by LK Farlow
“Ouch, dammit!” Nope. Still here, in reality. Quickly I add her number to my contacts and fire off a text to her.
Brock: Headed your way, Abby Jane.
The message quickly moves from sent to delivered to read, but the little reply bubbles never pop up. As long as she knows I’m coming—God only knows how bitchy she’d be if I just showed up.
I glance back at the address she sent me and realize it’s the apartment building she and Stacia walked to last weekend. So, sans GPS, I crank my truck and head her way.
Rain is pouring down in sheets by the time I guide my truck into a roadside parking spot about half a block down from Abby Jane’s building. It’s times like these I wish our small-ass town had parking garages. But, we don’t, so hoofing in this damn tsunami is my only option. Thanks, Mother Nature.
From the second I open my door, rain is pelting me in the face like I’ve got a target on it. By the time I make it into the lobby, I’m sopping wet. I’m talking to-the-bone-wet. I sure as shit hope Abby Jane’s found a more pleasant disposition, because if I listen to her bitch while I’m soaking wet…nah. Shit won’t end well.
A short but miserable elevator ride later, I’m knocking on Abby Jane’s door, slightly nervous for what may greet me on the other side. She flings the door open and stops short, her brown eyes flare wide, taking in the way my wet clothes cling to my body. It takes everything in me not to smirk when her gaze gets hung up on the way my T-shirt is molded to my abs like a second skin.
Finally, I clear my throat, and she rips her gaze away from my body and steps back to let me in. Once inside, the scent of lemon and garlic lingers in the air, and I turn to face her. “Abby Jane, did you cook for me?”
She ducks her head and nods. Well, I’ll be damned.
From the aroma alone, I know it’s going to be delicious, but I can’t help but to push her buttons just a little. “And it’s edible?”
“Yes, Jockstrap, it’s edible.” She rolls her eyes and smacks me on the chest, and once again her stare goes wide. “Oh my God! You’re soaked!” She bites down on her juicy bottom lip, and without permission, visions of me sucking and nibbling on it invade my mind.
Stuck in a lusty haze, my words fail me. I nod and she steps a little closer, almost as if it’s a subconscious kind of thing. “You must be freezing too. Fuck. Okay. Why don’t you hop in the shower and warm up, and I’ll toss your clothes in the dryer?”
“That’d be awesome.” Abby Jane leads me through her apartment to her master bath, which surprises me. I was for sure expecting to use the guest bath.
Still nibbling on her lip, her gaze darts around the room. “Uh. I guess you can go ahead and get undressed”—I start to pull my shirt over my head—“Whoa! I didn’t mean right this very second. Jesus! What I was trying to say is you can get undressed after I step out, and if you leave your clothes near the door, I’ll grab them and leave a towel for you to use.”
Her nervousness makes me grin. I really like her a little nervous, and with that in mind, I finish removing my shirt, loving the way her hungry gaze feasts on all I’ve got going on: solid pecs, cut abs, and that vee around my hips that all the girls seem to love.
Not wanting to test my luck, or Abby Jane’s hospitality, I amble over to her walk-in shower and turn on the water, fiddling with the temperature until I hear the door close. With her gone, I finish stripping and leave my wet clothes in a heap on her shiny concrete floor.
Stepping into the warm spray, I pull the glass door closed behind me. Nosiness gets the better of me, and I start flipping the tops of the various bottles lining up the little built-in shelf. So far, standard girl stuff, but the third bottle…some shit called Love Spell. Fuuuuck. It gives me pause. And by pause, I mean it gets me hard as a rock. Unable to help myself, I squeeze a dollop of the purple shower gel into my palm.
Rubbing my hands together, I lather it up and grip myself, guiding my hand up and down my hard length, imagining Abby Jane’s hot mouth all the while. I know this shit is wrong but damn. Maybe I’m okay with being wrong, because it sure as hell feels right.
AJ
Flushed from Brock’s peep show, I dash out of the bathroom the minute he turns his back toward me. In the safety of my kitchen, I fan my face, desperate to cool down. Get a grip, girl. It’s just a set of abs. Apparently my traitorous body doesn’t care that they belong to one of my least favorite people alive, because my God, I want to lick them. Go figure.
Once I’ve regained my composure, I check on the food. The sauce needs to be stirred and removed from the burner and the pasta strained. When all that is taken care of, I snag a fresh towel from the hall closet and crack the door to my bathroom open to exchange the towel for his clothes.
The bathroom’s filled with steam, and it seeps out into my bedroom, along with a deep, throaty groan, followed by an “Oh, fuck,” that sounds so dirty I worry I’ve stumbled onto a porno set.
On its own accord, my free hand nudges the door open a little more, and my eyes move straight to the shower door. While I can’t see him entirely, fog and steam be damned, I can see enough to know that Brock Larson is in my shower masturbating.
Holy. Shitballs.
Not wanting to get caught ogling his goods, I drop the towel and flee, forgetting his clothes in the process and slamming the door. So much for being stealthy.
Great. Just great.
“Don’t panic, AJ,” I mutter to myself as I pace up and down the hallway. “Be cool. He’ll never know.” A few deep breaths later, I make my way into the kitchen to plate up our dinner. The “I’m Sorry” dinner I made for being a bitch is now, whether he knows it or not, to also apologize for inadvertently seeing him pleasure himself.
I’m carrying our plates to the table when I hear Brock pad into the dining area just off the kitchen. I look up and find him clad in only a fluffy white towel knotted around his waist, with his still sopping clothes in hand. “You forget something?” he asks, grinning like he knows all my dirty secrets.
“Oh. Oops.” I force myself to look down at the tabletop, even though all I really want to do is count the divots and dips in his abdominals. While I may not have much willpower, I’m not desperate either. When the plates are safely on the table, I turn—eyes still on the ground, thank-you-very-much—and take his clothes from him. “Be right back! You can go ahead and eat.” I make a mad dash for the laundry room, not giving him the time to reply.
I transfer my load of unfolded clothes to a basket and toss his in along with a lavender-scented dryer sheet, all the while mentally prepping myself to eat dinner next to a nearly naked Brock. When I join him at the table, I notice he’s almost cleaned his plate. “Guess I’m edible after all?” Oh, no. “I…I mean I guess it’s—”
Brock cuts me off, mumbling around a forkful of pasta. “So damn good.” I watch his Adam’s apple bob as he swallows, wondering if his words have more meaning beneath the surface. “Who knew you could cook like this?”
Ah. There we go. Of course they don’t. Which is fine. I don’t want him to want me. I mean, hell, I don’t even want him. No sweat off my back. Even still, I beam at his praise, pointing at my chest with my thumb. “I knew I could!”
“Well, feel free to feed me anytime, Abby Jane.” He delivers the words with a Zac Effron-esque smolder, and is it just me, or is it hot in here? We finish eating and Brock stands from the table and grabs both of our plates. “I’ll rinse these and then we can work on the rest of that study guide.”
“Uh-huh. Sure.” Although, I’m not really sure what I just agreed to. Nope, I’m too distracted by the way the muscles in his back bunch and flex. My eyes track him like a hunting dog following a deer as he moves through my apartment. To the kitchen and back. Past me and into the living room, scooping up his backpack as he goes. I watch with bated breath as he situates himself on the couch—my couch—with only a piece of terrycloth separating his skin from the leather.
“Abs, you coming?”
His words s
pur me into action, and I scramble over to the couch, throwing myself down onto the cushion next to him. The motion causes the towel to ride up, exposing more of his muscular thighs. “I can’t fucking do this,” I mutter under my breath as I dart back up from the couch.
“What are you doing?” I hear Brock holler after me, but I pay him no mind. That boy has got to put some damn clothes on before I lose what little bit of sanity I have left and climb him like a tree.
“Here!” I basically shout, holding out his mostly dry shirt and boxers. “Your pants aren’t dry, but for the love of all that’s holy, please put these on.”
Brock bites down on his bottom lip and draws his head back ever so slightly, assessing me. “Why? Gettin’ a little hot and bothered, Abby Jane?”
I shoot him what I hope is a fierce scowl. “By you? Never. Just tired of looking at your lackluster”—I swirl my hand in the general direction of his magnificent body—“attributes.”
Brock rises from the couch, stepping into my space. He grabs my wrist and runs it over his midsection, the muscles flexing under my touch. “Ain’t nothing lackluster about me, babe.” I yank my hand away as he steps back, a wide, knowing smile plastered across his stupidly handsome face. “Be a good girl and turn around so I can get dressed.”
I hear rustling and then silence.
“Are…are you decent?”
“Why don’t you face me and find out?”
“Um.” Slowly, I do as he says. Praise all the angels in heaven, he’s dressed. Well, as dressed as one can be, sans pants. “Wonderful. Let’s hit the books.” Brock smiles a placating smile at me but gets to work all the same.
Before I know it, an hour has passed, and our study guides are complete. “Think you’re ready for the quiz next week?” I ask as I close my laptop.
“Yeah, I really do.” He arches his back and stretches his arms over his head, a huge yawn passing his lips before he checks the time. “Damn, when did it get so late?”
“What time is it?” I feel around for my phone, but he beats me to it.
“Almost nine.”
“Wow! Time flies…” I trail off, because really, what the fuck am I gonna say? Time flies when you’re ogling your former childhood friend. Yeah, how about not.
Brock nods. “Guess I better head out.” Just as he moves to re-pack his bookbag, a monstrous rumble of thunder rattles the walls of my apartment and the lights flicker off and then back on.
We both walk to my living room window, and I move the blinds so we can peer out. “Damn,” I murmur, taking in swirling treetops and still-pounding rain. “I didn’t realize it was that bad.”
Shrugging his wide shoulders, Brock moves past me and heads for the laundry room. Like an eager puppy, I follow. Right as he opens the dryer, the lights die out. Only this time, they don’t come back on. I fumble around in the dark, running my hand over the shelf above the washer and dryer until I feel the handle of my trusty flashlight. I grab it down and flick it on, the single beam illuminating the small room.
I lay my hand on Brock’s shoulder, barely able to believe the question I’m about to ask. “Do…do you wanna just crash here tonight?”
BROCK
I tense at Abby Jane’s question. I know me staying here probably isn’t a good idea, but it’s damn sure a better alternative than driving home in this weather.
“You sure?” I ask, turning to face her, causing her hand to fall away from my shoulder. I immediately miss the heat of her touch…like I said, this is a bad idea.
“Yeah. I’d feel awful if anything happened to you.” She nibbles on her lip, looking every bit as vulnerable as she sounds.
“Why, Abs, are you tryin’ to say you like me? You really like me?” She rolls her eyes but otherwise doesn’t respond. “C’mon, you can admit it. They say it helps.”
“It’s not so much you that I like as much as having a clear conscience. So, you gonna stay or not?”
“Yeah, I’ll stay. How’re we gonna do this? Because while your couch was fine to study on, there’s no way in hell my tall ass is sleeping on it.”
“Got a bed in the guestroom.” She shrugs a shoulder. “Will that work, your highness?”
“Yeah, firecracker, that’ll work just fine.” The nickname slips out, and Abby Jane rears back ever so slightly.
“Firecracker?” she asks, her dark eyes drinking me in as she awaits my answer.
“Yeah. It suits you. You burn hot, and you’re a little unpredictable.”
She smirks and crosses her arms over her chest, pushing her tits up a little higher. “I knew you thought I was hot.”
“Not what I said,” I counter, though she’s right. I do. “But you tell yourself whatever you need to hear.”
“Whatever. I’m gonna go get ready for bed. Guestroom’s all yours. Bathroom is across the hall. G’night.” She passes me her flashlight and sets off down the dark hall.
“Sleep tight, Abby Jane,” I holler after her retreating form, all the while wondering what exactly she sleeps in.
I open the door to the guestroom and instantly notice there’s not a bed in sight. No. There’s a damn futon. Dammit, Abs. Guess it’s still better than driving home during a fucking monsoon.
After stripping off my shirt, I settle down onto the futon. I toss and turn for what feels like a small eternity, but try as I might, I can’t get comfortable. The mattress is thinner than a damn beach towel, and no matter how I lay, the metal bar presses into my back. There’s no way in hell this is gonna work.
Guess it’s time to find out just what Abby Jane sleeps in.
Quietly, I nudge open her partially closed door. Through the darkness, I can see Abby Jane’s sleeping form taking up most of the king-sized bed. Figures she’d be a bed hog...then again, she was as a kid, too. Some things really never do change.
I approach the left side, since there’s a bit more room, and slide under the covers. Abby Jane immediately wakes up, bolting to an upright position with a yell. “What the fuck are you doing in here?”
“Ain’t no way I’m sleeping on that piece of shit futon.” She huffs, and I smile big and wide. “Now, move over and share like the nice girl I know you are deep, deep down.”
Abby Jane angrily shifts over, farther away from me, and her bare leg brushes mine. “I swear to God, you’re a menace.”
“That may be true, but I’m gonna be a well-rested menace. Go to sleep.”
We fall silent, me lying on my back and Abby Jane with her back to me. It’s not long before her soft snores fill the room, lulling me to sleep as well.
I wake before the sun, and sweet merciful baby Jesus, my rock-hard dick is cradled between Abby Jane’s ass cheeks like it’s begging for entrance. Legit, the only thing keeping me out—you know, other than her lack of consent—is the two thin layers of our underwear.
Yeah, that’s right. Abby Jane sleeps in her panties. I know this because my hand seems to have found its way to her thigh in our sleep, with my thumb almost brushing against the promised land, and judging by all the smooth skin under my touch, sleep shorts aren’t an option. Unless they’re the size of a fucking postage stamp.
Still sleeping, she pushes her ass back farther, eliciting a deep groan from me. “Abs, you gotta stop.”
She lets out a soft moan followed by a mumbled, “Don’t wanna.” And as much as I want her to mean that, I know it’s the sleep talking.
“Abby Jane.” Her name comes out sounding more like a prayer, but my plea falls on deaf ears as she rolls her hips, causing a throb in my groin.
She rolls to face me, and I brace myself, prepared for her to light into me. Instead, she shocks the shit out of me and presses an open-mouthed kiss to my clavicle, her teeth grazing it lightly as she moves toward my neck.
Panting like a fucking fifteen-year-old getting his first bit of action, I ask, “Wh-what are you doing?”
“Shh,” she hisses against my skin. “Don’t ruin this with your big mouth.”
Her words spu
r me into action, and I haul her up from my side so that she’s straddling me, diving for her mouth as soon as her thighs clamp around mine. Our kiss is like Paul Walker in The Fast and the Furious—zero to one hundred in less than sixty seconds.
Abby rocks against me, and we both moan. I don’t know what alternate reality I woke up into this morning, but Jesus, I really, really like it.
Just like I love the way her weight feels on top of me…the heat of her lithe body pressing down on mine. I love her taste and the softness of her lips and skin.
Desperate to see all of her, she pulls her shirt over her head, baring her beautiful, perky, pierced breasts to me. Holy hell. Never in a million years would I have ever thought barbells through a chick’s nipples were hot but on Abby Jane? It’s downright sexy, and I can’t wait one more second to have them in my mouth.
Unfortunately for me, that’s when she comes to her senses and pushes me away before flying off of me in search of her shirt. She pulls it back over her head, muttering and mumbling up a storm as she stalks into her closet, only to return fully covered, in a pair of sleep pants.
Quizzically, I lift a brow at her, but she pays me no mind, stomping out of her room and down the hall. Jesus Christ—that fine line between love and hate? Yeah…we just obliterated it—only, I’m pretty sure she still hates me.
Trepidatiously, I follow behind her, making a pitstop in the spare bedroom to grab my shirt and bag. From behind me, Abby calls out, “Here.” She tosses my jeans at my feet and rushes back out of the room.
I shimmy into my jeans and make my way out to the living room, but she’s nowhere in sight. A quick glance down the hall shows her bedroom door is now shut. If I had to guess, I’d say she’s hiding out in there—hiding from me.
My pride won’t let me stay where I’m not wanted, so without a word, I slip my shoes on and let myself out.
AJ
Oh, Jesus, what have I done? What the fuck was I thinking? I pace back and forth in front of my bed—the same bed where I almost let Brock into my panties. Brock…the same boy who went from being my best friend to ignoring my existence altogether in middle school. Like a scratched CD, the same thoughts loop through my mind. I fling myself down onto the mattress, and instantly, I’m assaulted with the memory of his five o’clock shadow brushing against my cheek, reminding me that he’s no longer that boy, but a man. “Seriously, what the fuck?”