The Pool Boy: Boys of Summer, #1

by Madison Faye

  The Pool Boy

  Boys of Summer, #1

  Madison Faye

  Copyright © 2020 Madison Faye

  Photography: Sara Eirew

  Looking for obsessed alpha heroes, steamy-hot insta-love, and romance with a dirty mind? Join my mailing list and grab these TWO ereader-melting, bestselling steamy shorts for free!

  * * *

  Great books. Hot deals. Zero spam.

  www.madisonfayeromance.com/newsletter

  * * *

  Come join my Facebook group, The Smut Club!

  A place for like-minded, dirty-minded, and fun-minded romance fans to get together and talk all things Madison Faye. Man-candy, memes, giveaways, new book news, teasers before anyone else peeps them, and all kinds of fun. I hope to see you there!

  Contents

  The Pool Boy

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Also by Madison Faye

  Mailing List

  About the Author

  Copyright Notice

  Epilogue

  The Pool Boy

  I should have looked away. I shouldn’t have watched.

  Except I did, and now, him and his, uh, diving board are all I can think about…

  I moved back to LA to start over after my divorce. Single, semi-retired after selling my lingerie company, and looking for a little peace and quiet by the pool.

  Except that’s before I get a glimpse of something I never should have seen—the boy next door, in his bedroom, through my bathroom window. Four years ago, Mason Dunn was a cutie with an infectious smile. Now, the boy next door is all grown up.

  Grown up, panty-meltingly gorgeous, and apparently, hung like a freaking horse.

  He’s completely inappropriate. He’s utterly off-limits. Not to mention, he’s my next door neighbor’s son. But when the tables get turned, and it’s Mason who catches me with my hands where they shouldn’t be, I might be helpless to say anything but “please.”

  He’s nine years my junior, but he’s perfectly legal. He’s perfectly yummy, too. The boy next door grew the fuck up, and I might be in big trouble.

  Huge, throbbing, coated in suntan oil, and endlessly hard trouble.

  Whatever is a girl to do?

  * * *

  Sun’s out, buns out. Dive on in to the summer fling you never saw coming. Inappropriate? Yup. Filthy AF? You betcha. Grab a tall glass of something and a fan; things are about to get hot and sweaty. Safe, no cheating, and HEA guaranteed.

  Chapter One

  Layla

  The southern California sun beats down on my glistening skin, making me tingle all over. A tease of heat throbs through me, pooling between my thighs as my thoughts turn dirtier, and filthier. Behind my sunglasses, my brow furrows, my eyes squeezed shut. My lips part, and I gasp slightly as my fingertips tease lower over my hips.

  My tummy caves, and my pulse quickens as the memories of last night come flooding back. I flash back to what I saw, and who I saw, and my core tightens. My arousal floods my bikini bottoms, and I rake my teeth over my lips as my fingertips brush the elastic edge.

  The backyard is hardly the place for this, but I know I’m shielded from any prying eyes. It’s one of the reasons I bought this house four years ago when my company was first blowing up. A lot has changed since that first taste of success, but the utter privacy of the pool area in my backyard has stayed the same.

  The warm air licks over my skin, and I squirm in the lounge chair. My fingers push under the waist of my bikini, and I gasp quietly. My mind slides back to what I saw—what I watched—last night, and my nipples harden to points under my thin top. My mind replays the way his abs tightened, and the way his hand gripped his huge, thick cock so hard. The way he slid that hand up and down, his head thrown back, his biceps rippling and that jaw of his grinding hard.

  The way he came—his thick ropes of cum pumping across his grooved abs and all over his hand.

  This is fucking wrong. What I saw last night isn’t as inappropriate as it could have been, but it’s close. And thinking about it—thinking about him—now, is only pushing it further into “wrong.” I know damn well I should have looked away, but there was no looking away once I laid eyes on that. There was no ignoring the raw heat that blazed through me at the sight of… well, him.

  His name is Mason Dunn. He lives next door to me, and last night, I realized that the windows of my recently remodeled master bathroom look directly into his bedroom.

  …His bedroom in his parents’ house.

  I watched the boy next door stroke his thick, big cock last night until he came all over himself, and I haven’t stopped thinking about it since. At. Fucking. All.

  Like I said, it’s not as bad as it could have been, at least. Four years ago, when I first bought this house, seeing what I saw last night would have been illegal. It would have branded me a pervert of the worst kind. But that was then, and this is now, and a lot’s changed since then.

  He’s changed a lot since then. That cute, charming boy next door isn’t a boy anymore at all, for one. I basically moved away from here two months after I moved in. My lingerie company was blowing up, and I ended up spending more and more time in New York at my new offices there. Eventually, I was mostly just a New Yorker ninety percent of the time. I wasn’t here to see when Mason Dunn graduated high school and went to Stanford. I wasn’t here to see when he went from tall and lanky to built like a quarterback.

  But I’m here now, and oh do I see what he’s become.

  He’s twenty-one, I’m thirty. I know he’s “old enough,” but he’s still too young for me to be fantasizing about like this. And he’s too young for me to have watched him last night, squeezing my thighs together in the dark of my master bathroom. But I can’t stop, and the more I try and tell myself not to, the more I keep replying the image of his thick cock pumping his cum over his abs.

  Even last night, afterwards, I lay in bed trying to rationalize it. I told myself I was just extra on edge from going on two years of celibacy, and that includes when I was still married to Jeremy. My best friend Celeste was sure that after I divorced Jeremy’s scummy cheating ass, I’d be out there living the swinging single life and falling into one hunk’s bed after another.

  And maybe that does happen for some people, but not when you’re in the middle of selling off the company you spent your life building. Even when that was done, and I found myself basically retired at thirty, I just couldn’t bring myself to go out there and “date.” It just wasn’t for me, and the idea of trying to make small talk at some bar or try and weed out the psychos on something like Tinder was overwhelming.

  So, six months after the divorce, I had half my LA house remodeled, sold my New York condo, and moved back here.

  …Next to Mason. Gorgeous, twenty-one-year-old, incendiarily hot, inappropriate, pure brawn and muscle, and apparently hung like a fucking horse Mason Dunn.

  The boy next door grew the fuck up, and now here I am running my fingers over my dripping wet pussy thinking about his dick.

  I’ve been back in LA for less than forty-eight hours, and last night was the first time I realized what I could see if his blinds were open. I stood there in the dark, leaning against the glass shower door with my hand between my legs. It might be shameful, but what happened, happened. I touched myself, and I came watching Mason jerk off.

  My eyes squeeze shut, and my hand finds the
volume to my earbuds. I turn it up, and the sexy pulsing beat of a Halsey song pumps into my ears. My body arches, and I moan as my fingers push down between my slick, sticky pussy lips. I grind my fingertip against my clit, and I imagine it’s Mason just teasing me with that big fucking—

  A shadow blots out the sun for a second, and I startle. I open my eyes, and suddenly, I fucking scream.

  I swear I must jump four straight feet in the air scrambling out of the pool chair. I yank my hand from my bikini and my stomach knots. My heart feels like it’s in my throat, and every single part of me wants to just melt into a puddle and soak into the ground to escape this moment.

  The man is shadowed with the sun behind him, but I can tell from his silhouette that he’s huge, and muscled. He’s shirtless, too, and I can see the hot sun glowing over the tan, bronzed skin of his shoulders. Panic grips me, and I’m about to scream again when I realize that he’s holding what looks like a huge vacuum cleaner with a long, thick hose over his shoulder.

  Fuck. Me. Sideways.

  I’ve been so busy fantasizing about Mason and his big dick with my headphones in, touching myself, that I’ve somehow utterly forgotten about the appointment I made for the pool company to come for a cleaning. I cringe so fucking hard, and I try and tell myself that there’s no way he really saw anything, but I know that’s a really, really shitty lie.

  He definitely saw. I just pray to God that he’s professional enough to pretend he didn’t.

  I groan and reach up to yank my earbuds out. “Hi. Jesus, you scared the shit out of me!” I peer at the man, but with the sun right behind his head, I have to squint, and all I can see is shadow.

  The guy says nothing, and just stands there. I swallow.

  “You know, I have a doorbell,” I mutter slightly indignantly.

  “Which I rang about forty times.”

  I freeze.

  No. No. No no no no no.

  My core tightens, and something between embarrassment and dread sinks over me. The pool guy steps forward, and suddenly, he’s out of the glare, and it’s so much worse than having just been caught touching myself by the pool guy. Because suddenly, I’m looking right up into the smug, smirking, completely gorgeous face of Mason fucking Dunn.

  Mason who’s twenty-one and lives next door.

  Mason who looks like a fucking Abercrombie model now.

  Mason who I watched jerk off until he spilled his cum all over his hand and his sex-god abs.

  Mason who just totally walked in on me with my hand in my bikini bottoms.

  Fuck.

  Chapter Two

  Mason

  “Mason!”

  I frown and bury my head into the pillow to try and drown out the sound of my mother’s voice.

  “MASON!”

  Yeah, a pillow isn’t going to fucking cut it. I’d need four feet of reinforced concrete to get away from her voice when she’s in a mood like she clearly is this morning.

  “Get up, Mason! You’re the one that decided you wanted to work blue collar all summer, so up and at ‘em!” She screeches. “You know it’s laziness like this that probably got you into trouble in the first place!”

  I scowl. There are probably worse ways of being woken up in the morning, but my mother screaming at me and calling me a screw up is definitely climbing the charts.

  “I’m up, Jesus,” I grunt. I slide my legs over the edge and plant my feet on the hardwood floor. I rub the grit from my eyes and groan when I glance at the time. Fuck. She’s not wrong, I do need to get up. But shit, it feels like I just went to sleep. Well, I didn’t just, but it’s not that much of an exaggeration. I was up most of the night recoding some of my algorithm and ironing out more bugs on the proof-of-concept site I’ve got up and running. Slowly, a smile crosses my face, and I grin.

  Well, that’s not all of why I was up so late.

  Before the coding, and before the de-bugging, I was lost in pure fantasy. I got the late start on the algorithm because I lost all semblance of self-control, like I always do around her.

  …Around Layla. Layla, who is now very much back to living next door to my parents and somehow looking even fucking hotter than she did before.

  I’ve lusted after Layla Hughes for years, ever since the day she first bought the place next door when I was still in high school. I mean she was, and still is, a wet fucking dream on two long, toned legs. She’s been my fantasy since the very first moment I laid eyes on her—that tight ass, those shimmering blue eyes. That long blonde hair and the pouty bubble-gum lips I’ve imagined wrapped around my cock countless times.

  The fact that she owned a sexy lingerie company just made her a hundred times hotter, too. I didn’t give a shit that she was nine years older than me. Fuck, I didn’t even care that she was married to that walking fuck-wad Jeremy. Believe me, even before the renovations she just finished up a month ago before she moved back here, I could see into and hear enough of that house to know Jeremy wasn’t even touching her.

  What a fucking idiot.

  I wasn’t touching her either, but I damn well was every single night, in my head. And it’s never stopped. Not when her company blew the fuck up and she pretty much immediately moved to New York. Not when I started hitting the gym and when I went to college. Not through the nameless, faceless girls who were only ever garbage imitations of what I really wanted.

  I’ve fucked Layla Hughes a million times in my dreams. I’ve taken her every fucking way a man can take a woman in my fantasies. And now that she’s back, and hotter than ever, and right fucking next door, my obsession with her is only growing bigger.

  “Goddamnit, Mason! You’re a grown fucking man, so get out of—”

  “I’m up!” I roar. I groan and stand, rubbing the bridge of my nose.

  Aside from being right next door to Layla, living here isn’t exactly ideal, nor was it part of the plan. But plans changed when I managed to get kicked out of school. My dad wanted me to come work at his law offices and clerk or be some sort of coffee-bitch assistant to one of the partners. But hell no. I did need a job, but I wanted one that would still give me time to work on my algorithm. So, I found the perfect one, and the fact that it pisses my parents the fuck off is just the icing on the cake.

  I got a job with a local pool cleaning company.

  My dad lost his shit, of course. He called it “beneath” me, implying “beneath this family” for me to work a job that didn’t involve an office and a suit and tie. My mom had a fucking meltdown and literally cried about what she’d tell the ladies at the tennis club.

  But like I said, pissing them off is a solid half of the reasons I took the job.

  I yank on a pair of ripped khaki shorts and grab my phone off the desk to call my boss, Mickey.

  “Smart guy, what’s shakin’?”

  I grin. Mick was pretty confused why a kid living in the Hollywood Hills, enrolled at an Ivy League school, was asking him for a job. But he gave me a shot, and now two months later, I’m pretty sure I’m his favorite employee.

  “Not much, man. I think I’m scheduled for a job this morning.”

  “Yeah? Hang on.” I hear the sound of a keyboard clicking, and then one of Mick’s token grunts. “Yeah, you’re right.”

  “Great, where am I headed?”

  He chuckles. “Easy commute today, kid. New client up in your neck of the woods.”

  I frown. “The Hills?”

  “Yeah, I’ll text you the address. But hustle up, I told her bright and early.”

  I nod. “Cool, sounds good. Yeah text me, I’ll be there asap.”

  “Hey, you actually manage to get out and have some fun last night?”

  I almost lie to get him off my case, but I shrug. “Nah. Stayed home to work on—”

  “Your computer game shit,” he groans.

  “I mean, it’s e-commerce shopping platform, but, yeah, whatever,” I mutter.

  “Mason, for fuck’s sake. A good lookin’ kid like you? With your zip code? I tell you
what, if I was your age and had that chin, I’d be out there drowning in cooze.”

  I chuckle deeply. “Maybe stop calling it cooze and you’ll have more luck with the ladies?”

  My mid-fifties employer grunts. “Yeah, I’ll stick with my charming personality.”

  I laugh. “Text me that address. I’m out the door in ten.”

  From his absence, I’m guessing my dad is already at the country club golfing or pounding gin and tonics. My mother is already on her Peloton set up in the living room puffing away, and she barely pauses when she sees me. “Don’t be late, Mason!”

  I roll my eyes and ignore her. I duck into the kitchen and grab coffee from the pot before I pull open the freezer for some ice. My bare chest prickles at the cool air, but it’s going to be hot as fuck in LA today, and one of the perks of having a “blue collar” job like cleaning pools is the ability to go shirtless without anyone giving a fuck.

  I ice down the coffee and shake it up in a thermos. I scarf down a blueberry muffin in a about three bites and step out into the dry, baking LA heat. Fuck, yeah, it’s going to be scorching out today. I’m headed for my Jeep when my phone buzzes. I glance at the text from Mick, and I frown. That can’t be right.

  “What?”

  Mick answers on the first ring.

  “That address can’t be right.”

  “Hang on,” he grunts. “Naw, what I sent you is right.”

  “It can’t be.”