by Fiona Archer
I rolled my eyes at Dom. “You know I loved you. Everyone in our damn school knew how much I loved you. Ever since I was fourteen, all I wanted was for you to notice me. So when you asked me to prom, I thought finally…finally, it was my turn. And then I found out you were just using me as a backup to Brittany.”
“No!” He thrust his hands into his hair and turned, pacing the small trailer. “You were not the backup. Again, I’m not saying anything in this story paints me in a good light. What I did was as shitty as shitty can get. It took me longer than it took you to see what we could have had, and our senior year, when I finally came to my senses, all I wanted to do all year was ask you out. But you always had a boyfriend. And maybe that alone wouldn’t have stopped me…but you always seemed happy with your boyfriends. So when you and Ryder had that big breakup, all I knew was that I had to ask you out. I had to let you know my real feelings for you and I thought I’d figure out the whole Brittany thing later.” He stopped pacing and clamped his hand on the edge of the couch, looking up at me. “I had no idea you loved me. I loved you. I don’t think I’ve stopped loving you.”
His gaze softened, and from across the room, I was sure he could hear my heart pounding in my chest. “You still love me?”
He nodded. “I do. You saw all my exes out there. None of them worked… not because they weren’t great women, but because none of them were you.”
I crossed slowly to him, closing the space between us, and lifted my hand, brushing my fingers into his long, wavy, dark hair. His scent surrounded me, and just like everything else, it was familiar, but different. Crisp and fresh like the air right before a snowstorm. His eyes drifted closed, and he leaned into my touch with a soft moan. “All this time,” I whispered, “I thought I was just another girl to you.”
“You were never ‘just’ anything, Cole,” he whispered as I grazed my hand down his face, releasing the hold I had on his hair. I scraped my fingernails across the stubble on his jaw. “I’ll admit that it took longer for me to see you as more than a friend, but ever since that moment, a day hasn’t passed when I didn’t think of you.”
I parted my lips to answer, but his mouth silenced my response, capturing me before I could say another word. As soon as his lips brushed mine, every protest, every reason to walk away from him, from us, vanished. His hands cradled my jaw, and mine curved around the back of his neck as I fastened my lips to his. My tongue brushed across his bottom lip, an invitation, as we both opened to taste each other for the first time. I’d known this man almost my entire life, and outside of that embarrassing spin the bottle game, this was our first kiss.
A moan grumbled in the back of his throat, the sound causing heat to bloom between my legs.
Every kiss I’d ever had in my entire life, I’d been trying to feel this. This combination of heat and spark, but also a sweetness mixed with familiarity. Kissing Dom was more than just heat-inducing passion. It was natural. It felt like I should have been doing it my entire life.
Our kiss ended, and we stood there, nose to nose, staring at each other. His deep brown eyes shimmered so dark they nearly looked like onyx in candlelight.
“You taste like candy,” he whispered.
From my back pocket, I tugged free an empty Sweet-Tarts wrapper—my favorite candy.
“Of course,” he chuckled. “Your favorite. You taste so fucking good, Cole.”
I locked my eyes onto his and gently brushed my lips across his once more. “You taste like breast milk.” It wasn’t true, but the horrified look that cracked his expression made it totally worth it, and I busted out laughing, throwing my arms around his neck and hugging him. My Dom. My best friend. “I’m kidding!” I said. Because that’s what we did…we messed with each other in all the best ways.
“Oh, thank God.” He buried his nose in my neck. His lips there caused tingles of awareness to skim across my flesh, and I arched into the feel of his mouth on me.
Hot air from his breath skimmed my flesh as he spoke. “Guess this means I’ll be getting you that house in Palm Springs, after all.”
A grin split my face. “Why don’t we start with dinner? Tonight?”
I felt a brush against my ankle and looked down to see Gregory purring and weaving figure eights between my legs while Holly was on her hind legs, gently pawing at Dom’s shin.
I laughed and bent down to pet Gregory, noticing where his dark fur was now speckled with gray. “Hey, old man. I missed you, too.”
Dom smiled, petting Holly. “I think they approve.” He dropped his forehead to mine, his long, thick lashes brushing my face as he closed his eyes. I kissed him once more.
Screw Palm Springs. This was paradise—right here in Dom’s arms.
Copyright 2020 Katana Collins
About Katana Collins
Want more of the Murphy brothers? Check out the other novellas featuring Josh, Sam, and Cal within the Rescue Me series!
Her Alpha Dog
Her Top Dog
His Summer Kitten
* * * *
About Katana
Katana Collins is an Amazon Top 100 and international bestselling author of over twenty novels, novellas, and comic books in a variety of genres. She is most known for her sensual contemporary romances and her wildly popular comic book— Batman White Knight Presents: Harley Quinn with DC Comics.
After living for a decade in Brooklyn, NY, she and her husband took the plunge and moved to Portland, Maine. An avid animal lover, she now lives in “Vacationland” full-time with their kind of mean cat, derpy lab-pitt mix, mellow chihuahua, and very not mellow cairn terrier puppy. Oh, yeah… there’s a husband who draws comics somewhere in that mix, too. She can usually be found in a coffee shop with her nose buried in a laptop wearing fabulous (albeit sometimes impractical) shoes.
She loves connecting with fellow readers and writers, so feel free to give her a follow on Instagram (www.instagram.com/katanacollins and in her reader group on Facebook! (https://www.facebook.com/groups/318038861702144)
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The New Neighbor
by
Kayt Miller
Chapter 1
Level-Ten Hot
“Hooooly shit,” I whisper to myself while squatting down beside my large front window. I’m peeking through the blinds doing my best not to be discovered perving on my new neighbor who’s level-ten hot. And right now, he’s shirtless and a little wet due to the fact he’s hosing down his big truck. “Oh yeah, scrub that truck. Do it harder.” I giggle at myself because, lord knows, Henry Miller isn’t going to laugh, because cats do not find humor in anything.
Leaning closer to the window, my hot breath hits the glass and starts to steam up my little corner view of Mr. Sexy—sure, I know his name thanks to the mailman accidentally delivering his mail to my box a couple of weeks ago, but the nickname is perfect for him. With a sigh, I say his name. “Sam Griffin.” God, isn’t that rugged sounding? I pause, knowing I shouldn’t say shit like this, but what the hell? Henry Miller won’t tell. “Colette Griffin.” Wow. I like the sound of that. It’s so much better than the one I was born with—Munsel. Ugh, no matter how you say it, it sounds depressing. Go ahead, say “Munsel” aloud.
A griffin is a mythological beast, and let me tell you, Sam fits that to a T because the man is b-i-g, and I’m not talking about dad-bod big. Peeking out again, I’d guess him to be six three or four, so a foot taller than me. His legs are long and muscular, and his shoulders… God, his shoulders make me swoon. I know some women like a guy’s butt, but I’m a shoulder girl, hands down. I could just picture myself hanging on to those as he….
Oops, never mind.
On top of all that yumminess lies a face that could launch a thousand orgasms. Square jaw that’s always got a little scruff like he wakes up, shaves, and BAM, it grows back. Thank you, testosterone. As for the rest of his face, I can only say, from a
distance, he’s handsome. I wish I could tell you about his eye color or how soft his lips look, but I can’t. I haven’t actually met him in person.
Why not just go introduce myself to him? Well, because level-ten hot doesn’t mix with level-five meh—and that’s after I’ve showered, done my hair, and put on makeup. Since I’ve done none of those things, it means I’m currently level-three scary.
Anyhoo, he moved in about a month ago. I wasn’t home when the truck arrived to set him up in the home attached to mine. I live in what’s called a duplex. I only rent, which I know for a thirty-two-year-old woman, it’s sort of sad. I should own real estate by now, but I like renting. I mean, if something goes wrong, I just call the management company, and two or three weeks later, it’s fixed, pretty much, which is good because I don’t have a handy bone in my body.
Outside, I see Sam use some kind of soft cloth to buff his truck to a glossy shine. “I’d like to shine his––” I mumble to myself. Then I crack up because sometimes my dirty thoughts… well, they’d make a sailor blush.
The way his back muscles are flexing and contracting makes me dizzy. I need to pull away from this and get back to work. “Shit’s not going to edit itself.” And Mama needs a new vibrator, apparently.
I plop back on my butt, then crawl the short distance into my small living room. Once I make it to the coffee table, I use that to help push me up. I walk the five steps it takes to make it back to my desk.
My little place is perfect for me. It’s one bedroom, one bath, with a living room big enough for a sofa, chair, and television stand. There’s what I call a dining nook off the kitchen that I’ve set up as my office. It’s an ideal spot for easy coffee refills and access to life-sustaining snacks. But the best part is the sliding doors that lead to my deck––my little slice of heaven. It’s small, only about eight by eight feet so I’ve got room enough for a chaise lounge and a tiny side table.
Three steps down from the deck leads to a small grassy area I share with Sam. It’s big enough for Henry Miller to roll around in when the sun is out, like it is today. It’s finally nice enough outside for me to leave the slider open so the slight breeze can come through the screen door.
Yeah, I like my little place. And now with the new neighbor, I love my place. Granted, it’s not as nice as the place next door. I saw it a time or two when the last neighbor lived there. That place is set up in a similar manner as mine, but it’s much bigger. Even the deck.
I sigh, imagining what Sam’s place is like. I just need to figure out a way to meet him without making it seem intentional, but I suck at meeting guys––and not in a good way.
Chapter 2
Henry Miller
After the excitement of my afternoon watching my neighbor wash his vehicle and editing a sexy romance novel, I decide to take advantage of the evening by sitting out on my little deck with a glass of wine. I love it. Watching the birds and squirrels scamper around my yard is always entertaining. This evening is no exception.
Sadly, Henry Miller hates the critters. When he sees a bird flutter over to my little birdfeeder that I’ve got suspended from my smallish tree, he hunkers down into the grass, getting as low as he can so he can slither closer like an army guy does in the trenches. In the past, he’s nearly caught a slow-witted bird, but I do my best to shoo them away before Mr. Miller gets his claws into the poor creatures.
As for the squirrels, well, that’s another story entirely. They taunt poor Henry Miller. No amount of hunkering or slithering is going to surprise a squirrel. Instead, they sit on the tree limbs and say all kinds of rude things to my cat. Okay, I can’t speak squirrel, but I recognize the tone, and it’s not nice. Tonight is no exception. And, boy, is it entertaining. I wish I had the hutzpah of the squirrel that’s currently giving Henry the riot act. I swear to you, she—and I know it’s got to be a woman squirrel—has her little paws on her waist and her head is bobbing back and forth. If I could speak squirrel, I’d imagine her saying something like, “Look here, asshole cat. You think you’re going to come up here into my house and eat me? Well, fuck you. That ain’t happening.” Then, at the last minute, she practically spits, “Pussy!” I giggle at my thoughts. I’m crazy, I know. I spend way too much time alone.
I decide I need to capture the essence of the squirrel, so I pick up my pencil and the tablet I keep with me for notes, ideas, reminders—that sort of thing. I hold the small pad in my hand and draw the sassy little rodent. Okay, you should know I’m not the best at drawing. Case in point, by the time I’m done, it’s hard to tell what I attempted to draw. I mean, I know what it was, but if you saw it, you might ask, “Is that a cat, Colette?”
I’d shake my head.
Perhaps you take another stab at it. “A rat?”
“Nope.” I’d chuckle at the absurdity. “It’s a squirrel. See?” I’d point at the thing I drew at its little feet. “That’s a nut.”
I take a long swig of my wine, and then I sigh.
God, I’m so weird.
The wine has gone to my head, so I decide it’s time to step inside and cook myself something to eat to soak up the booze. Standing up, I nearly topple over but catch myself on the arm of my chaise lounge. After pushing open the screen, I turn back to call Henry Miller, but he’s nowhere to be found. “Shit.”
Henry’s a good cat, mostly. He likes going outside, but he only goes when I go, and he comes inside with me. I quickly walk down the steps and scan the yard. “Henry,” I call loud enough for him to hear but soft enough it won’t disturb my neighbors. I look up into my little tree and see the squirrel glaring down at me. “What?” I snap.
She doesn’t answer.
Smug bitch.
I spin around in a circle, looking up and down in search of Henry. I stop when my eyes lock onto my neighbor’s deck. My new neighbor. His sliding door is ajar. Not only that, his screen door is open. “Idiot,” I hiss.
No, I’m not talking about Sam. I’m talking about Henry Miller. He’s such an asshole. I take in a lungful of air for courage as I trudge toward Sam’s deck, chanting softly to myself, “Please be gone or out front. Please be gone….” You get the idea.
When the second step squeaks under my feet, I freeze. What the hell is my problem? I should just stomp right up there and knock on the door.
Yes, I should do that, but I can’t. I’m not in any shape to meet my neighbor. The only thing I did today was shower and dress in my oldest pair of sweats and my most embarrassing tee. It’s the one my sister gave me as a joke. It says in bold print: #1 Cat Mom.
See what I mean?
So I tiptoe up the rest of the steps and then rush to the spot next to the glass door like a cop trying to surprise a perp. I lean closer to listen for any sound. Nothing. Taking that as a good sign, I lean my head in further so I can actually look into the house. And there that little fucker sits, on the counter, licking his nonexistent balls like he owns the place. “Henry Miller,” I hiss.
The little bastard doesn’t even look up.
“Henry,” I snap again.
Nothing.
“Goddamn it,” I mutter to myself. I’m going to have to go in there. Looking down, I roll my eyes when I realize I’ve got something on my shirt, right above my left boob. Pulling the shirt up, I examine it more closely. I think it’s salsa from lunch, but I can’t be sure, so I do what any self-respecting person would do. I lick it.
Yep, salsa.
“Can I help you?”
The deep voice startles me so much I practically jump a foot off the ground. My landing is off balance, so I grab the first thing I can to keep me from taking a header. It just so happens to be my neighbor’s chest.
Damn, his pecs are firm.
When his hands move up to support me, warmth runs through my entire body. Warmth so hot it feels like fire.
Okay, it isn’t quite that hot, but it is super warm. Trust me.
“Oh.” I laugh because crying is out of the question. “I’m sorry. I, uh, think my cat
ran into your side of the house.”
“Ah.” He looks back into his home, then back down to me. “I wondered who he belonged to.” His eyes move from my face, past my lips, and down to my tee. “Number one cat mom, huh?”
Shoot me now. Then my sister. She dies next.
The only good thing about any of this is I now know his eye color. Gray. Steel fucking gray. And they’re surrounded by lashes that are so long, it’s not fair. And then the rest of the stuff that surrounds the eyes is just as captivating. His nose I’d probably describe as Roman, and his mouth… holy moly, I want that mouth.
“Ha ha.” My laugh is fake. “My sister’s idea of a joke.”
“You must like it. I saw you lick it.”
No.
I do my best to take control of the situation. I point to the spot that’s still moist from my tongue. “Spicy salsa.”
“Mm, I love spicy.”
I just bet he does.
“Well, um, let me just get Henry Miller and get out of your hair.” And, boy, does he have nice hair. It’s longish but not in a Quiet Riot kind of way. It’s more like Charlie Hunnam from Sons of Anarchy—you know, dirty blond and pushed back out of his face. It only adds to his level of hotness.
“Henry Miller?” he asks, moving out of my way so I can step through his doorway. “You named him after the writer?”
He knows Henry Miller? Be still my heart. “My grandfather’s favorite author.” And since my grandfather was my favorite person, it makes sense, to me anyway.
“Cool name.” He follows me into the kitchen. “What’s your name?”
He wants to know my name? Hurray! “Colette.”