“Get your naked ass out of my kitchen. And stop parading it around the front yard.”
Upstairs, I glance out of my bedroom window toward Stuck-Up Chick's house. I told Noah she was hot, but hot is an understatement. The chick is the sexiest thing I've ever seen in a long time - not trampy and overdone the way most of the groupies who hang around the players are. And she didn't have a damn clue who I was.
When the hell is the last time that happened? Noah and I are two of the most famous faces in the state, at least to people who follow football – Colorado's golden boys, born and raised in a little town in the middle of nowhere: West Bend. It's the reason we get cut a lot of slack for the crap we pull, like when we got arrested in West Bend.
The whole prim-and-proper vibe the neighbor has going on is even hotter. I've never much been into chicks who look like schoolteachers, but I'd definitely let that one rap my knuckles with a ruler.
I step inside the shower intending to shake off the image of the hot little next door neighbor, but instead I just wind up picturing her more vividly. The way she pulled her lush lower lip between her teeth when she looked at me. The way she sucked in a breath as her eyes lingered on my chest. The way she focused on the bongos like she wished they'd suddenly become transparent. The way she looked at me, her jaw set like she was offended by the whole naked with bongos thing, except she couldn't take her eyes off them.
My cock twitches as I picture her standing mere inches away from me.
"I shouldn't be doing this," she says, her voice breathy.
"You practically begged for it."
Her eyebrows go up. "I do not beg."
"No?" I ask. "Well, I'll have to do something about that."
"There's nothing you can do," she says, her jaw set, “because I'm not one of your desperate little groupies who's going to lose my damn mind at the sight of Aiden Jackson's dick."
I like her sass. I can barely hold back a smile as I reach down with both hands and slowly slide her skirt up her thighs. "No begging, right?"
"None." She speaks the word matter-of-factly, except she inhales sharply as I yank the skirt roughly up over her perky ass.
"Even when I do this?" I ask, sliding my fingers between her thighs until I find the spot covered by her panties. I press my fingertips against the cotton fabric and she gasps louder. "You're soaked right through these."
"So?" she asks. "Doesn't mean I'm going to ask for anything from you."
The warm water from the shower pounding on my back, I stroke my hard cock as I picture her face upturned, inches from mine, and imagine sliding my fingers down the front of her panties.
I roll my fingers over her clit, and she grasps my biceps, her grip getting tighter and tighter as she gets closer and closer to orgasm. When she tries to close her eyes, I order her to look at me, and she does, her eyes clouded by lust. She makes little panting sounds, her breasts rising and falling in the fitted button-down oxford shirt she wears, unbuttoned enough that her cleavage is visible.
I bring her to the edge. Then I pull my fingers away and she whimpers her response, the sound nothing more than a needy whine.
I stroke my cock harder now, the image of her desperate and wanting pushing me closer to the edge.
She whimpers again, her mouth opening and forming a word, but she doesn't speak it. Instead, she presses her thighs together.
I unzip my jeans, pulling them down and gripping my hard shaft. She looks down and the expression on her face is agony. "Put your hand on my cock. Feel how hard you make me."
She reaches for me tentatively, her thumb pressing against the tip where pre-cum drips from it. "Aiden," she whispers.
I reach between her legs again, my fingers slipping easily inside her and she groans as she strokes me. "You're not going to come so easily, sugar," I warn her. "Not until you ask nicely. Not until you tell me how much you want to feel my hard cock inside your tight little pussy, filling you up."
Her muscles clench down around my fingers, her swollen pussy warning me how close she is. "Yes," she whispers.
"Yes, you're asking me to make you come? Is this you begging me?"
She whimpers as I stroke her, pressing my fingertips against the place inside her that causes her to make the expression of unbridled lust that I can't get enough of. "I want you inside me."
That's what I wanted to hear. I slide my fingers from her and pick her up, pressing her hard against the wall behind us I thrust inside her in one easy stroke. She gasps loudly as I enter her.
Fucking hell. She's warm, wet, tight, and smooth as silk. It's all I can do not to come the second I'm inside her. Soon, she's groaning loudly, making these little whimpering noises that come faster and faster as I fuck her up against the wall, one hand gripping her hair and the other under her thigh, pinning her in place. Then she's screaming my name, her pussy tightening around my cock suddenly as she climaxes and I can't hold back any longer. I let go, flooding her sweet pussy with my hot cum.
"Shit!" I call out the word as the image pushes me over the edge, and I come.
When I step out of the bathroom, I glance over at her house. The hot neighbor is sitting on her balcony drinking a glass of wine and reading the newspaper, a pair of glasses perched on the end of her nose and her long legs stretched out in front of her. Who the hell our age reads the newspaper anymore?
God, she is such a little nerd.
A sexy little nerd just waiting to be defiled.
Noah thinks that staying in this neighborhood is going to make me behave? Yeah, right. Behaving is overrated.
5
Grace
"I take it that since I'm talking to you, the neighbor wasn't totally psycho?" Vi asks on the phone.
"Well…" That's up for debate. My cheeks warm at the thought of the sexy neighbor and the way I laid in bed last night fantasizing about what exactly I'd like that over-muscled brute to do to me.
"You owe me a hundred bucks, don't you?" Vi asks, her voice light.
"How did you know?"
"Because you have a tone in your voice."
"What tone?" I ask. "There is no tone. I simply said, ‘Well...' That indicates that he could completely be psycho."
Vi ignores me. "I did some digging on your neighbor. Do you want to know what his name is?"
"Nope," I say primly. "I'm not the least little bit interested."
I'm lying.
"Right," she says. "He's a - "
"La la la."
"Very mature."
"You're worse than my parents, Vi. I don't want to know what you found, spying on my neighbor."
Vi sniffs. "The next time I see you in person, I'm going to slap you for your insolence, comparing me to your parents."
"For most people, being compared to the President and First Lady would be a compliment."
Vi and I both know that neither of us is like most people, and we know far too much about the President and First Lady to consider the comparison a compliment.
Vi snorts her response. "Where are you?"
"It's ten in the morning," I say, glancing at my watch. "I'm working. Where are you?"
"Lying in a hotel, waiting for room service," Vi says, her voice languid. I can practically hear her stretching like a cat over the phone.
"Room service?" I ask absently, squinting at the projections for next quarter on my desktop. Those numbers can't be right. "Where?"
"Where?" Vi pauses. "I'm actually not sure. Where are we, baby?" I hear a rustle and the sound of a sleepy male voice. "New York."
"Is that your skier boyfriend?"
"No, that's old news," Vi says dismissively.
"I thought you were in L.A.?"
"I was, but we flew out to New York yesterday. Keep up, doll."
I laugh. "I'm trying my hardest. But seriously, Vi, I have to go work."
"You have a trust fund. Ditch the grind and come to Miami with me."
"I'm sure the kids the foundation helps would appreciate that," I note absently, sta
ring at the spreadsheet. Projected donations are down from last quarter.
"Bill has a private plane," she points out. I don't ask who Bill is – a celebrity or an athlete, for sure, since that's Vi's preferred dating population. "Besides, when's the last time you had a vacation? And, no, your family trip with the parents doesn't count, either. Everyone knows that being around your parents is stressful enough to require another vacation."
"I go on vacations all the time," I protest. "In fact, I have a summer vacation coming up." That's almost true. The statement could be true if you kind of squinted and looked at it through one eye from far away. It's a vacation – it just happens to be a vacation involving at-risk kids and a ranch. I'm hands-on with the foundation I run, even though I'm supposed to take more of an administrative role than a direct one. But I'm not ashamed in the least to say that I'm married to my job – I love it, and that's never going to change.
One of the charities the foundation supports takes at-risk kids from Colorado and teaches them leadership and life skills, using outdoor experiences like wilderness treks and ropes courses and camping. A couple of years ago, I decided to personally participate in the inaugural two-week trip for the summer season. I've been doing it yearly ever since. The next trip is in two weeks, although this summer is a little different than most. A professional athlete donated his ranch for the summer, so the team designed a summer program around working on a real Colorado ranch. So that's my vacation – a working ranch vacation. That totally counts, right?
"You need a vacation that involves no responsibility," Vi says. "Maybe your neighbor could help you with that."
I roll my eyes. "He definitely screams ‘no responsibility’. Also, no manners and no social skills, either."
"But he's hot, isn't he? Admit it. I could tell by your tone."
"There was no tone."
"I could also tell because I looked him up online."
I sigh. "He's only hot in a college frat boy sense. He also came to the door stark naked with bongo drums hanging from his neck."
"Oh, so you got a peek at the package, then?"
I flush warm at the thought of what the bongo drums covered… and the sight of my neighbor's more-than-chiseled body mere inches away from mine. I could have reached out and run my fingers over his muscular chest, down those rippled abs, and lower…
I shift uncomfortably in my seat as heat radiates through my body at the thought, heading right between my legs.
I sigh exaggeratedly. "I did not. And I have a meeting in three minutes."
"Don't act like you didn't sneak a glance. Hot naked guy in front of you?" She pauses and I hear a man's voice. "Of course, baby. Yes, there is a hot naked guy in front of me."
"I was not looking at his junk," I sniff. My administrative assistant, Janice, chooses the perfect moment to knock on my door. "Come in, Janice! I'm so sorry that I won't be able to continue this conversation, Vi."
Vi laughs. "Are you blowing me off for a fake meeting?" She giggles at whatever her flavor-of-the-moment is doing.
"Say hi to Vi, Janice," I order, holding out the phone and mouthing the words “thank you” to my assistant.
"Hello, Violet."
"See? Unfortunately, I have to go."
"I'll let you get to work," she says, giggling again and squealing at her new beau.
"Don't forget the fundraiser next week," I remind her. "Bring your wallet."
"Always, darling."
It's the foundation's semi-annual fundraiser and a huge black tie event. My father will be attending because he's in the middle of campaigning for re-election (even though he just won the Colorado primary by a landslide) and "children always poll well. Who doesn't like needy kids? And because you're my daughter, of course."
My father, always the pragmatist.
He does bring a lot of funding, though, and funding is always good – especially considering the low projected donations for next quarter that I just saw.
I hang up the phone and look at Janice. "You have a meeting in five minutes," she says.
6
Grace
"What the hell?" I'm changing out of work clothes getting ready to go for a run when I hear music blaring from outside, barely muffled by the walls of the house. Something country, but I can't quite hear the words. It's the neighbor. I know it's him without even having to look. No one else in the world is that obnoxious.
Or that sexy.
I put that thought right out of my head, because his obnoxiousness definitely overrides his hotness. After wrangling on my sports bra, I pull on a tank top and grab my sneakers from the closet, pausing in my bedroom. I give the thumping of the music another thirty seconds before I'm officially annoyed. Sure, it's not like it's two in the morning, but this neighborhood has always been quiet. Or at least it was, before Bongo Dude moved in next door.
When I yank open the sliding glass door and stomp out onto the balcony, the music assaults my ears. It's definitely country.
And that's definitely the hot neighbor I can see over the wall riding a lawnmower around his expertly manicured lawn - shirtless.
It takes me a second to hear the chorus of the song and to place it: She Thinks My Tractor's Sexy.
I nearly choke.
That could not be directed at me, could it? I'm not sure whether to be flattered, amused, or annoyed.
As he rounds the end of the lawn, he looks up at my balcony and holds his can of beer up in a mock “cheers” gesture – because of course he's riding a lawnmower and drinking at the same time.
Then he grins. Unmistakably cocky and smug, his grin is what pushes me over the edge. The same guy who, upon meeting me, called me “sugar tits” is now riding a lawnmower around shirtless while playing She Thinks My Tractor's Sexy?
He's totally trying to bait me.
That grin of his suggests he thinks he has.
I roll my eyes dramatically, as if he can see my expression from up here, but it seems like a necessary gesture in response to his ridiculousness. Then I whirl around and close the door behind me, standing with my back against it for a moment as a laugh threatens to erupt from my chest.
He's juvenile. Completely and utterly juvenile. I shouldn't be laughing – the things he said to me, telling me he wanted to throw me over his shoulder and pull my panties down my thighs, would have been far beyond inappropriate even if I were a "normal" woman and not the President's daughter. But the fact that I'm the President's daughter definitely makes them worse.
Even so, it's not the most awful thing in the world, seeing him with his shirt off yet again. I flush warm at the memory of what I imagined him doing last night when I had my fingers between my legs.
That does not mean I'm attracted to the jackass out there on a riding lawnmower. I know his type. He's the kind of guy who's used to getting away with frat boy antics, the kind of man who thinks he can whip out an arrogant little grin and women will fall all over themselves for him.
I'm not one of those girls.
I tell myself that again as I peer through the blinds like a nosy old lady, straining my neck to get a glimpse of him in his yard.
Yep. I'm definitely not one of those girls.
Fifteen minutes later, I'm running down the road, trailed by Brooks and Davis at a safe distance, my pace a little faster than usual - which has nothing to do with the fact that Bongo Dude was outside shirtless in his yard and I might have a little pent-up frustration to run off.
Absolutely nothing.
We're not more than half a mile into the run when I hear the rumble of a motor, and turn to see Bongo Guy.
In the middle of the street, coming up behind us, driving the riding lawnmower like it’s a car. Still shirtless, even though it's not exactly a warm summer evening in Colorado.
I pause as Brooks and Davis stop and reach for their weapons. Rolling my eyes, I put my hand up. "Seriously, I'm a million percent certain my neighbor is not trying to assassinate me by running me over with a lawnmower."
&nb
sp; "You never know, ma'am. Protocol," Davis reasons. I can't tell if she's actually serious, but at least she and Brooks refrain from drawing their weapons.
I turn, ignoring the fact that a shirtless man is following me on a lawnmower, and resume jogging, but at a slower pace.
"Need a lift?" Bongo Guy asks, grinning widely. He takes a swig from his can of beer.
"From the guy who's drinking while driving?" I ask, glancing over at him. I'm glad I'm running because I can return my gaze to the road ahead instead of ogling his bare naked, excessively muscled chest.
"I’m fairly sure a lawnmower doesn’t count," he protests.
"Um, it counts."
"I've only had one beer," Bongo Guy says. "Promise." He crosses his heart with his finger and looks innocently at me - as innocently as someone who's so obviously not angelic can look.
Focus, Grace. The last thing I need to think about is how obviously not angelic this man is. "Should I even ask why you're riding a lawn mower down the road?"
"Should I ask why you're being followed around by a couple of suits who are obviously packing?" he counters, referring to them as "suits" even though they're in running gear.
I open my mouth about to speak the words, “I'm the President's daughter!” except that I don't. I hesitate. I don't know why I don't just come out and say it. No, that's not true. I know exactly why. It's because this is the first time in as long as I can remember that someone hasn't recognized who I am.
Being the President's daughter is a privilege, of course. I have opportunities most people don't have, and I'm grateful for that. But it also means that's all anyone sees when they look at me. I'm labeled as my father's daughter and that's it. Hardly anyone wants to know anything about me beyond that. Sure, there are the people who know me for my work with the foundation, but personally? Not so many.
Double Team: A Menage Romance Page 3