Sexy Bad Neighbor (Sexy Bad #1)

by Misti Murphy

  That son of a bitch. He just about gave me a heart attack with this latest shenanigan.

  Gritting my teeth, I stand and hurriedly brush the sand from my clothing while stalking across the beach—setting off one more harmless explosion, which solidifies my suspicion that he deliberately buried some sort of fireworks on my property.

  A shadow passes by one of the windows, followed by another. He has company, but that doesn’t stop my forward motion. We’ve had confrontations in front of other people before; why should we break that habit now? I’m so fired up, I need to yell at him, and I’m not waiting for a more convenient time.

  Stalking up onto his deck, I head toward the door leading into his kitchen, forcing my mind away from the memory of the wet and hot kiss we shared only two feet to the right. I am furious with the man right now. I do not want to snog him.

  I see Paynter standing inside, holding a lowball glass and laughing, as if he’s sharing a joke with someone I can’t see. Probably talking about how he scared the crap out of me a few minutes ago. Was he hiding in the bushes and made a mad dash to the house after the second hit? Or did he stay and watch me roll around in the sand like a demented scaredy-cat?

  Before I reach the door, Paynter glances over and spies me. A wide grin splits his face and for a second, my steps falter as I stare at the sheer beauty of the man.

  “Chloe,” he calls out, heading toward the door. “Is that you, sweetheart? Is that my sexy as fuck neighbor?”

  Sexy as fuck? Did he just call me sexy as fuck? I’ve never even been called sexy before, let alone with the “as fuck” added to the end. Why the hell does that make me squirm, make my thighs heat, make me wish for…

  I can’t finish the thought because I’m distracted by Paynter, who’s lurching toward me. He tugs open the door and stands there, looking at me through the screen. A dark-haired, petite woman steps into view behind him.

  Was he out on a date and brought her home? If that’s the case, why is he acting so happy to see me? Is she in on the prank he pulled down at the beach? He’d better not be sharing that frustrating aspect of our relationship with her. Yes, I recognize the insanity of feeling proprietary over something that so gets under my skin, but truthfully, I’m feeling that way about the man himself, too, at the moment, and if there’s anything that gets under my skin, it’s definitely Paynter.

  “Who’s that?” the woman asks.

  “My neighbor,” Paynter announces, flapping his arm drunkenly. “She’s right here. Standing on my deck.”

  “I can see that,” the woman says, laughter in her voice. “Why don’t you invite her in?”

  “Why don’t I?” He fumbles with the latch on the screen door. There’s still a wide grin on his face. His eyes are a bit glassy behind his spectacles, and his button-down shirt is untucked and as wrinkled as ever, which should absolutely not be appealing.

  “I have a bone to pick with you,” I say as I step into his house and kick off my flip-flops. A small pile of sand lands on the tiles near my feet.

  Apparently ignoring my words and my tone, he raises his arms, like he’s about to give me a hug, but then he stops and stares instead. “You aren’t wearing a power suit.”

  I look down at my pajama bottoms and sweatshirt. That deflates a little of the wind from my sails. There is nothing to do but to own my dishevelled appearance.

  “Nope.”

  “And you have sand in your hair.”

  I start to run my hand through the strands, but my fingers get caught in the sloppy ponytail. “Yes, I do. And it’s all because of your stupid—”

  “Fuck me, you’re even sexier now.”

  “What?”

  He throws his arms around me and we struggle for a few seconds while I try to keep us both from toppling into any nearby furniture and he attempts to kiss every bit of me he can reach, which is mostly my hair and shoulder. I get a whiff of bourbon when I finally manage to balance us both.

  “Are you drunk?” I ask.

  “Family tradition,” he announces and then flaps an arm over his shoulder, presumably indicating the woman standing behind him. “We always take each other out and get them drunk on their birthdays.” Another person walks into the room and comes up short when he spots me.

  “Chloe,” Paynter’s brother Garrett says. “It is Chloe, right? I should know this. Paynt’s been talking about you all damn night.”

  Probably about how he expected me to react to his latest prank.

  “I have,” Paynter confirms. “All good things. Really good things. And it’s my birthday,” he abruptly announces. “So you should kiss me.”

  “Er…”

  “Come on. You know you liked it when we did it before. I know I did. Wanna know what else I want to do with you? Have I told you how good I am with details?”

  Laughter bubbles up my throat and escapes while I try to catch his hands, which are determined to grab my ass—no, my boobs. Okay, both. He’s like an innocent, eager teenager trying to shock his principal—minus the zits.

  “Oh-h-h, you’re not wearing a bra. How about panties? Are you wearing those?”

  I snag his wandering hands and say, “Maybe you should introduce me to your friend.”

  “My friend?” He swings around, as if he has no idea who I’m talking about, and I have to grab his waist because I almost lose my balance with the sudden loss of his touch. He clamps his hands down over mine and tugs me close, until I’m hugging him from behind. I can feel every one of those hard ridges on his back, and I’m not talking about his spine. The man has the most muscular back I’ve ever had the pleasure to touch.

  Turning his head, he manages to drop a smacking kiss on my nose before I can twist my head to the side.

  “That’s my brother. You’ve met Garrett already, haven’t you?”

  Garrett chuckles. “Nice to officially meet you, Chloe.”

  “I told them your pranks are funny,” Paynter says in a stage whisper that probably reaches the neighbors on the other side of the lake. Garrett practically chokes on his laughter, and I can hear the woman snickering, too. “And your kisses are hot. I told you guys that, didn’t I?”

  “Actually, you told us you wanted to—”

  The woman cuts off whatever Garrett was about to say. “He really did have nothing but good things to say about you,” she says. “I’m Veronica, by the way. Their sister.” She stabs her thumb over her shoulder to indicate Garrett then nods at Paynter.

  “Ronnie,” Paynter declares. “You can call her Ronnie. She doesn’t let many people, but you can.”

  Veronica—Ronnie, whatever—gives a throaty laugh. “He’s right. Only family and friends call me Ronnie. Feel free.”

  I don’t want to know that Paynter talks about me to his siblings, and whatever he’s told them doesn’t make them hate me. And I don’t want his sister to like me so much she’s already decided I belong in some inner circle of people who are allowed to call her by a nickname, even if I think Ronnie’s a cool nickname for a girl.

  This is not part of my plan. My life would be so much easier if they all disliked me and Paynter and I drew a line in the sand and each agreed to stay on our side. No more pranks, no more kisses. Just neighbors. I have goals to achieve and he’s a distraction. Too much distraction.

  “Wait, were you talking about my sister? She’s not my friend,” Paynter says.

  Huh? Oh right, I called her a friend a moment ago, when I thought she was a date he’d brought home. Apparently I need more practice speaking drunken rambling.

  “Thanks a lot,” Ronnie responds.

  “Not like you’re my friend,” he says to me. “You’re one of the funnest friends I have.”

  Me?

  “Funnest?” Ronnie says with a snort.

  “And cutest,” Paynter adds.

  Me?

  “We don’t even like each other,” I say, desperately trying to find my equilibrium. It disappeared somewhere between funnest and cutest.

  “What?
” Paynter is all mock indignation as he twirls around to face me. “We do too like each other. People who don’t like each other don’t kiss like we do.”

  “We don’t kiss,” I say weakly. “I mean, I know we have, and yes, it was pretty spectacular, both times, but we aren’t right now, nor should we in the future. We’re neighbors. And, apparently, friends. That doesn’t generally include kissing.”

  “Glad to know you don’t go around kissing your other neighbors, but I should be excluded from that particular rule.” He stabs a thumb at his chest and affects a serious, albeit drunken look.

  “I…” I try to voice my thoughts, but nothing comes out.

  “It’s my birthday,” he says. “You at least owe me a birthday kiss.”

  Before I can work out how he’s managed to come to this conclusion, he’s grabbed my arms, pulling them toward him so that I’m hugging his waist. And then his hands come up to cup my face, his fingers threading into my hair. I can feel the strands being tugged out of my ponytail, the sand sprinkling my shoulders and the floor, and I can only imagine what I must look like right now. I try to tell myself I don’t care what these people think of me, but the reality is, I’m practically praising God the lighting in his house is dim.

  While I’m saying my ridiculous prayers, Paynter’s lips descend, and I become focused. Those plump promises of sensual delight are the only aspect of my world. I am unable to close my eyes as his face draws nearer, as his eyelids flicker closed behind his glasses, as his lips pucker slightly. My tongue slips out, moistening my upper lip a scant moment before he’s claiming that birthday kiss.

  Tilting his head to the side, he opens his mouth and thrusts out his tongue. I answer by parting my lips, and then he’s invading me, devouring me as if he finds my taste divine and can’t possibly get enough. My fingers curl into his shirt. I’m holding on for dear life. If I let him go I may be swept away into a black hole.

  He untangles a hand from my hair and drops it to my ass, squeezing and pulling me closer. His erection presses into my belly, and I stand on tiptoe, trying to adjust my stance so it’s pressing between my thighs instead. I want that friction. I’m craving it right now. He’s the most decadent chocolate, the finest wine, the most perfectly seasoned and prepared steak. Just because I don’t cook doesn’t mean I don’t appreciate food. Or a man who can kiss like it’s his mission in this life.

  He pulls his lips from mine and whispers them across my cheek to my ear, where he nibbles for a moment before murmuring, “Spend the night with me, Chloe.”

  My knees almost buckle. Is he serious? Yet I’m thinking about it. There are so many reasons not to, and only one reason why it makes sense: Because my vibrator is not going to cut it tonight, not knowing this utterly kissable man is sleeping only a short distance away. To hell with being just neighbors. I want to be sexy, bad neighbors.

  “That’s some birthday kiss.” Ronnie’s voice penetrates my brain. We are not alone. I’m supposed to be angry at him, not slurping at his face like he’s the tastiest damn hot fudge sundae.

  I love fudge. But this cannot happen. I should still be upset about that prank. I need to tell him to stop—stop the pranks, stop the kisses, stop looking at me like he likes me, like he wants to get to know me, all of me, physically and emotionally. I don’t do emotions, not anymore. I do corporate ladder climbing.

  I try to disentangle myself from his arms, but Paynter doesn’t seem to want me to go. “Come ‘eer,” he says, puckering up like he’s ready for round two.

  “No. You—you—you set off fireworks on my beach!”

  He drops his arms and blinks bemusedly for a few seconds before a laugh bursts from his lips. Those damn kissable lips.

  “I didn’t set off fireworks—you did. I just buried them in the sand,” Paynter says, as if I’m supposed to find his sense of humor amusing. And maybe I might have—grudgingly—if Garrett didn’t add his two cents.

  “Oh shit,” he says, laughing. “I forgot we did that earlier today.”

  Clenching my fists, I glare at Paynter. “You had your brother help prank me?”

  “That’s what you two were doing down at the beach?” Ronnie adds. At least I know she wasn’t in on it too.

  “Hey, I had to get you back for the condom incident,” Paynter replies.

  “The condom incident?” Garrett repeats, his eyebrows shooting so high they get lost in his hairline.

  “Not what you think,” Paynter says without taking his gaze off me.

  “Definitely not,” I add while staring him down. What am I doing? Daring him to make it what Garrett thinks? Am I crazy?

  “But it could be,” Paynter says, apparently reading my mind.

  “No, it can’t. I can’t.” This—this thing between us, whatever it is, is getting out of hand. I cannot let his siblings think there is anything going on between us. And despite the temptation his kisses create, despite my highly smutty thoughts constantly heading in that direction, there will not be anything, either. I have other priorities in my life right now, and I have every confidence that if I let him in any further, Paynter will ruin everything I’ve worked for, everything I’ve had to re-work for after Marcus screwed me over and forced me to start a new climb up that corporate ladder at a different company.

  Because Paynter is blocking an easy exit out the door onto the deck, I stride through his kitchen, heading toward the arched entry leading into the foyer.

  “Sweetheart, where are you going?” he calls out. “My bedroom’s that way.” I glance over my shoulder and see him point at the staircase, that silly, drunken grin still on his face. Damn it, screw how adorable he looks like that.

  I look to the heavens as if seeking divine intervention, only to find that horrible chandelier dripping from the ceiling, on proud display, mocking all the normal furniture in the house.

  “Why on earth did you choose that chandelier?” I ask, unable to stop myself.

  “Oh my God, isn’t it the ugliest thing you’ve ever seen?” his sister says, almost screeching the words.

  I think I love her.

  “Yes.” I may have said that word a bit emphatically, but the thing is atrocious. All long, lean lines of dripping crystals, shaped like a, well... It’s terribly phallic-looking, to say the least.

  “I hate that chandelier,” Paynter says, and I drop my gaze and arch my eyebrows, asking without really asking. The previous owners had been hunters, and their chandelier had been made of dead deer antlers. This chandelier was added after he bought the house.

  “He didn’t pick it out,” Garret supplies.

  “Shut up, Garrett,” Paynter responds.

  “What? You don’t want the next girlfriend to know what the last one was like?”

  Uh-oh. I hear the strangest sound in my head, like a siren of some sort, warning me of something. The rocks, Edepis! Will Robinson, watch out!

  “Yeah, I’m not his next girlfriend,” I try to say, but Paynter dives at Garrett and claps his hand over his brother’s mouth. I’m not sure what Garrett does, but I’m pretty sure it involves licking, because Paynter pulls his hand away and swipes it on his pant leg.

  “Gross. You’re such a fucking adolescent,” he complains.

  “Takes one to know one,” Garrett says in a singsong voice. I have to agree with Paynter on this one. Initially, based entirely on their looks, I would have pegged Garrett as older, but now I wonder.

  “So anyway,” Garrett says as if continuing a previous conversation, “just to be clear about the chandelier. I’m about 70 percent positive that’s not Paynt’s taste.”

  “That’s not exactly clear,” I point out.

  “It’s Bernadette’s taste.”

  Who the hell is Bernadette? Please tell me she’s their mother.

  “Shut the fuck up, Garrett.” Paynter sounds almost lucid, but then he lunges at his brother like they’re in the ring at those ridiculous cage match things I occasionally see advertised on television. Garrett rushes into the formal di
ning room, and Ronnie and I watch as Paynter chases him around the table for several laps.

  “Is this normal?” I ask her.

  “Yep. Especially after a half dozen shots of bourbon, each one chased by a different beer. We were at a craft brewery tonight,” she explains.

  “Lovely.”

  “Bernadette,” Garrett shouts as he rushes by. “Queen B. That woman had the biggest fucking stick up her ass. I don’t know how there was room for Paynt’s dick.”

  Biggest fucking stick up her ass. Isn’t that how Paynter described me, the day we met? Oh God. Oh God. Oh God. I have to get out of here.

  “But he managed. For five years he managed. We kept telling him he was an idiot, but her pussy must’ve been like a drug or some shit, because he refused to listen. Even started talking about proposing. And all that crazy-ass, stuck-up bitch wanted was for him to fit into her life plan. Didn’t give a shit about love or forever after or anything. Or even him. She just wanted him to conform.”

  Her life plan. She had a plan. And she had a stick up her ass.

  “Shut. The. Fuck. Up. Garrett.” Paynter sounds angry, irrationally so. Which makes sense, since he’s drunk as a skunk.

  Do skunks actually get drunk?

  My mind is bouncing around, trying to find a safe place to settle, and finding only landmines, explosives, and bad history that can never be undone.

  “I have to go.” The words tumble out of my mouth, even as I hurry toward the door. “Dog. I have to let the dog out.” I don’t have a dog, of course. They’re messy and require upkeep and attention and training. Like Paynter.

  “I have to get out of here.”

  I catch a glimpse of Ronnie’s face as I stumble past her, blindly making my way across the foyer. She looks concerned, confused. Me, I’m not confused. Paynter is one of those guys, and I’m one of those girls.

  And the two do not mix. Not even for one night.

  CHAPTER SIX