Boys Next Door

by Sommer Marsden

  When he came, a slew of unintelligible words falling from his sensual lips, I came again. It was small and sugary and more due to the look on his face than anything. That look of a man caught in a moment of bliss, unable to control himself – and okay with it.

  He dropped his head, catching his breath. I couldn’t help but smile. Or help running my fingers over the lean band of muscles over his hips. He shivered when I touched him and those dark eyes opened, flaring with spent but still present arousal.

  ‘That was even better than the elevator.’

  ‘It was. So …’ I touched him again just to see that minor quake in his muscles. ‘Is this how you greet all the newcomers?’

  He chuckled, stroking my ankle bone with his thumb before straightening up and stretching. ‘What newcomers? And no.’

  ‘Pizza?’ I sighed, watching him gather his jeans. The man should have been carved from stone he was that well put together. He tied off the condom and disappeared to the powder room.

  ‘I was thinking pie and wine!’ he called. Emerging from the small room and wiping his hands on the tail of his shirt, he said,’ Sorry, I’ve been in this house. So I just …’ He pointed toward the tiny bathroom.

  ‘No worries. I like that you seem at home. It means it’s a nice home.’

  ‘Nicer now,’ he said. He curled a finger at me. ‘Come, child. Best peach pie ever. She puts up the peaches when they’re at their ripest so she can make the pies all fall and winter long.’

  ‘Who’s “she”?’ I followed him after pulling my sweater back on. Just the sweater; thanks to the fire, it was all I needed. I leaned on the counter and accepted a paper plate with a perfect slice of pie on it.

  ‘Margaret at the farmer’s market. Locals just call her the pie goddess.’

  I took a bite and felt damn near orgasmic again. I rolled my eyes. ‘My God, no wonder.’

  ‘Told you.’ He handed me a coffee mug full of wine and I sipped.

  ‘Heaven,’ I said.

  ‘The sex didn’t hurt,’ Deke said, winking at me.

  When I removed myself mentally from the situation, I was shocked to find that I was completely at ease with him. I felt comfortable and sexy and flirty. Something I hadn’t experienced – ever. And deep down it terrified me. I took a slug of wine and pushed the realisation away. I could deal with it later.

  ‘Not at all,’ I said. ‘Elevator sex, great. Antique sofa sex, superb.’ I raised my mug and Deke clinked it.

  ‘Wow, “superb”. That is high praise.’

  ‘Indeed.’ I ate the rest of my pie and held my plate out. ‘More, please.’

  His grin flashed white in the muted light of the kitchen and attraction curled like smoke in my belly. The man’s smile was dangerous. ‘Good to see a woman who eats,’ he said and plopped another generous slice on my plate.

  I finished off my wine and held that out too.

  ‘And drinks,’ he chuckled filling me up.

  I leaned on the counter and ate the second piece slowly. ‘This is … perfect.’

  ‘So let me ask you, Farrell McGee …’

  I watched him tip back his wine and swallow. I had butterflies. Massive butterflies – swirling, twirling, dancing in my gut.

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘My bet would be, by watching you and judging by your new lease on life, that you’re not looking for something long term.’ He was as sober as a judge. Watching me.

  I fidgeted a bit, sipped my wine, and cleared my throat. ‘I’m not. Not right now. I’ve never actually been serious about someone. But I’m not ready to even get into something … steady would be a good word.’

  But he does weird things to your stomach. And your heart. In one day –

  I ignored that voice. No way, Jose. Not now. Not this soon. I had just gotten here. I hadn’t even spent a night in my own home yet.

  ‘I figured.’ He held up a finger. ‘Notice I did not say assume. Because that would make an ass out of me …’

  ‘And me,’ I chimed in. ‘As for asking. No harm, no foul.’

  ‘Good.’ He touched my lower lip and desire blazed through me, making me lock my knees and hold my breath.

  He leaned over the kitchen island and kissed me, tasting of peaches and good red wine. ‘Because there’s something about me you should know.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘I am a patient man. I have all the time in the world. I’m not going anywhere.’

  I blew out a shuddery breath and nodded. ‘Cheers.’

  We clinked mugs.

  ‘Cheers.’

  He left me when the fire died down and I yawned three times in a row. ‘Sleep tight, Farrell. If you need anything, you know where to find me.’

  I watched him cross the street, that walk that was almost a strut, that broad back, those hands – God, those hands. How they’d been all over me.

  ‘Jesus,’ I sighed. ‘What have I gotten myself into?’

  Chapter Eight

  I had no bed. It sounds like the beginning of an orphan story but I didn’t, so I made up the sofa with sheets and a big quilt I’d brought with me. The quilt had been my mother’s, a purchase from a tag sale, and weight about a hundred pounds. So I doubted I’d be cold despite the wind that was currently buffeting my fairy-tale cottage.

  I pushed my face to the cool glass and watched the trees tossing with each gust. The small TV I’d brought was picking up the local channels just fine thanks to a brand-new HD box I’d bought.

  ‘Even TV isn’t free anymore, Dad,’ I whispered.

  My father would have had a fit knowing that you had to pay for even the most basic network channels. And knowing that he’d have a fit amused me because I could picture him vividly.

  There were lights on in all three houses. Front room for Coop’s small stone house – maybe his living room. The upper right room for Deke’s – I was betting that was the bathroom, so I immediately imagined him naked. Imagining Deke naked was like imagining a chocolate torte – the moment you pictured it, you wanted it. Speaking of baked goods, in Stephen the baker’s little cottage it was the upper left room – bedroom maybe? I knew bakers kept odd hours and given it was past eleven, I wasn’t surprised to see the light flip off.

  I wondered if his house smelled of yeast and cinnamon and sugar.

  ‘He lures you in with his sugary treats. Like in Hansel and Gretel,’ I whispered, letting the lace curtain fall. ‘Firstly, Farrell, what is with all the fairy-tale references and secondly, stop talking to yourself, you twit.’

  I watched some news and covered myself in the quilt and then enjoyed the ending of the fire, glowing its merry glow. It wasn’t long before my eyes were heavy and my body followed suit. I was too tired to put away the pie, or shower, or anything but lie here watching the dancing blue shimmer of the television screen through almost shut eyes.

  When my eyes finally did drop, the blue light penetrated just enough to give a ghostly flicker to the darkness behind my closed lids.

  I was in the tower. It was so tall. Much taller than it appeared from my front porch. My hair whipped in the ever-present wind that whistled through the small keyhole windows in the structure …

  Down below, when I leaned over a bit too far, giving myself a swirl and dip of vertigo, I could see them. Three in a row looking up at me. Cooper and his assessing eyes, his self-assured swagger, his smile. Stephen and his black hair, his bulging forearms, his confidence. Deke, big flashing smile, narrow jaw, Lucifer-like demeanour … hell on two legs. Literally.

  The cottages were dotted with gingerbread and candy and each man opened his mouth to speak. In unison they bleated, hard, squealing pig sounds that froze my heart.

  ‘Dream, dream, dream …’ I chanted, running down the spiral stairs. Three men, three pigs, three choices, gluttony of arousal. It all swirled through my head and I knew that I was dreaming. But I batted the thought away with a shiver as the wind twined itself through the stone stairwell.

  At the bottom, I rushed o
ut, a bitter gust lifting my hair from my face and my neck. I looked down to see my nightgown – plain white gauzy peasant gown that hugged my breasts, exposing twin points against the fabric from the cold. I rubbed my thighs together realising that I was bare underneath. And so were my feet.

  ‘Dream, dream, dream …’ I repeated. Noticing, of course, the group of three. Three of everything around these parts. ‘Three is the magic number,’ I whispered but the wind scooped up my words and tossed them away.

  I ran to Deke’s house. He turned to me in a swirl of smoke and I knew I should be afraid, but instead, I was drawn to him. He was so … there. Intriguing. Sexy. Possessing. I shivered when he reached for me and said something I almost made out, but not quite. ‘You’ll love me,’ he said and when he smiled his teeth were so white and so big and … growing. And a forked tail whipped around from behind his back to stroke a lock of hair behind my ear.

  I turned and fled.

  ‘Wake up, Farrell,’ I hissed.

  But I knew I wouldn’t.

  I slammed into Coop. Bounced off of him and let him steady me with his big hands. He glowed slightly.

  Because he works for the power company, silly, I thought. As if that were the most logical thing in the world.

  ‘Hey, there. Where you going, little girl?’

  His words terrified me and turned me on. I leaned in to kiss him, not feeling in control, but decidedly out of control. It was only at the last minute that I caught the whisper of whiskers on my face. I reared back seeing the long pink lupine tongue, licking his chops. Utterly wolfish chops.

  ‘You’re not a pig. You’re the wolf,’ I gasped, backpedalling so fast I stumbled and almost fell.

  ‘Back off, Coop,’ came the words just as the large arms caught me. Big forearms that wrapped to my waist and kept me from falling.

  I turned into the white chef coat of soft-spoken, sadly serious Stephen. He smelled of cinnamon and sugar and the sharp pungent deliciousness of vanilla extract. He smoothed my hair back and took my hand. ‘Come inside, hurry.’

  He tugged me in his gently commanding way and I followed, stumbling up his wide plank steps and sliding precariously across his porch. Inside, he turned and slammed the door. The entire kitchen was decorated with candy and tuiles of caramel and chocolate. His chandelier was spun sugar and gumdrops.

  He turned to me, his face having grown dark – a frightening shade of greyish green – and pointed. As authoritative as I remembered, he pointed and practically hissed, ‘Get in the oven, Farrell.’

  I sat straight up, head pounding with my pulse, wind banging a stray branch to the side window. I thought I’d heard myself scream or cry out. Instead, the sound of my fear piloted out of my mouth on a strangled puff of impotent air.

  ‘Fuck me hard,’ I breathed. ‘What the hell is with you and the fairy tales, you nutter?’

  Even I couldn’t ignore the fact that when I pulled my hair back into a messy knot, my hands were shaking. I found a tiny bit of solace in the fact that it was morning, and I could get up and make myself a cup of coffee. And eat some pie.

  But when I cut the pie, the sweetness factor, the gooeyness, reminded me of my pseudo male witch of the forest – Stephen – and I opted for the remainder of a bag of chips instead.

  Breakfast of champions, kid …

  * * *

  What sounded like a shotgun went off when I was in the shower. The boom shook the small window and made me scream and drop the shampoo.

  I clutched my heart, felt it hammering beneath my wet skin, and tried to suck in enough oxygen to not pass out.

  ‘This is like that movie about the house where everything keeps going wrong. What next? The tub falls through the floor?’ I muttered.

  I rinsed my hair and the shower gel from my skin. I’d skip my normal ten minutes of simply standing in the pounding, hot spray. I needed to know if part of my house had just blown up or what.

  Wrapping myself in a tattered blue robe, I shoved my feet into horrible fuchsia plaid mukluks that had been a gift from a fellow bartender last Christmas. I twirled my hair up in a towel and took the steps slowly so I didn’t trip over my own slippered feet.

  ‘What the fuck. What. The. Fuck.’

  I opened the door to a raised hand – knuckles cocked to knock – and fierce green eyes. That unruly lock of raw honey-coloured hair was brushing sensually along his eyebrow and that cocky half-smile had taken over his mouth.

  ‘Hi,’ Coop said, putting his hand down, taking a step toward me.

  I took a step back, clutching my robe to me for all I was worth. It had not escaped my notice that my heart was pounding again and my body was humming with an electric warmth. ‘Hi. What the hell was … that?’

  He poked his head in, taking one more step up onto the threshold. Without thinking, I took a step back into the foyer, effectively inviting him in.

  So he came in and I felt a tug of arousal in the core of myself. Crap.

  ‘That was a pot.’

  ‘What the fuck kind of pot sounds like that?’ I gasped, hands still shaking. ‘And whose pot was it? And how did a pot make that much –’ I cocked my head and felt a rogue strand of hair drip shower water down the shoulder of my robe.

  In an almost surreal state, I watched him reach out and brush my soaking wet lock back. ‘It was a pot, up on the power lines. We need a new one. So currently, you have no power. But I’m guessing you were in the shower so you might not know.’

  His finger trailed lightly over the shoulder of my robe where the water had darkened the fabric. It was as if he were touching me. My bare skin. My nipples spiked and my tummy tickled and my pussy gave over a slippery flood of juices.

  For a split second I feared he could smell my arousal. Sense it. As if I were dealing with an animal and not a man.

  ‘That’s just residuals from the dream,’ I told myself.

  ‘Pardon?’

  I cocked my head and then blushed. I had said that aloud. I hadn’t meant to.

  ‘Nothing. Not enough coffee,’ I said, willing myself to move back and going nowhere. ‘And I guess I won’t be getting any more now will I?’

  I laughed stupidly – nervously – and cringed to hear it.

  ‘I can make you coffee if you want more,’ he said, moving past me, his boots thunking on my wide plank wood floor.

  He moved like a force of nature. Big and bold but controlled. He made me feel hot and cold at the same time, being so close to him. It was awful. It was wonderful. It had me feeling on edge, like I might laugh or weep at any given moment.

  I felt a rush of guilt thinking of Deke and then reminding myself I was not in for anything serious. No long haul. No love at first sight or any off that bullshit. I was not ready to tie myself down to anyone before I had a handle on the life I wanted.

  Whatever the hell that was.

  This man, this big lean man, waltzed into my kitchen like he owned it. He took my red enamel pot and filled it with two coffee cups full of water.

  'Matches?' he asked.

  I handed him the box from the counter. Then Coop turned the burner until we heard the gas hiss and lit it with a wooden kitchen match. 'Gas and electric men, we always have tricks.' He grinned at me and then he opened the junk drawer and rifled through it. When he didn’t find what he wanted, he asked, ‘You have a small strainer?’

  ‘How small?’ I almost whispered. It was hard not to just watch him and his economical movements.

  ‘Size of a tuna can?’

  ‘Nope.’

  ‘Coffee filters?’

  I opened a box on the counter and felt my robe gape a bit. I also felt his eyes on me and it made me flush hot, like I was out in the sun. I rummaged, clutching my robe with one hand, rifling with the other. Finally, I yanked out a package of filters and handed it to him.

  ‘Another pot? A bowl? A large measuring cup?’

  More rummaging and I handed him a glass measuring cup with a spout.

  ‘Thank you, Farrell,’
he said. ‘Where are you off to today?’

  ‘Applying at a dog salon,’ I snorted.

  He smiled at me, stunning me a bit. Turmoil started in my stomach and much, much lower. I nodded, unable to speak.

  Deke made me feel bold and wild. Coop made me feel barely in control and on edge, constantly off kilter and unsteady. It was oddly pleasant to feel after so many years of trying so very hard to pilot a destiny that did not want to behave.

  Which reminded me to be nervous about my looming dog salon job interview. I couldn’t decide if it was a step up or a step down from working at a bar. Or maybe it was just a lateral move. And maybe that was okay.

  When the water came to a boil he asked me, ‘Strong or weak?’

  At first I thought he meant me. And I almost said strong … I hope. But then I realised he meant coffee and I stuck with my original answer. ‘Strong.’

  I stared at my ugly mukluks and my freshly shaved legs and waited. Embarrassed that I looked so bad, but partly relieved too. It’s not like I looked sexy or enticing. I was a wet, ugly robe-swaddled mess.

  He dumped four tablespoons of coffee into the water and twisted my egg timer to three minutes. It started to tick.

  ‘You okay?’ He had a way of setting his jaw after he asked a question, as if daring you to disappoint him. I found it unsettling because the thought of upsetting Jim Cooper was distressing. And there was no logical reason it should be.

  ‘I’m wet.’

  I didn’t even backpedal verbally when he cocked that half grin at me. I just dropped my eyes and shook my head and sighed.

  ‘Literally,’ I said.

  A soft chuckle.

  ‘My hair. My robe. And I want coffee and something that sounded like a cannon shook my windows.’

  He waved a hand at me when the egg timer gave a shrill sound.

  ‘Get used to it, the pots around here blow all the time. They’re old lines and overtaxed and need to be replaced.’

  ‘Well you’re power, can’t you do that?’ I asked, watching him start to slowly pour the brewed coffee into the filter he’d suspended over the large measuring cup. He patiently, steadily, held it aloft while coffee dribbled through the paper into the cup.