“Fuck,” he ground out, squeezing his cock at the head only to drag his fist back down to the base. He was so fucking close. Squeezing his eyes shut tighter, he brought back the memory of Eva on her knees in the shower, dipping her head to take one of his balls in her mouth, sucking on it, licking it. She hadn’t balked at a damn thing. She’d been eager and willing to explore and give just as much as he had. Then, rather than catching his cum, she’d pulled his cock out of her mouth and encouraged him to explode across her face—like a goddamn porno!
She’d lapped at the sensitive head of his cock as hot, ropy cum spurt from his crown and into her open mouth. She wore a big, beautiful smile on her face as she blinked through the water and stared up at him.
Yeah, that fucking did it.
Just like he had that night, Scott came hard. Only this time, instead of watching his cum decorate Eva, he watched it land on the shower floor and disappear down the drain. Far less appealing, not at all hot, but he worked with what he had, and that was the memory of Eva and her beautiful face covered in his cum.
Another five minutes, and he was scrubbed clean, turning off the shower and grabbing a dark gray towel from the rack.
More racket from outside and next door drew his attention to the window in the bathroom, and he peered out.
Well, hello!
That was not the ass of one of the moving men, no, it certainly was not.
She was bent over with her cheeks in the air, round and full and perky, tucked up in a pair of dark green yoga pants, swiveling back and forth as if caught in the wind.
Jesus, fuck. His cock twitched beneath the towel.
Maybe he should take a wander over next door and go meet his new neighbor. Take her a plate of cookies or a casserole or something.
Who the fuck was he kidding? He’d never made a casserole in his goddamn life. Burgers? Yes, he was a pro. Steak? Nobody barbecued a better one. Ribs? You bet your ass his could win a blue ribbon. Even his mac and cheese was Michelin-star-worthy. But casserole? Fuck no.
A call from in the house caused the woman attached to the rocking ass to stand straight up. He couldn’t tell what color her hair was. She had a baseball cap on, and her hair appeared to be in two braids over her shoulders. The glare of the sun made it impossible to see anything but sexy shadows. But what he could tell was that she also had a fucking awesome figure.
Curvy but fit, with a nice waist and hips he could really hold on to.
Was she going to turn around?
Voices from inside the house grew louder, and his new neighbor headed inside, showing him just how well she moved in those yoga pants.
Ah, fuck. Now he had another boner.
He needed to figure out how to make a casserole and go over and introduce himself, otherwise, he was going to be stuck inside all afternoon with his fist, lube and a box of tissues staring out the window—and that was just creepy.
After another quick round of self-abuse---not staring out the window—followed by coffee and a breakfast smoothie to help combat the hangover, Scott was pulling on his own baseball cap and heading out the door to go and meet the new neighbor. Of course, it would be just his luck that Ms. Green Yoga Pants had a hunky mountain of muscle living with her who got to peel her out of those tight yoga pants every night.
Either way, he needed to find out for himself. Maybe Mr. and Mrs. Green Yoga Pants had kids Freddie’s age, and they could all play together. Lord knew the neighborhood needed more young blood in it. He seemed to be surrounded by blue-hairs. Septuagenarians to the left of him, octogenarians to the right, there he was, stuck in the middle with a loud kid who liked to ride his bike up and down the sidewalk until bedtime. All while making the absolute noisiest fire-engine sound he could.
But the new neighbor was moving into where Mr. Octogenarian had once lived. Only Mr. Octogenarian had finally given up the good fight and moved into an assisted living facility with his lady friend, Mrs. Sexagenarian. A big neighborhood scandal indeed. She was a whopping fourteen years younger than him, still had her original hips and was divorced, not widowed—or at least so said Edith the Septuagenarian on Scott’s left.
Yeah, they needed some young blood in the neighborhood for sure. Not that Scott didn’t like his neighbors, because they were all lovely, kind older people; they were just big gossips. Whether he was out for a run, collecting the mail, raking leaves or taking Freddie out with his bike, he was stopped by a neighbor from somewhere down the road and given the full update on everyone in all the other houses.
He could just imagine the talk down at the duck pond about this new neighbor moving in. Every blue-hair on the street would probably be by within the week to say hello and offer their own bit of suburbia intel.
And if you start banging your neighbor, you’ll only become part of that gossip.
Motherfucker. He hadn’t thought of that.
You’re also getting ahead of yourself. She’s probably married.
Probably.
He turned the corner around the eight-foot-high cedar hedge that separated his yard from the neighbor’s. The big moving truck took up one side of the driveway, while a white Toyota Sienna took up the other.
Hmm. A minivan.
The wheels of the soccer mom.
He walked around the moving truck, past the dropped ramp and glanced inside. A bright red and blue wooden toy box with the initials K and L on the front of it surrounded by painted pictures of trains, boats and airplanes sat stacked beneath a bunch of cardboard boxes.
The boxes were labeled. “Master bedroom.” “Kids’ room.” “Kitchen.”
Okay, so there were definitely kids moving in.
That was a plus.
How old?
Boys?
Girls?
It didn’t much matter. Freddie made friends with everyone. But it would be nice for his son to find children similar to his age to play with. Katrin lived in a condo now, and there were no kids there. By the time Freddie came to stay with Scott, he was champing at the bit to run around the backyard.
Scott shoved his hands in his pockets and shuffled his feet in the driveaway covered in boxes and totes. The garage door was up, the inside full of boxes too.
Had he had this much shit when he moved in? It didn’t feel like it.
He glanced into the open hatch of the minivan, with beach buckets and shovels in a mesh bag, what appeared to be two boyish-looking children’s bikes (not that that meant anything) and … a weird-shaped sink? Black with a bizarre dip on one side.
Voices from the house and the open door had him spinning on his heel, the feeling of being caught ratcheting up his spine. Not that he was really doing anything wrong—besides being a bit nosy.
Damn it, the neighborhood was wearing off on him.
A woman with red hair up in a bun, black yoga pants and a pink tank top emerged from the house, her green eyes narrowing the moment she spotted him.
This was not the woman from earlier—she was still hot though. And she looked a hell of a lot like Eva—or was he just obsessed now and thinking every woman looked like her?
Scott waved like an idiot. “Hi, I’m your new neighbor.” He stuck out his hand. “Welcome to the neighborhood. I just live next door.” Like an even bigger idiot, he hooked the thumb of his free hand over his shoulder, should she not know where next door was.
Idiot.
Her look remained wary, but she took his hand. “Celeste. And this isn’t my house. I’m just helping my sister move.”