The Schemer (Harbor City 3)

TYLER: Why?

EVERLY: You’re in Denver.

TYLER: I’ll have you know the mountains are beautiful.

They were and he was. Everything had unfolded as predictably as a five-cent plot with his client who was having second thoughts about an investment. A few conversations and a site visit had settled the man’s nerves. For a guy who always rubbed a particular someone the wrong way, he was damn good at calming others and getting them to focus on exactly what he wanted. No doubt a shrink would say it was a survival skill learned from his chaotic upbringing, but he wasn’t deep-diving into that—not when he had Ms. 3B in her favorite black nightie ready to sext it up. Okay, he had no idea what she was wearing and steamy hot texting wasn’t what they were doing, but his cock had a powerful imagination and a very hard need.

EVERLY: I’ll take your word about Denver. I like my nature hanging on the wall.

TYLER: Ha… Got the email from AF about the trip to the Keys. You still good with this?

The four of them for a long weekend on Ferranti’s private island in Florida. It would be sand, sun, and Everly-induced hard-ons that wouldn’t find relief. Well, at least for him when he wasn’t on the job trying to land the old man’s hotel account. He had to get some distance from her. It was too hard to think strategically around her when all his blood was draining from the big head to the little one and taking half his IQ points with it.

EVERLY: I wouldn’t have agreed if I didn’t mean it. I don’t do things half-assed.

Ass. She had to say ass.

TYLER: I believe it.

EVERLY: Have to head to bed. It’s 2 a.m. here.

Bed. God, he loved to picture her spread out on a bed, her long legs open for him. His cock twitched. Fuck. There was pre-come pooling on the head of his dick and leaving a spot on his boxers. All he wanted was— He shoved his fingers through his hair, pulling out a few in frustration. Keep it clean, Jacobson. She’s not for you.

TYLER: Night, sugar.

There was a pause while the typing bubble did its thing. Whatever message she was sending, it took more letters than N.I.G.H.T. Finally, her message popped up.

EVERLY: That’s it? No questions about what I’m wearing?

And just when he thought he couldn’t get any harder, he did—achingly so, because she’d surprised him again. His super-fine upstairs neighbor who told him to fuck off just as often as she kissed him and who came to his defense from Irena after giving him the stink eye herself had just thrown down a challenge. He read her text again as he gave his cock a hard squeeze and stroke, needing to relieve some of the pressure before he came in his boxers from one six-word question: No questions about what I’m wearing? He let go of his dick and typed.

TYLER: I already know.

A pause that gave him hope for a picture, but all that came through were words.

EVERLY: Oh yeah? What?

TYLER: Not a damn thing.

A little fantasy on his part or his gut feeling? Did it matter? Not to his dick. Another long pause with the typing bubble on his screen.

EVERLY: Night, T.

His lips kicked up into a grin at the answer. Ms. 3B wasn’t about to give it to him that easily; she never did.

TYLER: What, no confirmation?

He stared at his phone in one hand while shoving his boxers halfway down his thighs with the other and then wrapping it around the hardest part of him. There wasn’t a typing bubble. He gave it a minute and when the little blue bubble never appeared, he set his phone down on the nightstand.

He was right. He knew he was. He’d pictured her often enough. Nothing but long limbs, soft curves, and full lips. His hand moved up his shaft, rounded the head slick with pre-come and back down again. And in that moment it wasn’t his hand stroking him, it was hers. She wasn’t interested in drawing this out. She was kneeling on the bed next to him, watching her fingers speed up and down his cock. And she was talking filthy, telling him how much she wanted to see him shoot and that as soon as he did she was going to take that pink tongue of hers and lick it off his abs until his stomach was as wet as her pussy. And that was all it took. Fifteen strokes—twenty tops—and he was coming all over his stomach in hot bursts.

But unlike the fantasy, there was no Everly here to clean him up. And if she were? There was

no way he’d have ever gotten to the point of coming without burying himself between her thighs and feeling her squeeze him tight as she came all over him. And this was why he needed to stop thinking about her like this. She was his annoying and argumentative neighbor who happened to be his in with Ferranti, that was all. The sooner he could land the hotel magnate as a client, the sooner he and Everly could go back to their regularly scheduled war of stomping shoes and burning food, so he could focus on his next scheme instead of her.

She was messing with his orderly world, and they both knew a relationship could go nowhere. He was looking for old-money class when he finally settled down, and she wanted… Well, he actually had no idea what she wanted. He refused to acknowledge the burning in his chest at the thought that it was someone from a better upbringing than he’d had. Touché, Ms. Ribinski.

…