“Right,” she agreed. She averted her gaze as if she was afraid I’d start asking questions she wouldn’t want to answer. She would soon learn that I didn’t work that way. I wanted to know more about her, sure, but I wasn’t the type to pry. The present meant a whole lot more to me than the past, and right now, I was happy with where we were.
“That doesn’t apply to you, of course,” I clarified, waving my hand over the breakfast feast. “Feel free to cook for me anytime.”
She laughed again. God, I loved that sound. Like sunshine and music.
“And what do I get out of it?” she teased.
I thought about telling her exactly what I would have liked to give her, but our connection was too new to put to the test like that. Now that she had gifted me with her laugh and her smile, I wasn’t about to do anything that would set us back a step or two.
“Good question.” I flexed, just a little, pleased when her eyes latched onto the movement. Fresh air, physical therapy, and lots of manual labor kept me in decent shape. “What do you need?”
“Besides shooting lessons?” she asked, avoiding my open-ended question. I nodded. I could tell she had something on her mind, but she was reluctant to say so.
“Spit it out, woman,” I coaxed.
“Well...I have a couple of loose shingles I’d like to get nailed down before the bad weather hits. I could do it myself, but I have a little trouble climbing ladders...”
I remembered thinking the same thing each time I saw her out there in the orchards. That was bad enough, but to imagine her up there on the roof with her bum leg? No way, not on my watch. I didn’t want to damage her pride, though, and pretended to consider it.
“I already have a new pack of shingles and the nails and the sealant in the barn,” she added, speaking a little faster now, as if she needed to convince me before I shut her down. “And maybe I can make you dinner or something, you know, for your time.”
I almost laughed at that. All I had was time. Time I found myself wanting to spend with her more and more.
“I work, you feed me,” I mused, then grinned. “I think I’m definitely getting the better end of that deal. No take-backs, though.”
Chapter 6
Clarissa
I watched Travis as he stalked across the grass to the barn, a symphony of male movement my body wanted to dance to. What remained of the pack of shingles was slung casually over one shoulder, though I knew how heavy those things were. A hammer and a small crowbar dangled from the tool belt slung low on his hips, swaying with the movement of each confident step. A light sheen of sweat glistened over his bronzed, bare back and shoulders, making it impossible to turn away.
Travis Maxwell was a man who owned his body. He was comfortable in his own skin. I envied him that.
That was something I couldn’t relate to. I’d never been particularly happy with my body. I’d always been too short. Too fluffy. My boobs were too big, my hips too wide for my diminished height. These days, I wish I’d spent less time worrying about that and more time appreciating the fact that at least everything had worked well. Since the accident, I tried not to take anything for granted anymore.
Even simple things – standing for long periods of time, walking too far – could be difficult. Other things, like climbing or running, were next to impossible. Rather than feel sorry for myself, though, I said a prayer of thanks every night, because a bum leg was better than no leg, and I’d come damn close to losing mine.
Like most life-changing events, it wasn’t directly my fault. I was on my way home from my weekly trip to the local farmer’s market, a canvas bag in each hand filled with fresh produce. The market was only a couple of blocks from our house, and it had been such a beautiful day that I’d left the car in the garage and decided to walk instead. I was thinking about the recipe for herbed, roasted vegetables I wanted to try that night.
A car ran a red light while I was in the middle of the crosswalk. I never saw it coming.
I woke up in the hospital a couple of days later and found out what happened. Bottom line: the guy was drunk. Nearly eighty years old, he was already soused at ten o’clock in the morning. Wasn’t his first time, either. He’d had his license revoked and had seven prior “incidents”.
As part of his “punishment”, he came to see me in the hospital. The kicker? He was one of the nicest old men I’d ever met.
He was also the only visitor I had, except for the obligatory ones from my ex, Mark. Mark used the evening visiting hours wisely, though. While I stared dead-eyed at the tiny mounted television screen above me, he pulled out his laptop and caught up on the work he was missing “because of me”. I never quite figured that one out, since he hadn’t taken a single day off that I knew of. If he had, he sure as hell hadn’t spent it with me.
The nurses and doctors kept telling me I was lucky to be alive. The thing is, I didn’t feel so lucky. It seems weird to say so, but the thought of “getting back to normal” wasn’t appealing in the least. I was in an unhappy relationship. I hated my job as a financial analyst for the international monstrosity that had bulldozed its way over several smaller, locally-based niche IT companies. I had a couple of people I was friendly with, but no real friends.
I had the shocking revelation that, except for fifty years and a difference of gender, my life was an exact parallel of the old man’s who had run me over. His miserable life, he confided to me as he sipped from the flask he’d snuck into my room, was why he drank so much. The only time anyone noticed (or cared) was when he hurt somebody else.
I thought about the nightly brandy habit I’d already developed. It wasn’t much, just a shot or two before bedtime. I liked the pleasant warmth and the way it relaxed me so I didn’t lie awake in bed alone, thinking too much.
Would I be that man in another fifty years?
With two weeks of nothing but rehab and time to think, I did a lot of soul-searching. I came up with some hard truths. Despite the fact that I’d followed the formula and done everything “right”, I wasn’t happy. I didn’t like anything about my life. Sharing a place with Mark and my job were slowly killing me. I didn’t want to spend the rest of my life that way. And I didn’t want anyone to ever get hurt because of me.
I tried to talk with Mark. He insisted we were fine, everything was fine.
It wasn’t. It would never be, I realized, unless I did something about it. ‘Tis better to light a single candle than curse the darkness. I don’t know who first said that, but whoever it was, was pretty smart.
“Earth to Rissa.” Travis’ deep voice rolled through me like a wave, tugging me away from my reflections. His shortened address felt warm, intimate. No one had ever called me that before. “If you’re finished ogling me, I’m going to head back to my place.”
I felt the heat rise in my face. Yes, I had been ogling him, but I’d zoned out for the last couple of minutes. I don’t know what bothered me more – the fact that he’d caught me in the act or that I’d wasted several minutes of prime ogling time.
“I’m done,” I said casually, waving my hand in a shooing gesture. “You can go now.”
He grinned cockily. “Lasagna.”
“What?”
“That’s what I want for dinner. Lasagna. With lots of meat and that chunky homemade sauce of yours.”
I blinked, looking at him blankly.
“Our deal,” he reminded me. “You get manual labor. I get food. Your roof is fixed. And I’m hungry for lasagna.”
“Right,” I nodded. I knew that. I did.
He leaned down and petted Ripper, who had become my shadow. The scent of clean male sweat and heat-activated deodorant tickled my nose and I discreetly filled my lungs with it.
“I’ll be back around sundown. And Rissa?”
“Yeah?”
“Don’t stare at my ass while I’m walking away. It’s objectifying.”
I openly gaped at him, but he just winked and strutted – yes, strutted – out of my kitchen like a big
male peacock.
I showed him, though. I stared at his ass the whole way.
Travis
The water was cold, but not nearly cold enough. My cock was like granite, pulsing within my firm grip. I’d never felt the power of a woman’s gaze more acutely than I had hers. She wasn’t just horny, she was hungry. Like, haven’t-had-a–meal-in-ages starving.
I wondered how long it had been for her. Six months, minimum. She didn’t have a go-to in town like I did. I looked down at my cock and frowned. It never got this worked up over Sugar. The thought was unsettling because Sugar had some serious skills.
Rissa – I’d come up with the nickname to annoy her, but damn, she seemed to like it – wouldn’t have those same skills. Some things a guy just knew. They talk about women having a sixth sense? Men did, too. But instead of generalized intuition, ours was much more specific and involved the level of a woman’s sexual experience.
No, Rissa was nothing like Sugar. Rissa’s touch would be far gentler. Exploring. Curious. Her eyes wouldn’t be filled with confident knowledge, they would be probing and uncertain, searching for approval and reassurance. Her moves wouldn’t be well-planned; she’d find her way as she went, using her fingers and tongue and teeth to create a map of my pleasure...
Fuck! My cock exploded with such force my knees buckled. I leaned against the tile and continued to tug as jet after jet shot out, mixing with water and disappearing between my feet. Afterward, I felt drained. Drained and scared. Because if I could come like that just thinking about my neighbor, what would it actually be like to make love to her?
No, not make love – have sex. Because that’s what I did. That was all I could do because I didn’t have anything else to offer.
Except... Rissa didn’t know that. For the first time, I considered that maybe I wasn’t being fair to her. Maybe she was misinterpreting my interest as something more than what it was.
I shook my head. As much as I didn’t want to jeopardize this new thing we had between us, I had to be honest with her. We would talk. Tonight.
Damn if she didn’t make lasagna. And damn if it wasn’t the best lasagna I’d ever had. And not just lasagna, but freshly baked garlic bread and a salad of fresh greens from her garden, too. As good as it was, though, it was hard to talk around the words that had lodged in my throat. We had reached a point where things had to be said, guidelines had to be set, and expectations established. Part of me was thrumming in anticipation, anxious to take things to the next level. Another part was biding its time, quietly preparing for a beat-down.
Either way, once I opened my mouth, it was going to change things. Hopefully, for the better.
“Rissa,” I said, clearing my throat, “I think you and I should talk.”
“Okay,” she agreed easily. Was I imagining it or did it seem like she’d been thinking along the same lines?
“We’re neighbors.” Brilliant opening, dumbass.
She looked at me, waiting.
“I like you. You’re not whiny or needy. You mind your own business and leave me to mine.”
She blinked in acknowledgment. I searched for anything that would give me an indication of what she was thinking, but her expression was neutral, unreadable. So, like the soldier I was, I plodded on.
“I also find you extremely attractive, and, at the risk of sounding full of myself, I think that’s mutual.”
Another blink. What the hell did that mean? Was she agreeing with me? Or was she ready to kick my ass to the curb?
“Thing is, I wouldn’t mind if our arrangement went further than an exchange of goods for services, you know? I’d like that, actually,” I admitted, scratching the back of my neck. “But I can’t offer anything more than that. It would be purely physical – no emotions, no feelings, no commitment.”
I clamped my lips shut, wondering if I’d totally misread the situation and just made a complete ass out of myself. She lifted up her glass of water and took a sip.
“Okay,” she said finally.
“Okay?” It was my turn to blink.
“Okay. I’ll have sex with you,” she clarified, looking at the table, not at me. “But I have some ground rules, too.”
I withheld the fist pump and the great big hooyah burning to get free. “I’m listening.”
“We’ll try it. If it’s not good, we move on. We go back to goods and services, and we don’t talk about it again, ever.”
I narrowed my eyes. I couldn’t conceive of it not being good, but I nodded. It was more than reasonable.
“And one more thing,” she said, all business now. “I’m not into drama, so if you being with me is going to cause any, I’d just as soon forget the whole thing now.
It took me a few minutes to understand what she was saying. Clearly, she had picked up on the fact that there was something going on between Sugar and me. It wasn’t an issue for me, but would it be for Sugar? I’d been upfront about where I stood from the beginning, making sure Sugar knew it was just about the sex. And until recently, I’d thought we were on the same page. But even I noticed Sugar’s proprietary behavior around Rissa. That was a clear red warning flag that it was time to put a stop to that. Which meant I was free and clear.
“No drama,” I assured her.
“Okay then.”
She got up and took her plates to the sink. Not knowing what else to do, I did the same. I would follow her lead, at least until I got a better feel for how this was going to go down. We both scraped the small bites remaining into Ripper’s bowl, which he greatly appreciated. I helped her rinse off the dishes and put the food away.
There was an undeniable charge in the air. Now that we’d basically agreed to have sex, it was all I could think about. Despite my DIY prequel, my cock was hard, my balls aching.
I deliberately placed myself in her personal space, coming up behind her while she was at the sink. I felt her body heat up and down the length of my body. Her delicate fragrance wafted up and wrapped around me.
I rested my hands on her shoulders, testing the waters. Tremors ran through her and into me, which my cock interpreted as an all-systems-go.
“You sure about this?” I asked anyway, lowering my head and speaking softly into her ear, letting my lips brush against the delicate outer shell.
She moaned softly, a wholly feminine sound that sent irrational shockwaves through my groin, and leaned back against me. “Yes.”
Thank. Christ.
I nuzzled her hair, her neck. Her hands fell to my thighs, stroking me through the denim. I’d never considered that an erogenous zone before, but she might as well have stuck her hand in my pants and cupped my balls for all the effect it had on me. I ground my rock-hard erection into her lush little ass, craving the feel of her on me.
Her hips began to move, just slight motions, but they felt amazing. My hands flowed over her shoulders and down until I cupped her breasts. They were surprisingly heavy, filling my large hands. I stroked my thumbs over her nipples, hard and evident through her bra and top. I could feel the insistent thump of her heart, too, and I took pleasure in the fact that she was right there with me.
I kept one hand on her breast; the other moved down to cup her mound. It was a possessive, dominant hold I had on her, and it felt so right that it was downright scary. She ground herself into my hand and I pressed hard against her backside so that she was sandwiched between my hand and my hips. All I could think about was how I wanted to mimic this scenario, naked.
To that end, I lifted the hem of her shirt. The heat from her hands left my thighs only long enough for me to pull the shirt over her head and toss it off to the side. Her bra came off next, then my shirt, so from the waist up, we were skin to skin. She was warm, her skin so soft and silky. I cupped her breasts in my hands again. They were perfect breasts. Full and firm and round, tipped with diamond-hard nipples that were a direct result of my touch.
I could, and would, spend hours caressing those perfect breasts. Plucking them. Teasing them. Pinching, su
cking, and biting them. But for the first time since I was a teenager, I was close to coming in my pants. I could not allow that to happen, not now, not our first time together.
My hands skimmed down her stomach to her jeans. Clasp undone, zipper lowered, I slid inside and pushed those down along with her silky panties. She groaned and helped me, stepping out of them and kicking them to the side as I took care of my own.
I pressed my naked body to hers, reveling in the sensations firing at every point where we connected. In record time, I sheathed myself and rubbed my cock against the swell of her ass with a desperation I wasn’t used to feeling.
I pulled back only far enough to reposition myself so that my blunt head nudged against her. My intent had been to stroke along her folds, but she was so wet, so slick with need that it slipped inside a little.
She groaned, and I felt the rumble in my cock. Her legs parted slightly and she thrust her ass back at me in wordless demand.
I grabbed her breast and squeezed with one hand, palmed her mound with the other, effectively holding her in place while I pushed forward. I grit my teeth and forced myself to impale her slowly. She was so tight, gripping me like a tight fist, hot and wet and tight.
By the time my balls hit her flesh, we were both gasping for breath. Her short nails were digging into my legs. The need to take her, to drive into her like a beast, was nearly overpowering. I don’t know how I found the strength, but I held myself still long enough for her to become accustomed to my size. I was quite sure my cock had never been quite so long or thick. Even as I vaguely registered that thought, it swelled even more inside her.
Her sheath was squeezing me, choking me with absolute bliss. I started moving, intending to keep it slow and easy. That plan was shot to shit after a single stroke. Unable to help myself, I drilled into her like a power driver, holding her in place.
I’d like to brag and say I had the stamina to go at it like that forever, but the truth was, I didn’t last five freaking minutes. She was keening – keening – with need, begging me between feminine grunts and moans to go faster, harder. I did. It was so hot. My hand still possessively cupped her; my fingers rubbed over her swollen flesh with each thrust. I felt her body start to tense, felt her sheath strangling me.
The Realist Page 6