by Misti Murphy
“I think I twisted my ankle.”
Scooping her up in my arms, I leave the box on her front step and carry her into the house, past a large antique mirror. Of course she’d have a mirror right next to her front door. I bet she checks it every time before she walks out to make sure she’s immaculate. Her entryway is filled with plants, an antique coat and umbrella stand, and one of those long benches for taking off shoes. It’s homely and has this cottage vibe to it.
“Which way to the kitchen?”
“Through there.” She points to the left of the back wall, against which a long hall table boasts a peace lily and several magazines as well as a hammered copper bowl for keys and stuff. The wall is more of a feature. A short hallway runs along behind it and leads to the kitchen.
I set her down on the counter. Smoothing my hand down from her knee to her foot, I lift it. She has long, sculpted legs with tight calves, slim ankles, and a splash of purple on her toes. Legs that go all the way up under that short, prim skirt and look like they’d be flexible. I can imagine them wrapped around my hips if I kiss her again, if I lift her off the counter and carry her to bed, although the idea of sliding my fingers up her thigh and under the hem of that cute skirt right here is pretty damn tempting on its own. It shouldn’t be. She shouldn’t make my dick twitch and grow hard, she shouldn’t fill my mind with erotic images where she’s naked and on me, all over me, while I move inside her.
I am so a leg man right now. Normally I’m an ass man. There’s something about a woman with a tight, round ass narrowing into a tapered waist perfect for holding onto that grinds my gears. That was the first thing I noticed about Chloe, other than her face and that ear-piercing dog whistle, but everything about this woman is sexy.
Focus on the matter at hand, Paynter. “I’m going to take a look to make sure you haven’t done any real damage.”
“Do you know what you’re doing? Perhaps it would be best if I just went to a doctor.”
“What happened, anyway? I would have thought you’d twist an ankle in those silly shoes, not barefoot. Honestly, it’s beyond me how those spindly stilts you women choose to wear don’t snap right off the minute you walk in them.” I rove my fingers over her ankle and she hisses out a breath, but everything feels intact so I go to her fridge to get ice.
“I’m not a klutz. I didn’t just fall over my feet. And I know how to walk in heels. I’m extremely good at it. I’ve been doing it for years.”
“And yet I kept you from falling on your ass.”
“Yes, well, I was on my way out. I was about to put my shoes on when you tried to knock my door down. I can’t help it that you pushed that box at me and I tripped over my Miu Miu heels.”
“You’re kidding.”
“I’m not. And while we’re on the subject, I prefer people take their shoes off at the door. Do you mind?”
“Seriously?” This freezer is full of store-bought meals and not much else. Does the woman not know how to cook? At least she has ice, possibly for her wine, so that’s something. “Where do you keep your kitchen towels?”
“In that drawer,” she points to the cabinets below her. “The third one down. And no, I’m not joking about the shoes.”
“Fine.” I slip off my Sperrys and then bend to get the towel for the ice. I actually like the fact that she likes to be barefoot at home even if it’s probably for the wrong reasons. No doubt it’s because she can’t stand dirt being tracked into her perfect, sterile environment. Except what I’ve seen inside her house doesn’t mesh well with that idea.
“Your house is different from what I expected.”
“What do you mean?”
“It’s cozy.”
“Look, it might not be as grand as yours, but—”
“I mean it’s comfortable.” I don’t need her to compare our houses. I’m well aware of how ridiculous my current residence is, but it’s still only a house, a place to live and eat and sleep. Even if I’d have settled for a much smaller house in a less perfect neighborhood without batting an eye. “I like it.”
“Yes, well, I like to be comfortable,” she says, and there’s an edge to her wistful tone. As though maybe she doesn’t know how to relax in the presence of other people.
Is it possible I’ve misread her the same way she has me?
Glancing up, I find her watching me. She’s leaning forward, so her hair hangs past her shoulders. Slim, elegant fingers curl over the edge of the counter, and her knees are slightly parted. If I dipped my gaze, I would be peeking under her skirt in this position. The tip of her tongue appears between her lips, and the delicate muscles at the base of her jaw move.
“Paynter?” Her voice is husky and low. It’s almost soft, the way she says my name, her usual edge fizzling away.
Shit, I can’t stop my gaze from going to that spot between her knees for a fraction of a second, and when I manage to focus on her face it’s even closer than before. Her blue eyes are framed by thick, black lashes that lie in contrast against her pale skin. Her lips are parted and mere inches away.
“Jesus.” Straightening up, I scrape the pads of my fingers along her jaw as I bridge the distance to kiss her. The pulse at her throat beats double time under my palm, and she tips her head back, her tongue playing with mine. Her hair is silk against my knuckles. Slipping my fingers through it at the nape of her neck, I shift closer until her knees clench either side of my hips.
When she bunches up my shirt in her hand and yanks me closer, I groan into her mouth and tighten my hold on the back of her head. Her tongue thrusts against mine, eager and unrestrained. When she kisses she seems to forget who she is, or maybe who she pretends to be. I like this side of her, this open and unchecked woman underneath her haughty outer layers, with her scent like rain, sweet, fresh, and evocative.
Dropping the towel, I mash her to me. Her hot body curves to mine, those knees coming up higher as she drops a hand to the counter surface to brace herself while she grinds against my erection. God, she’s hot, and so is the scorching sensation that zings in my nerves at every point we touch and becomes raw need in my gut.
Damn, it’s been a while since anything felt this good.
I drag my hand from her hair to the buttons on her shirt so I can undo one, and then another while I kiss down her throat to the creamy V of skin flashing beneath her collar. Using my pinkie, I tug the material aside and dart my tongue over the top of one plump breast where the lace of her bra sits flush with her skin. “You’re not as stiff as you pretend to be, are you, sweetheart?”
“Not as stiff as you,” she says, her hand sliding between us, down my torso.
Is she going for a crotch grab? I don’t think I could have imagined her making a move like that in my wildest fantasies, and yes, I’ve been imagining her doing more than that kiss we shared the other evening. But sure enough, her hand covers my hardness and squeezes. Her touch is fire as she rubs up and down the length of my rigid cock.
“Fucking hell.” I hiss between my teeth as I slip a hand between her thighs. She squirms in place, spreading her legs so I can press my fingers to her panties. And now I know the answer to the question I haven’t been able to shake. Her panties do exist, but the silk is soaked right through and the barrier they present is a tease in itself.
When she moans loudly from the barest whispered touch I’m captivated. “If I’m stiff it’s because of you. You’re turning me on so much, I want to whip down your panties and plunge inside you. That’s what you want, isn’t it?”
“Uh-huh.” She grips my hair in one hand, pulling me into another kiss.
I run my finger up and down her seam beneath the silk. “I knew you wanted me to come over here and fuck you. Can’t waste all those condoms.”
“The box.” She gasps, her nimble hands leaving my skin. “It’s still at the door. What if someone sees it?”
“What if they do?” I lean in to kiss her again, but she pulls back farther. “All they’ll think is you have a fetish for sex dol
ls.”
She ignores that, which is too bad because it was the perfect lead-in to some seriously dirty conversation. “Do you really think I wanted you to come over here so I could have sex with you?”
The mask she wears starts at her eyes. The softness and heat leaves her gaze, her jaw becomes sharper, her cheek muscles lock in to an expression of disdain. And then she lifts the nose that three seconds ago I might have called cute into the air and looks down it at me at the same time she pries my hand from between her legs.
“You have a high opinion of yourself. Do all the women you sleep with tell you you’re good in bed? I bet they lie to you. Most of them probably fake their orgasms.”
“Want to find out for yourself?” Where the hell did the woman I was getting close with just go? It makes my head spin and kills my boner better than a bucket of ice water.
“Is that how you made your money? Are you in porn or some kind of gigolo?” She busies herself, combing the snags out of her hair, smoothing her skirt, and fixing the buttons on her shirt.
With a snort, I roll my gaze to the roof and thread my hands together on top of my head. “You really don’t give people a chance before you form opinions of them, do you?”
“Well, am I right?” She snaps her attention to my face.
“No, sweetheart. You’re dead wrong.” Snatching up the towel, I wrap a handful of ice into it and hand it to her. “Why? Are you curious?”
“No. I don’t care what you do.” She pulls her foot up on the counter, angling her legs to block any more chances of me getting a glimpse between them, while she puts the ice to her puffy ankle. “I know enough to be able to make an informed opinion.”
God help me, she’s just another stuffy, conceited princess, isn’t she? No matter how attracted to her I am, the last thing I’m looking for is a woman where nothing will ever be good enough, big enough, expensive enough. Where her only interest is what will distinguish her above everyone around her. No doubt Chloe has a five-year plan for making that happen. Each little detail written down, outline style, and it’d probably take an act of God for her to deviate. She’s more stuck-up, more pretentious than anyone I’ve ever met. Almost. Which is why I’m done with this woman already. She can keep her opinions to herself, because I’m sure as hell not interested enough to care. Just because I’m attracted to her doesn’t mean I need to act on it.
“Do you want me to help you down from there?”
“No, I think it’s time you left.” She doesn’t bother to look at me. “And take that box with you.”
“Fine.” I push my feet back into my shoes and head out the way I came. “But if you ever decide you’re sick of making assumptions, you know where I live.” I don’t know why I practically invite her over. If anything, I should tell her to stay the hell out of my yard and away from my car. It’s probably best we don’t even try to be friends. Yet, for some reason that eludes me, I hope that she takes me up on the offer, and I’m already planning revenge that will make her efforts seem pathetic in comparison. It’s only because I want to see her face when she realizes she’s wrong about me. I’m not curious about the woman who slips out of character from time to time.
I tuck the box under my arm as I make my way down the pavement to my house. I was on my way out before all this happened. Shit, now I’m running late to meet Garrett.
CHAPTER FIVE
CHLOE
“Thanks for staying late and helping me finish this project, Chloe.”
My boss, James Frost, clamps a hand onto my shoulder and gives it a couple of squeezes. It’s affectionate but not in a do-I-have-to-worry-he’s-hitting-on-me? way. To tell you the truth, I’ve worked for him for nearly a year and I honestly don’t know if he’s straight. He dresses almost better than me in his tailored, body-hugging suits, and he gets his hair trimmed religiously every two weeks at noon on Friday. He’s noticed his temples are starting to gray, and he can’t decide if it’s making him look distinguished or if he needs to add a regular dye appointment to that twice-monthly cut.
My thoughts stray to my wrinkled shirt-wearing, broad chest-baring, kissing king of a neighbor. No question there at all. That man makes me want to climb him, despite my best intentions. James makes me want to sit across from him in an armchair with a roaring fire between us, each absorbed in our own book while we share a bottle of aged brandy.
“Anytime,” I say.
He glances at the Rolex on his wrist and a frown mars his brow. “Damn, that took longer than I expected. I suspect I missed them.” He whips out his phone and taps out what I presume is a text message.
“Hot date?” I can’t help asking.
“My siblings,” he says. He’s watching his phone while he talks. “We were all supposed to get together tonight.” He snorts. “Why the hell did they pick that place?” And then he sighs. “It’s literally on the other side of town. If I go, it’ll be midnight before I get to bed tonight, assuming I get there before they decide to leave. And I have to present this project to the board tomorrow.” I can hear the frustration in his voice as he tries to work out whether he’s going out or staying in.
“Well, that’s my cue. I’ll see you tomorrow.” I don’t want him to ask my opinion, because I would choose going home alone. In fact, my own home is calling, my haven, the place I can be me and not worry that someone might be whispering or thinking about how I look, what I’m wearing, whether I’m successful enough.
Except I can’t even be me there anymore. The thought hits me while I’m driving home. I rub at my chest like the thought is an itch, maybe a tick that’s gotten under my skin. It’s not fair. Just because Paynter lives next door doesn’t mean I should change anything about my routine. I should still be able to spend all day Sunday in my pajamas, not bothering with makeup or even a shower. I should be able to hang my laundry on the clothesline, not to save energy but because I love it when the smell of nature permeates what I wear. Even my undies and bras.
There’s a newer model hybrid SUV parked at the curb in front of Paynter’s house, but his vehicle, that sweet-ass Beamer, is not in the driveway when I pull into my own. Nor are there any lights on in his house, with the very distinct exception of the brass and glass faux gas lantern hanging over his front door. Is he out? On a date?
I don’t care. Wait, I do. He’s out and there’s a full moon in a cloudless sky, clearly illuminating the path to my favorite place to escape: the lake bordering our backyards. I haven’t been down there since he moved in, because I’ve been so paranoid about him seeing a side of me that isn’t the tough-as-nails woman in power. It’s bad enough I forget how to breathe, let alone how not to act wanton every time his lips are anywhere in my vicinity.
I sit in the car and watch for any sign of movement. Nothing. He’s really not home. And I really want to go sit on the dock and enjoy a cocktail, with no one but the frogs and fish to keep me company. There’s a nice breeze, so I won’t even have to worry about swatting mosquitoes. This evening cannot possibly be any more perfect.
And I am taking advantage, now, before it’s too late. My neighbor could return home—possibly not alone—and ruin my evening.
Scrambling out of the car, I hurry into the house, my limp almost entirely gone thanks to icing my ankle every day for the past week and wearing low heels with my power suits. Too bad I can’t get away with wearing sensible shoes every day. I wince because I’m the only one dictating what I put on my feet.
But I want to make partner, and tall women get noticed.
Dropping my briefcase and purse on the bench near the front door, I reach inside the bag and grab an elastic band. I kick off my shoes and pad through the house in bare feet while securing my hair into what I’m certain is an incredibly sloppy ponytail. I can’t wait to put on the pajama bottoms I pretend are yoga pants and my favorite baggy, old-as-dirt U of M sweatshirt. I even replace the bra with a cami before dragging the worn, soft cotton material over my head.
A quick pit stop in the kitchen, where
I make myself a vodka tonic—a double—and then grab a pre-made cheese and cracker platter courtesy of my favorite gourmet grocery store. With one more swift glance to ensure Paynter definitely isn’t home, I slide my feet into a pair of flip-flops and I’m heading through the backyard toward the water.
It’s a small, private lake with no public access. The houses butting up to the shore pay significantly higher taxes, but it’s worth it to be able to sink into an Adirondack chair, stare out at the water, and feel like you’re the only person who even exists at the moment.
I’m two steps onto the sand and contemplating taking off my flip-flops when the first explosion hits. The sand underneath my feet flies upward, like a mini volcano, and there’s a loud popping noise that causes me to drop my drink and food and fall to the ground. Is my neighborhood under attack? What the hell is going on?
I try to crab crawl toward the cover of trees when another mini volcano erupts under my hand. Jerking it away, I cross both arms over my chest and roll, leaving explosions in my wake. My God, I really am under attack. What the hell have I done? Did I accidentally cross the mob in one of my more lucrative business deals?
Would the mob plant bombs on my beach?
No. Terrorists. Heaven help me, terrorists are after me and I don’t even have my phone so I can call 9-1-1.
Another explosion slaps sand into my face, and I choke on the dust and granules. I freeze where I am and carefully look around, searching for any sign of my attackers. If I can figure out where they are, hopefully, I can run in the opposite direction.
I see nothing but deep shadows against the clear sky. The beach is almost glowing with the light from the full moon. I notice little craters of sand all around me, and it finally occurs to me that despite the explosions, some of which I am certain made contact with my skin, I am uninjured, save possibly having aggravated the almost healed injury to my ankle.
That’s strange. Although, now that my heart begins to slow, not quite as strange as the idea of someone tossing bombs at me on my beach. A swift glance at Paynter’s house … lights are pouring through the windows, painting designs on the grass.