a moan as he lines up and presses his hips forward, stopping whenever I gasp to give me chance to get used to the sheer size of him.
For the next few hours he makes me feel things I didn’t know I could feel, and by the time I fall asleep in his arms I am certain this is the place I want to call home.
Chapter Five
Lucas
I wake up the next morning with a smile on my face and stretch out in my king size bed. When I don’t feel Wren beside me, my smile vanishes and I sit up, frowning. We had the most incredible night last night, and the most mindblowing sex I’ve ever had. She has this knockout body, and every movement we made together felt so natural, like the gods had carved us out of flesh so we’d fit perfectly together. So why is she gone?
SMS: Morning, sexy. Gone into town to sort out some business (getting back my rent money). See you later.
I smile and hit the screen to exit the message. And I see there’s another from a minute later.
SMS: P.S. I took a bagel and some coffee from your kitchen. Hope OK.
“Of course it is,” I say out loud. Every part of my mind is already thinking of it as “our” kitchen, anyway, so why would I object to her doing whatever she wanted with it?
I hit back, and see a third message, from three minutes after the second.
SMS: P.P.S. Last night was great. We should do it again.
By the time I’ve stretched and got out of bed, I have the biggest, goofy grin on my face. The fourth message, which arrives as I’m spreading cream cheese on my own bagel, makes me laugh out loud.
SMS: P.P.S.S. (or maybe P.P.P.S?) I wasn’t sure how to lock the game room door (we left it open!) so I just pulled it across. Okay no more messages. Are you even up? Bye!
I scroll through her series of messages a few times as I eat my breakfast, then hit reply.
SMS: Can’t reply. Someone has stolen all valuables due to unlocked door. Am now pauper.
I imagine her smiling when she gets it, and we message back and forth for a while before I have to get showered and head into the shop, and she has to head to her lawyer’s office.
When I’m finally dressed and ready, I grab my phone and keys and hop into the Porsche. The drive to Brookshore town center is somehow different to usual, as though the colours in the world are a little brighter, or the sun is a little warmer. I wave to the few people that I know as I pass them. Brookshore isn’t the tiniest town, but I’ve lived here my whole life and the few of us that made a killing from crypto became sort of renowned around here.
Lucas Page 2