I walk back towards the front door, pizza in hand. As I go I’m sifting through my outline in my head, mentally going back through what I’ve written and trying to see where I still need to go. This is my process. It’s also the reason why after I write a book that I do nothing for months afterwards—my brain needs a vacation. I open the door to check to see if the mailman left mail out front. The first couple of days he knocked. I don’t remember him knocking today, but that doesn’t mean he didn’t. I trap the piece of pizza between my teeth and lips and open up the metal mailbox which is mounted beside the door. There’s some mail in there, so I guess the guy did come by. I dig out the magazine and a few sales papers and one envelope. The only real mail seems to be a letter from my agent. I wasn’t expecting one, so this could be good or bad. I take the last two bites of my pizza, tossing the leftover crust in a trashcan I keep by the entryway. I wipe my hand on my sweats, to rid it of at least some of the excess pizza sauce, and then I tear open the letter.
I read over the note, frowning because my balls are itching. Hearing from my agent has that effect on me. She’s not bad to look at, but she has that hungry look about her that scares the shit out of me. Not the kind that says she’s up for sex anytime and every time and will wear your dick out. The kind that says she’d chop your dick off if it meant she’d get further ahead. It’s a scary fucking look for a woman, but a great one for an agent and the one simple reason I hired her. I move my hand down, sliding it between my stomach and sweats, scratching my balls, still reading the letter.
“Oh!”
A startled gasp comes from my left. I look over and see a sexy little blond holding a large container decorated in Christmas crap. She’s wearing tight jeans that cling to her, an oversized white sweater, that sadly completely hides her tits from view, though I’m sure they are under there… somewhere. She also has some weird little Santa hat on that’s red and complete with a white puffy ball on the end.
Suddenly I have the strangest urge to get on the naughty list.
Chapter 3
Joy
I spent more time than I should have visiting Mrs. Reynolds, but she was lonesome. Still, as a result I’m really pushing it trying to get home before it gets dark. I don’t normally drive, even in the colder weather. It just seems like a waste, because I don’t live that far from town. But, now I’m really hoofing it to get home before dark. Juniper might be a quiet neighborhood, but a woman walking home alone after dark isn’t safe anywhere these days. I turn the corner, deciding to go straight to my neighbor’s house. I can deliver their package of Christmas cheer and hopefully help push him into the spirit and then go home and crash. I can already hear my large soaking tub calling my name. When I look up at my neighbor’s door, my breath stops in my lungs.
He’s standing at his mailbox, in sweats and he’s not wearing a shirt and… he’s delicious. That’s the only word that comes to mind. Delicious. Because he is. He’s like a Greek god—an Adonis in the flesh. His skin is a golden bronze, and looks so inviting… almost like candy because all you want to do is lick it. He’s got wavy black hair that looks months too late for a cut, but the long, messy locks is sexy and screams with masculinity. There’s traces of gray here and there, but that only makes it more appealing.
His face looks as if it was chiseled by an artist. It’s just that perfect. He even has this perfectly symmetrical indention on his chin that makes me wonder what it would feel like to slide my tongue against it.
I find myself hoping he’s single. I find myself praying he’s the answer to the long dry spell I’ve been having.
I start to speak up to announce my presence when I see him move his hand inside his gym pants. I blush slightly, but even though I know I shouldn’t—I still watch. He moves his hand down, adjusting himself and I swallow, because my throat is suddenly dry.
Then he does something that completely floors me.
His hand moves in his pants and I can see him actually stretching out his shaft. It’s not hard—at least not completely—but, even through the loose sweatpants that he’s wearing you can tell he’s packing. He’s big. Really big.