Getting Laid

by Vonna Harper

  Are you saying you know from firsthand experience? “No, it isn’t. Ah, so, anyway, the house went on the market. And you came along.”

  “That I did. About that tour.”

  Tour, yes. Business first. Hell, business only with the man who was in essence making her homeless. Ducking an impulse at self-pity, she pointed at the ceiling. They’d had insulation blown in when the new roof was installed. Although the insulation helped cut down the heating bill, the current heating system needed to be replaced. There was no AC.

  Joe took pictures, snapping in a measured way as they stood in each room. The way he zeroed in on imperfections and must-dos made her nervous. She apologized for the archaic plumbing in the one bathroom, the low, back-porch ceiling, the termite-ridden railing. She nearly told him she would have tended to some of these things if she’d the money and was again hit by how much she liked the place, warts and all.

  “It has good bones,” she said, indicating the arched ceiling between kitchen and dining room.

  He glanced at her, started to take a picture, glanced at her again. “That’s what attracted me to the place, its bones. It’s true to its era, honest. Nothing trendy or cutting edge.”

  Was Joe speaking from his heart, maybe revealing things he hadn’t intended to about what he did for a living? Was that why he’d bought her home? Because he needed to get back to basics?

  Neil Diamond kept her nerves alive. Add Joe’s big, strong, confident body to the mix and she swam in heat. The house was smallish, barely twelve hundred square feet and filled with human history. At that moment, the human element spoke to her as keenly as Neil and Joe did. Keeping her hands to herself was getting harder and harder.

  He had to know. Couldn’t he smell her need on her, look into her eyes and see the hunger?

  “This”—she indicated the closet in the larger of the two bedrooms—“is where Justin’s great-grandmother hid during storms. She became an accomplished seamstress and made wedding dresses for every woman around. Her husband was a gold miner. In winter, he’d go below ground before dawn. It was dark by the time he came back up. He developed what they called black lung disease. It killed him.”

  “You know a lot about the house’s history.”

  She nodded, smiling and eyes misting at the same time. What did it matter that she’d just met Joe? Certain things needed to be shared. “I got most of my information from Justin’s mother and grandmother. I don’t know if you’ve visited the local historical society. It has so much—”

  “Where is it?”

  The museum was the most prominent structure in Gold Ridge, albeit off the main street. Did that mean he wasn’t familiar with the area? Curiouser and curiouser.

  Okay, back to mystery man.

  Hopefully he wasn’t on the run from bankruptcy, lawsuits, hostile takeover attempts.

  On the run?

  Hmm.

  He’d been working undercover for the FBI or CIA, maybe both. Getting the goods on unscrupulous subcontractors, government kickbacks, sub-standard building materials. Someone had blown his cover and he had to hide. He’d driven into town at night, determined that Gold Ridge was a quiet, unassuming burg.

  In addition to lying low, he had to earn a living, so he’d, what? Bought a money pit of a house?

  Okay, so that didn’t hold water. But there was no reason why she couldn’t pretend, dream. He’d seen her walking to or from work, lusted after her, decided to make an offer on her place as a way of getting to know her. Now that he’d made his first move and was standing toe to toe with the object of his lust, what?

  Sweep her off her feet, of course, check out her bone structure, jump said bones. He’d lay her. Repeatedly. In both bedrooms, first on the queen bed she slept on, then on the area rug of the unfurnished spare bedroom. The living room couch would work, him sprawled on it while she straddled him, knees on cushions and his cock buried so deep inside her she felt it against her teeth.

  The backyard, oh yes! Grass under them and bugs crawling on their flesh as they rolled over and over, sealed together, arms gripping. Then to the front porch with the neighbors watching his ass pump up and down as he blanketed her.

  Good grief. Get a grip.

  Her eyes felt too big for her sockets, her cheeks flushed and the only way she could breathe was through her gaping mouth. Fortunately, right now Joe was trying to get a window to open. She studied his back, mentally tracing his shoulder blades with her fingertips, laughing as he tried to shiver her off. Yeah, that’s what she’d do. Plant her hands in the small of his back and shove him against the nearest wall, hold him there with a well-placed forearm and elbow while reaching between his legs for the family jewels. She’d cup his balls and try to draw them back toward her, laughing when he stood on his toes.

  Laughter would turn into a gasp because, quick as a college jock, he’d spin and shove off the wall, grab her around the waist and lift her over his shoulder. With her head, arms and legs hanging, he’d march her back into the living room and dump her on the couch. She’d bounce, nearly flop off, settle into softness. He’d kneel beside her, pull her arms over her head and close a big hand around both wrists, pinning her.

  Once he had her where he wanted her, he’d finger one nipple then the other, pinching, pulling, rubbing, stroking, smiling his perfect-teeth smile while she twisted and moaned. No freedom, not even a hint of the same. He’d wait her out, and when she was done twisting and moaning, he’d lick a breast into insanity. Leaving it to air dry, he’d do the same to her other breast. She’d whimper, dig her heels into the couch and lift her hips off it in silent and desperate invitation.

  He’d service her. Pull her onto the floor and under him missionary position. She’d rake his arms and shoulders as he furrowed her sex. She’d kiss, nibble, kiss some more, all the while pushing against him. He’d pound relentlessly, grunting like an animal. One of them would start to howl. The other would pick up the sound. Loud, hard and fast, they’d fuck. Energy would grab hold and shake her. She’d cry and beg with sweat streaming and her pussy clamped death-like onto him. Instead of trying to free himself, he’d dive ever farther, spear her, claim her, force rolling explosions.

  Her climax finally spent, she’d flow outward, ooze into nothing, still under him with him thrusting. As he forced harsh grunts past his locked jaw, he’d lift his upper body off her and arch his back. Then he’d bury himself even more fully into her and surrender to the powerful, plundering need. Crying out as relief washed him, he’d gaze down through half-open eyes.

  Chapter Three

  “That’s asking for a fire.”

  “What?”

  “The way that electrical outlet is being used. Those extension cords are overloading the system,” Joe said. “I take it there’s been little or no electrical updating.”

  Still caught in the heady heat of her imagination, Lisi struggled to focus on where Joe was pointing, which happened to be the lone outlet in the living room. “You’re right,” she agreed, hopefully not breathlessly. Talk. Try to sound sane. “I’m careful not to run the lamps and TV at the same time.”

  He shook his head, drawing her attention not to his frown lines but the way movement made his dark hair dance. Another thing she noted was that he didn’t have to worry about going bald any time soon—not that she’d ever hold a receding hairline against him.

  “It still isn’t a good idea,” he continued his lecture.

  “What was I going to do? Houses of that era weren’t built with consideration for future needs.”

  He again shook his head at the extension cords snaking along the baseboards. Just because she’d given him the hunk-of- the-month award didn’t mean she’d take kindly to his criticism. “About your must-do list,” she said, “why don’t you put updating the electrical system at the top? I wanted to but my ex had other priorities.” Like bonking his bottle-redhead chippie.

  “Hmm. Still—”

  “It’s your place,” she interrupted. “At least it soon
will be. And if you’re the sole owner, you won’t have to deal with compromising the way I did.”

  “I didn’t mean—”

  Her cell phone vibrated, causing her to start and clamp her hand over her pocket. Composing herself and her libido as best she could, she noted Squeaky’s number.

  “It’s about time,” Lisi said. “Where the hell have you been?”

  Squeaky, called that because her voice was so deep she was sometimes mistaken for a man, said something about a meeting that had threatened to turn into a marathon. Uninterested, Lisi broke in. “Either you show your face at the Stagecoach after work or we’ll talk about you.”

  “We? The gang? What’s the occasion?”

  “The occasion is that I’ve sold the place.”

  “You’re shittin’ me. What fool bought the money pit?”

  The fool standing not enough feet away from me and hopefully unable to hear your end of the conversation.

  * * * *

  Someday I have to develop some tact, Joe chided himself as he inserted the key into his car’s ignition. Obviously Lisi had taken exception to his comments regarding a potential fire, but the moment he’d seen the strained-beyond-its-max outlet, all he’d been able to think about was her safety. How that bastard of an ex could have put anything ahead of life and limb made him doubly glad she’d shown what’s-his-face the door.

  Single. She was single. And about fifty years younger than he’d thought she’d be. Average weight and height, light brown hair that just touched her shoulders. She’d been wearing shorts and a sleeveless T-shirt that made it clear she’d left her breasts as nature intended. His own ex had had hers enhanced and expanded before they’d met, which meant he had no idea what they’d originally looked like.

  Natural was good. Good to touch, not that he had firsthand experience when it came to the woman he’d just introduced himself to.

  And Lisi’s legs. They’d be good to the touch too, if his eyesight and imagination could be trusted.

  And her hair. It’d be soft, with none of the hard-as-a-rock spray, or whatever the professional women he dealt with put on theirs.

  Natural. If he had one word to describe her, that was what it would be.

  Or maybe hot. Yeah, hot.

  What the hell was he thinking? She could be frigid for all he knew. If he hadn’t had sex in a long time, he might not have come to the conclusion that Lisi could hardly wait to shuck her shorts for him. In truth, until she’d opened her door, he hadn’t known he was hot and bothered. That confused him.

  He’d been divorced for nearly a year and had had ample opportunity to scratch his itches, but he hadn’t felt like doing that for months. Of course, those months had been filled with major business decisions and soul-searching which had a little to do with why he’d been acting like a monk. What was it about Lisi that made him feel as if he was breaking out in hives?

  Only one way to learn the answer. See her again. As soon as possible.

  * * * *

  The Stagecoach was doing great business for a Thursday night. Summer in a town that catered to tourists had a lot to do with the why behind the crowd. The owners of the Stagecoach knew how to handle the expectations of both residents and visitors. The swinging front doors, weathered wooden flooring and walls decorated with barbed wire, six guns and ten gallon hats were reminiscent of a frontier saloon. The waitresses dressed like dance hall girls. Tourists loved bellying up to the long mahogany bar for foaming mugs of beer or crowding around tables while scarfing down buffalo burgers. Locals were more likely to opt for the pizzas served by waitresses who knew them by name. Lisi and her friends were partial to barbeque chicken salads, because the salads allowed them to mind their waistlines while having a drink or two.

  Tonight, Lisi couldn’t talk herself into sipping. Not only was the three-piece band near the rear of the cavernous room banging out country and western, her earlier fantasy about bonking and being bonked demanded attention.

  “What about him?” Kat jerked her head at a man near the far end of the bar. “Nice ass.”

  Even with the muted lighting—mostly reds and oranges coming from the beer logo signs—Lisi took note of skinny buttocks encased in jeans. Unfortunately, even with his back to where they sat at one of the tables, she recognized said ass. “He’s married.”

  “How do—” Squeaky started. “Never mind. I should know better than to ask. He’s been in city hall, right?”

  “Every day for a week a couple of months ago. He bought the Naman house down from the grocery store. Tried to get the planning commission to approve a garage addition. You want a garage in this town, you don’t buy an historic house built without one.” She snagged a piece of lettuce and chewed.

  Okay, she’d wanted to come here so she could get laid, right? So, when and how was she going to lay the groundwork for that to happen? The joint was jumping, as they said. Unfortunately, there were a lot of groups dressed in ways that identified them as out-of-towners. Putting the move on someone in a family, co-worker or friendship group took more guts than she had. The locals had mostly dropped by on their way home from work. There were the guys from the repair shop in their greasy overalls, grocery clerks still wearing their blue shirts with McCoy’s Mercantile stenciled on the right, several of her fellow employees in business casual. The last thing she needed was to start tongues wagging by sidling up to the confirmed bachelor who manned the wine shop. Besides, with Joe having set the standard, maybe no one would live up to it.

  “We have to try harder, ladies,” Kara offered. “Not only do we have to find Lisi a cock, I could use one myself. What about the band?”

  The first time she’d noticed the musicians, she’d been more interested in their music than them. The keyboard player was about the age she’d initially thought Joe would be. The drummer was nearly Joe’s height but carried maybe a hundred pounds more. As for the guy with the guitar—

  “I’ll take him,” Kara said, nodding at the guitarist. “A little on the underfed side, and I’ll probably get arrested for robbing the cradle, but I ain’t picky.”

  Maybe that was her problem, Lisi conceded, chewing on more lettuce. She’d seen the cream of the crop earlier in the day. As a result, maybe only a movie star could match him. Even if said movie star wasn’t taken, what was the chance he’d care whether she existed?

  “I screwed up with the buyer,” she confessed to Squeaky as Kara wound her way toward the band. “I got all defensive when I should have batted my eyes at him. Do you know of any refresher courses in eye batting? I’m beyond rusty.”

  “You’ll see him again. Show up at the title company when he comes to sign whatever he has to sign. Or maybe you can get your realtor to find out where he lives. Hand him an apple pie and a welcome-to-the-neighborhood smile.”

  “That’ll take time.”

  “So?”

  Squeaky didn’t get it. Tonight mattered, nothing else. Kara must have said something the guitarist liked because suddenly he wrapped himself around his instrument and let it rip. The music doubled in volume. The guitarist stared at Kara and she gaped back. A couple at the bar were practicing lip locks and one of the bartenders was putting the moves on a trio of college-age females. To her left, another couple leaned across their dinner, holding hands. The woman said something. The man reached under the table to adjust his pants. The woman winked and licked her lips. The man squirmed.

  That was why she couldn’t wait to bake an apple pie before seeing Joe again. She needed to get laid, by him, tonight!

  “Ice,” she muttered. She dug into her water glass, snagged a chunk, and ran it over the base of her throat. “Wow, that helps.”

  “What’d you see?” Callie demanded. “Where is he?”

  Callie, who’d only been married a couple of months, wouldn’t stay long because her groom got off work at eight. According to her, they’d done it every night since before they’d gotten engaged and she wasn’t about to break their record. Damn Callie! She probably did
n’t remember what frustrated felt like.

  “What do you care?” Squeaky said to Callie. “You aren’t in the market.”

  “I can still look.” Callie winked. “If he’s hot enough, it’ll help get me in the mood.”

  “There is no he,” Lisi said. “Unfortunately, there’s no hottie in the room.”

  “Yeah?” Squeaky drew out the word. “You might want to reconsider.”

  Following her friend’s nod, Lisi looked toward the entrance. The Stagecoach’s main dining-drinking room was sunken a few feet, which put those who were coming in at a higher elevation. She silently thanked the architect because little stood between her and a nearly perfect view of none other than Joe Roop.

  He appeared to be alone. He hadn’t changed his clothes. She thought he hadn’t shaved. The way he stood there, with his hands tucked into his rear pockets while scanning the scene made her think of a frontier sheriff searching for an outlaw or claim jumper. This is my town, his stance said. I keep it law-abiding. I’m respected. And my six-shooter has more bullets than yours.

  “Holy shit,” Squeaky breathed.

  “Double holy shit,” Kat said. “There’s hope for mankind—emphasis on the ‘man’—after all.”

  “It’s him.”

  Her friends swiveled toward her, but she couldn’t take her attention off Joe long enough to acknowledge them. “Joe Roop. The man who’s buying my—who’s buying the house.”

  “I’ll fight you for him. Two falls out of three.”

  Kat, who she hated for it, barely tipped the scales at a hundred pounds, but she was an exercise fanatic. She’d probably win—unless Lisi resorted to pulling out her hair, which she would. “The hell,” Lisi said. “He’s mine.”

  “Not if the waitress has her way.”

  Squeaky was right. Not content with simply heading toward a small table, the waitress had hooked her arm through Joe’s and was acting as if the crowd kept pushing her into him.