The Player Next Door

He shakes his head as he turns back to the wall. “It’s like I’m seventeen all over again,” he says under his breath, discreetly adjusting the front of his shorts.

“You’d deserve it, for all those months of them calling me BB.”

“I didn’t tell them …” He sighs with reluctance. “It wasn’t like that.”

“Really? Then what was it like?”

He bites his bottom lip as if considering whether to respond. It’s a long moment before he does. “Dip caught me jacking off in the drive-in restroom one night and wouldn’t shut up about it after.”

My jaw drops at his admission as a foggy recollection takes shape. “Wait, was that the night we watched Sin City?” We were curled up in the back of Dean’s truck, under blankets, and I was mercilessly teasing Shane by dragging my fingertips back and forth along his bare stomach, just above his belt. Halfway through the film, he snuck off in a sudden rush. He came back a while later with Steve on his heels, ribbing him about something.

He rubs his forehead, a cute, shameful look on his face. “Maybe.”

A mental flash of Shane with his fist wrapped around himself in one of those dingy little stalls hits me and I blush. “Did you do that a lot when we were together?”

His eyes flash to mine as if he’s weighing how truthful to be. “Every day we went out,” he confesses with a wry smile. “Sometimes in my car, right after I dropped you off. Once in the Patty Shack restroom, because I was losing my mind watching you lick that vanilla ice-cream cone.”

“Oh my God!” I burst out laughing and he follows suit, though his laughter is weaker, laced with embarrassment. “You never let on how dire things were for you.” Maybe I did earn that nickname, after all.

“Yeah, well …” He shrugs. “I told you, I didn’t want you feeling pressured.”

“If only you knew how bad I wanted you back then.” How many times did I leave him with my panties drenched, desperate for his touch inside them? I had my reasons, and he said he was okay with them.

He groans and his darkened gaze trails my body.

I let mine drop as well, to the unmistakable bulge in Shane’s shorts. “Do you need to use the restroom?”

“Dammit, Scar. Thirteen years later and you’re still doing this to me.” He shakes his head, but laughs. “Get back to painting or you’ll never be finished.”

With a sigh, I do as told.

At least, I try to. But now all I can think of is enticing Shane to find his breaking point.

My paint roller is dry and needs a reload. On impulse, I make a point of bending deep at the waist, taking much longer than necessary, betting on Shane watching.

The sharp curse behind me says I bet right.

Humming to myself—more to calm my own nerves than anything else—I set to finishing the last section, not daring to look back.

I have only one spot left to finish, high above the window. I brace my free hand against the window frame and stretch onto my tiptoes, reaching as far as I can to begin coating it. Warm afternoon air from the open window tickles my exposed belly.

A creak in the hardwood is the only warning I get before Shane is standing behind me. “Let me help you,” he whispers, encasing my hand with his own, while his other hand—large and hot—settles on my hip.

A soft sigh escapes my lips as he guides the roller up and down. Together we cover the last patch of mint green in the entire room. It’s impossible for me not to zero in on his erection brushing up against my backside with each stroke.

With the wall covered, he wriggles the roller free from my grasp and tosses it into the tray. But he doesn’t move away. Instead, he shifts closer, taking my hand in his again and bringing my knuckles to his lips.

“My fingers have wet paint on them,” I warn him, watching the sweet move intently. “You’ll end up with periwinkle blue lips if you’re not careful.” Not that I wouldn’t kiss him anyway.

“You’re right. I don’t see any paint here, though.” He dips his face into the crook of my neck, to linger there a moment as if testing the waters before he skims my skin with a soft, tentative kiss.

I allow it for a time, tipping my head to the side to give him better access, which he takes with greedy lips.

“We shouldn’t,” I murmur, my breathing turning ragged.

“Why not?”

I shudder with pleasure as his warm tongue teases me. “Because we’re taking things slow, remember? The whole next-door neighbors and teacher thing.” There’s no small amount of reluctance in my voice.

“You’re right,” he says, but he doesn’t stop, his splayed hands molding to my sides and working upward, his fingertips stalling at the underside of my breasts.