Needless to say it was a confusing childhood. A rebellious, bold father raised in a strict Irish Catholic home with nine brothers and sisters. My dad had always told me he had to use cunning and will just to get a second piece of beef at dinner and that life didn’t hand over wants and wishes. You had to make it happen.
My mother, who was wonderful and loving – don’t get me wrong – taught me to strive to be … well, her. Husband and a child and cooking and cleaning and normalcy. I wanted none of it. And though I felt such an all-encompassing grief when I was twenty-five and my mother passed away, part of me felt a sense of relief that she was no longer sitting there waiting for that reality to become my life. That she was not waiting anymore to attain a son-in-law and then for me to make her a grandmother.
I felt a small surge of freedom to be what I wanted to be. Which was – I had no idea. An actress maybe. Or just a person. No bright and shining star. No super-famous stage-dominating actress. Just – me. Just Farrell. Just a person who was happy.
And that’s where I landed and why I was at Tower Terrace. I just wanted to be happy. It didn’t have to be some blinding explosion of success. Just lying down at night to go to sleep and feeling peace would work.
‘So I’ll get what I want. Right now I want Stephen Vogel, who seemed very sure of himself at first, but now – Now he seems a bit more gentle than I originally thought,’ I told my reflection.
Hair up. Hair down. Knotted. Twisted. Ponytail. Finally, I threw my hands up, tossed my head forward and shook it. Letting the unruly half-curly half-straight nature of my long hair rear its ugly head.
Faded jeans and bright red clogs, a skintight long-sleeved black T-shirt, but over it a man’s cardigan. I was mod clubber meets straight-laced librarian. I was shy school girl meets vixen. I was –
‘Horny,’ I said to myself and smiled. ‘Again. Not sure how that happened,’ I muttered putting on a little bit of pink lipstick before shutting off the light.
Donna had offered to let me adopt Brutus after the little wiener dog had followed me around, love struck and bald-eared, for the rest of my work day. I kept telling her it was the sugar on me that he smelled. It was donut lust, but when I’d left for the day, promising to return at ten the following day for my first full day of answering phones and flea-dipping poodles, Brutus had cried.
And I’d felt a tug.
Plus, if I got a dog, I could talk to the dog and not so much to myself. I loaded my dishwasher, wiped down the counter and did everything I could to stall. Six o’clock seemed to be taking forever to come, even with the bottle of wine I’d bought waiting by the front door. Even with the lovely wood view outside my kitchen door. I stood and watched the leaves raining down in soft piles.
I wondered why Sidney had never sold this part of his land. There were three houses and a tower for goodness sake, across the street. But on this side, just his house. And now, just me.
I opened the back door and walked over the small, wooden back porch. At some point it had been a much smaller concrete porch, but the owner before Sidney, or Sidney himself, had ripped that down and put on a bigger, though still on the small side, wooden porch. It was more of a deck, with a built-in bench on one side.
I sat on it.
‘So he could sit and survey his land,’ I said to the bench.
I didn’t know if that was true, but it felt true to me. The sky was purpling and I looked forward to navy-blue night time. But for now, watching the blazing, brazen leaves drift down was nice.
I squinted at something in the far back yard. It looked like a stack of bricks but that couldn’t be right.
I’ll huff and I’ll puff …
‘If they’re the three little pigs, you’re the big bad wolf. You do get that right, cupcake?’ I murmured to myself.
I crunched my way across the back yard, letting the ankle-deep leaves eddy and flow around my clogs as I walked. I loved the sound and the smell and the nip in the air of fall. I also loved finding unexpected things that were suddenly mine whether it was a green vintage sofa or a pile of bricks.
‘But not a pile of bricks,’ I said, pushing away a pile of leaves that had drifted around the small structure like a colourful snow bank. ‘A grill?’
It was an outdoor grill. Or as my father had called it back in the day, a barbeque. We’d had one similar in our back yard. My parents would hold big parties and everyone – whether winter or spring or summer or fall – everyone ended up around that thing, beer in hand. Unless you were a kid. Then it was a soda pop. But everyone would cluster around it and the fire would paint demonic patterns on angelic faces, softened by being buzzed off booze and friendship.
I had a brief flash of myself hosting a barbeque. All I could mentally fill in of course were Coop and Deke and Stephen. Then I shut my eyes and also saw Joy and Donna and her brood of lovely dogs.
There would be more people in my mental party soon enough, but I was doing pretty good so far. If the three little pigs didn’t get pissed that each and every one of them was getting a piece of the big bad wolf.
I snorted at my own silly thoughts and walked around the barbeque, brushing off leaves as I went. When I got to the back I noticed the place that opened. A small metal door with a hinge. To load the briquettes you’d open the door and stack them. Then when you lit them you shut the door and all the actual grilling was done from the front on the grate side.
I wiggled the door latch and it gave a little bit, but not much. Probably rusted from years of not being used. I squatted down, peeking through a tiny air hole in the metal. I saw a flash of greyish white and a curl of paper and then –
‘Did you stand me up?’
I started too hard and fell, landing on my ass in the leaves. ‘Oh holy fuck. You scared me.’
Winter-grey eyes stared me down but when he smiled, his whole face transformed into a fairy-tale prince. Gorgeous and rugged and beautiful all in one blink.
He held out his hand and I took it to stand, not forgetting, but losing interest in, whatever was in the barbeque. ‘What time is it?’
‘Just after six.’
‘Are you always so impatient?’ I laughed. He didn’t release my hand and I didn’t pull away.
‘When a woman like you is on the other end of the deal, yes. I get impatient. I wanted to make sure you hadn’t decided baker boy was boring.’
‘Nevah,’ I said, dramatically, letting him lace his fingers through mine and tug me toward my own tiny house. It really did look like a fairy-tale cottage from the back yard. Small and stone with exposed beams and small windows.
Get in the oven, Farrell … flooded back from my dream. I didn’t find a damn thing intimidating about Stephen, so I wasn’t sure where that late night fear had come from. But my dad had always explained that dreams were the detritus of our day, the leftover bits of worries and emotion. Made sense.
Stephen stopped walking and turned to me. Face-to-face, he brushed my wind-tossed hair away from my eyes and tucked it behind my ears. ‘I’d like to kiss you,’ he said, grey eyes serious as a heart attack.
‘Okay –’ I managed and then he did kiss me. His mouth severely hot compared to the chilly night. A feverish kiss that belied a lot of lust and a lot of need – from both of us.
Stephen was the nice one. The sweet one. The one I’d be able to hurt or crush or maim emotionally – that was what made him scary, I realised. I laced my fingers behind his trim waist and crushed my body to his.
I’d have to try not to do that.
Chapter Twelve
His house was unexpected. I had yet to wander across the actual road to the actual homes in front of the actual tower. I had yet to enter a single pig-house, as I thought of them.
I expected Stephen’s to be one of two things. A mess of a bachelor home with mismatched junk and dirty dishes and all that jazz. Or, given by the way he dressed and carried himself, I expected a sort of clean-chrome-borderline-clinical home.
I got neither.
What I got was a nice eclectic house with inviting colours. Colours like warm reds and creams. An antique painted table dominated the small kitchen and a big navy-blue sofa with a red striped throw dominated the living room.
The effect was instant calm.
‘So about that wine?’ he said.
‘Yes, wine!’ I chirped, watching his forearms flex as he uncorked it. He worked at a breakfast bar that opened the small kitchen into the dining room.
Rain started pelting the windows and we eyed the darkened squares of glass, as if we could see anything. Stephen looked up when a small rumble of thunder was heard, he yanked the cork free. ‘They said this might happen.’
‘Did they? I never pay attention?’
I took the wine he offered. The glass was even a surprise. A black-stemmed wine glass with an etching of Kokopelli on the goblet. ‘I can build a fire.’
‘That would be nice. But first …’ I took a sip and realised my hands had taken up a fine tremor. Not because I was nervous, but because I had intention. I was going to seduce Stephen Vogel.
Hard.
That made me almost laugh and I bit my lip.
He cocked his head and I realised his hair was almost the same shade as his black sweater. It was a simple sweater. A pullover cable knit, but somehow, on him, it looked like the most amazing sweater ever made. His broad shoulders made it hang almost loose, but not quite over his flat belly. His pecs pressed the knit in the most tantalising way. And the way he had it pushed up around his forearms – those forearms – almost to the elbow … I was going to start with the vapours soon.
‘But first?’ he asked, licking his wine-stained lips.
I stood on tiptoe and licked them too. A rumble came out of him and he wrapped his arm around my waist and moved closer to me.
‘First, show me around,’ I whispered, licking his lower lip again, tasting notes of blackberry and autumn tones from the wine.
‘Not much to show. My house is even smaller than yours –’
‘Please. Show me.’ I took a big swig of my drink and kissed him once more, playing my tongue along the slack seam of his mouth until he parted his lips and kissed me deeply. Pressed belly to belly with him, I was surrounded by the smell of his skin. The crisp clean air and yeasty bread smell of the baker man.
I pushed my pelvis to his and, despite his jeans and my jeans, I could feel him hard and hot against me. And ready. He was ready and all it would take would be for me to –
I put my hand on him, parted my lips and drew him in for another kiss. Stephen still held his wine glass and I still held mine – neither of us seemed ready to surrender it, though we were both shaking just a little.
The fact that he was shaking just a little made me crazy. There is something supremely sexy about a man who can be both studly and vulnerable.
‘Let’s go.’ He moved away from me, but again took my hand, making my heart crimp up a little. I followed, gulping more wine to steel myself.
I wasn’t usually so aggressive. But something about him made me beyond aggressive. Something that made me want to simply take what I wanted and it turned out I wanted him.
So I’d take him.
‘Well, this is the downstairs bathroom. And this is my bedroom,’ he said.
‘Yours is on the first floor?’ I asked, walking in.
The room sported a huge queen-sized bed covered with a striped comforter. One tall dresser – neat as a pin. An old-fashioned rag rug dominated the floor. A nightstand, an armchair, a small desk with a laptop.
‘How’s my décor?’ he asked, laughing.
‘Sorry.’ I had the decency to blush. ‘I just expected either really messy or super clinical and …’
‘And?’
‘I got nice and cosy.’
There was a painting of a fall scene on the main wall plus a small window. Wall sconces set on low set the perfect cosy mood.
‘Nice and cosy is a good way to go.’
‘It is.’ I set the wine on his dresser and turned to him. He studied me with his grey eyes – it should have felt like a chilly gaze, I guess, but it warmed me in a way I hadn’t expected.
‘Why are you here?’ he asked me.
‘Why did you ask me?’
‘You intrigue me.’
‘Ditto,’ I said. I took his wine and he let me have it. I put it next to mine and ran my fingertips along the waistband of his sweater. I felt little teasing bits of warm skin but held myself back and didn’t touch him yet.
He watched my hand gliding along his clothing and stepped against me. He was warm, impossibly warm, and a subtle kindness radiated off of him in waves. He was nice. He was good. He was hot. He was … here with me in this tiny room watching me intently.
‘Can I touch you?’ I asked him. I pressed my face to his chest smelling clean clothes and body heat. Kissing up his neck, I waited for his answer, hoping he’d give me the one I wanted.
‘Farrell, you can do anything you want.’
I slipped my fingers – shaking just a bit, but oh, for the very best reasons – below his sweater and felt the muscles skip at my touch. Heat baked my palm and I put my lips to his throat and felt his pulse hammering.
There was another sound, it ripped up out of him as if he hadn’t expected it. His strong arms yanked me in so suddenly I almost stumbled.
His cock was hard and I relished the feel of him pressed to the front of me. I curled my fingers low on his belly, teasing below his sweater and his waistband, teasing us both so the tension and the want were clearly palpable.
‘Lower,’ he said, lips pressed to my ear. My hair swayed slightly with the force of his breath.
I slipped my fingers beneath the waistband of his jeans and found nothing underneath. ‘Commando, like me,’ I said, softly.
‘Now?’ He cupped my ass, thrusting so subtly against the front of me.
A ribbon of arousal unfurled in my gut and curled up to my ribcage. I stood on tiptoe and kissed him, abusing his tongue with mine until he caught it gently between his teeth and nipped the tip. A sparkle of pain and a flood of heat in my pussy. I was giddy with it.
‘Yes, now,’ I whispered.
Giving up pretence, I pushed my hand lower into his jeans and grasped his erection. Heated steel, smooth marble – all that flashed in my mind as I held him. I couldn’t shake the image of me mounting him. Me pushing his cock to my slick split and working my way down. My hands holding his hands down. My lips holding his prisoner. My breasts mashed to his chest.
It all rolled through my head, my own personal porn movie, as I loosely ran a fist up and down his shaft so he hummed like a live wire.
‘Please don’t make me come in my pants like a teenager.’
I snickered. ‘I don’t want that to happen. I want to have my way with you.’
‘Please do.’
Those stormy eyes flashed as he took a step back and yanked his sweater over his head. His coal-coloured hair swayed and gently settled around his handsome face. ‘Let’s get that out of the way.’
I grinned, feeling very free at the moment. Very bold. I tugged the black T-shirt and cardigan over my head without even unbuttoning it.
They all seem to be so different – these handsome little pigs …
I turned away from the thought and pressed my breasts into his hands when he put his palms to me. Welcoming warmth seeped into my skin – blissful. Stephen studied his hand as my heart jumped, making his hand tremble with the motion.
‘Your heart is beating so damn fast.’
‘You’re doing that to me,’ I told him, unbuttoning my jeans. I was bare underneath. And freshly shaved – my mound smooth and hairless. On purpose, for sure, because I wanted to be able to look down and see each moment of penetration. Each slide of his sheathed cock into my cunt. Whenever we got to that point – if I could ever stop drifting off into my erotic fugues.
‘I can’t imagine me doing that to you,’ he said. His hands left my breasts to push at my jeans. For one mo
ment his hand swept over mine, so that I finally abandoned my jeans and let him push them down. He did it much slower than I would have – dragging it out so that each inch the denim dropped, the wetter I got. And the more enthralled Stephen seemed.
‘I can’t imagine you not doing it,’ I said, when he had my jeans around my thighs. Which were shaking, by the way. Shaking so hard I pressed them together and felt a fresh surge of arousal flood my pelvis. ‘Have you looked at you lately?’
He shook his head as if half hearing me. ‘Too busy looking at you.’
Warm fingers spanned my naked sex and the temperature change was startling. He curled one finger to my clit and pressed it – a simply easy move that had so much weight behind it in this particular moment – I gasped.
‘Kick those off, please,’ he said, sounding a little shy.
I kicked off my jeans and smiled at him, running a fingertip along his cock, my hand moving, once again, on the outside of his jeans just to torture him a little. His bare chest was smooth with just a peppering of dark hair and it clearly got attention in the working out department. I leaned in, kissing one nipple and then the other, before dragging my parted lips slowly across the expanse of his pecs.
He sighed. I liked that sound. I fucking loved that sound.
Stepping in close, I parted my legs a little and let him finger my outer lips, tickle at my clit, and when I tilted my hips just so, Stephen took the hint and thrust a finger into me – testing me. I passed the test – I was wet.
‘That’s for you,’ I said, squeezing my internal muscles around his thick finger.
His eyelids fluttered just a touch. He hooked his finger and pushed into me a bit deeper. When he found my G-spot, I stilled and he nudged it with the pad of his fingertip. ‘I want you,’ he said.
This was not a news flash but it was so sweet to hear.
‘And I want you.’ I unbuttoned his fly and took a moment to slide my hands down into the back of his pants, cupping that sweet ass of his. Stephen Vogel seemed to have been assembled by very generous gods.
Boys Next Door Page 8