She likes it quick and dirty.
I like orders and rules.
She hates small talk.
I hate to share.
She’s an open book.
I’m a closed dresser drawer.
She rides a Harley.
And that drives me f’ing nuts.
Annalyse and I have both lived in our own personal hells for half a decade. She’s learned to love the warmth, and I’m still consumed. But my new neighbor is stoking more than my libido these days. We agreed on only pleasure. But she changed the rules.
And now I’m not even sure what they are.
Maybe there’s a reason she found me that night, maybe there’s a reason I can’t stop thinking about her, maybe there’s a reason for the pain. Maybe not.
We all look for reasons in life. Reasons for death, love, pain. Why one thing happens and not another? It’s human nature. We’ve been looking for the meaning of life since the beginning of time. But maybe the reason for all of it — life, love, loss, heartache — is the curvy brunette living next door.
I can see the questions in her eyes. Naked, I get on my knees in the bed, helping her up, her body pressing into mine, and lift her shirt over her head. I can’t help but grin that she’s borrowed one of mine. My hands slide down the curve of her waist and under the cotton of her panties, removing them. Her hand softly strokes my cheek, and like an asshole, I jerk my head back, her soft touch doing damage to the hard defenses I’ve built. How is that? How can something so soft, so sweet, be my undoing? And damn, the way she looks at me. I can’t have her looking at me like that right now. In one move, I flip her over and yank her ass in the air.
Her breath catches. Dammit, sometimes I wish I could be one of those guys that only think about themselves during sex, but I’m not built that way. Annalyse’s pleasure will always be more important than my own, and that’s just one small fucking step away from all her needs coming before my own. It’s a slippery slope I’m on.
Using the tip of my cock, I outline her folds, feeling her open, drawing me in. Running my finger down the curve of her back, her body rolls, her ass pushing against me. She’s got the best ass, pure white, smooth skin, firm, but enough to hold onto.
“Holt,” she begs softly.
She’s very impatient when it comes to her orgasms. That’s a great quality in a woman; she wants what she wants and doesn’t apologize for it. As I slip myself inside her, she lets out a breathless moan. It’s amazing how well I know her sounds, her body already. Holding her hips, I slide in and out, slowly. Grinning, I know she’s going to hate and love that at the same time. She likes to come quickly. It’s almost like she’s afraid there’s not enough time. She starts to move faster, wanting me deeper, and harder. And I’m powerless to resist her, incapable of not giving her exactly what she wants.
And when she screams out my name, I follow right behind her. My body covers hers as we lay collapsed in our orgasmic hangover. Moving her hair off her face, I look down at her closed eyes, missing seeing the way she looks when she comes. “Every night,” I say quietly, “I want you in my bed, naked, waiting.”
She doesn’t open her eyes, but a little smirk crosses her lips. “Orders, orders.”
Kissing her neck, I nibble her earlobe. “Say you’ll be here.” She rolls over, her eyes meeting mine for the first time. A subtle guilt rises in my chest; I just fucked her to feel better, to forget. And I want to do it again.
Prescott Lane is the Amazon best-selling author of Stripped Raw. She's got five other books under her belt including: First Position, Perfectly Broken, Quiet Angel, and Wrapped in Lace, and her new release, Layers of Her. She is originally from Little Rock, Arkansas, and holds a degree in sociology and a MSW from Tulane University. She married her college sweetheart, and they currently live in New Orleans with their two children and two crazy dogs. Prescott started writing at the age of five, and sold her first story about a talking turtle to her father for a quarter. She later turned to writing romance novels because there aren't enough happily ever afters in real life.