there is of him making a scene in your neighborhood." Danny blew out a frustrated breath. "You're welcome to come along. If you're tired though," he added, glancing at his watch, "I understand."
She wouldn't be a member of the female gender if she let a first-class stud like Danny Rees go partying with Kirsty and her double D's. Not that she was necessarily planting her personal flag on him and taking territorial possession after a few hours in bed. It was more about thwarting that smug look in Kirsty's eyes. You know the one—
I'm drop-dead gorgeous, and my double D's have pretty much gotten me any man I've ever wanted
.
That fucking look.
So call her a shrew, but Stella wasn't in the mood to hand over one studly Danny Rees just because Kirsty thought she was top dog.
Then again, maybe it had nothing to do with peer position. Maybe it had more to do with the position that put Danny Rees' big cock in very close proximity to her happy-camper cunt.
Wasn't there a saying about sex making the world go round?
Or was it love?
Whatever.
Tonight—for her—it was definitely sex. "I'd love to come over," she replied in one of those slightly overplayed soap opera voices that the sweet female character always used. "But why don't I follow you over in my car so you're not inconvenienced."
She smiled and hoped her sweet-as-sugar thingee was flying. Because the inconveniencing was more about her than him.
She wanted to be able to leave when she wanted.
Like a Marky B-type woman.
Take what you want and then fly off. Or in her case, get in her Jetta.
Leaving after sex wasn't
exclusively
a male prerogative.
Except—shit… that meant leaving Kirsty behind.
She'd have to think about that.
----
SEVEN
STELLA LEFT AFTER DANNY, BUT HIS DIRECTIONS were simple enough. And in less than a half hour, she was turning into a gated gravel drive with a grassy center.
Every old farm in the vicinity had Douglas firs bordering the drive, and Danny's place was no exception. The only problem was that the carriages and wagons that once traveled the drives were narrower than modern vehicles; some new owners had cut down the trees rather than scratch the finish on their cars. Danny hadn't, and she navigated the tunnel of towering trees very slowly. Not that her Jetta was new; it wasn't. But it had to last her a few more years.
Another gate was open at the entrance to the farm yard, the house to the left, the barn and outbuildings to the right, and from the sound of blaring music, it appeared as though the party was in back.
She debated briefly whether she wished to pierce her eardrums or call it a night. Curiosity got the better of her—along with a reluctance to give up the possibility of another few hours of hotter-than-hot sex. So she'd put Kleenex in her ears if the sound was out of hand. What she had in mind didn't require much talk anyway.
Parking beside Danny's truck, she followed the music and a flagstone path around the side of a white clapboard farmhouse with a wraparound porch outfitted with wicker furniture. The reason, no doubt, Danny understood the limits of wicker. Window boxes decorated the first floor windows, the spicy scent of geraniums pungent in the air. Through the lighted windows she saw a cottage-feel interior with bright-colored furniture, book shelves everywhere, and—jeez—flowers in a vase on the kitchen table. The
Midwest Country Living
atmosphere made her suspicious of a possible wife or—God willing—only a decorator. This place definitely didn't look like a bachelor pad.
Nor did the screened-in pool she saw when she came around the corner.
Nor the pool house and strategically placed lighting that illuminated the water and the artfully planted garden bordering it.
Christ—maybe Martha Stewart was a relative. It looked that good.
"Hey—over here!"
Somehow Danny was able to make his voice heard over the Grateful Dead's "Casey Jones," or maybe she was reading his lips. Either way, he seemed glad
She wouldn't be a member of the female gender if she let a first-class stud like Danny Rees go partying with Kirsty and her double D's. Not that she was necessarily planting her personal flag on him and taking territorial possession after a few hours in bed. It was more about thwarting that smug look in Kirsty's eyes. You know the one—
I'm drop-dead gorgeous, and my double D's have pretty much gotten me any man I've ever wanted
.
That fucking look.
So call her a shrew, but Stella wasn't in the mood to hand over one studly Danny Rees just because Kirsty thought she was top dog.
Then again, maybe it had nothing to do with peer position. Maybe it had more to do with the position that put Danny Rees' big cock in very close proximity to her happy-camper cunt.
Wasn't there a saying about sex making the world go round?
Or was it love?
Whatever.
Tonight—for her—it was definitely sex. "I'd love to come over," she replied in one of those slightly overplayed soap opera voices that the sweet female character always used. "But why don't I follow you over in my car so you're not inconvenienced."
She smiled and hoped her sweet-as-sugar thingee was flying. Because the inconveniencing was more about her than him.
She wanted to be able to leave when she wanted.
Like a Marky B-type woman.
Take what you want and then fly off. Or in her case, get in her Jetta.
Leaving after sex wasn't
exclusively
a male prerogative.
Except—shit… that meant leaving Kirsty behind.
She'd have to think about that.
----
SEVEN
STELLA LEFT AFTER DANNY, BUT HIS DIRECTIONS were simple enough. And in less than a half hour, she was turning into a gated gravel drive with a grassy center.
Every old farm in the vicinity had Douglas firs bordering the drive, and Danny's place was no exception. The only problem was that the carriages and wagons that once traveled the drives were narrower than modern vehicles; some new owners had cut down the trees rather than scratch the finish on their cars. Danny hadn't, and she navigated the tunnel of towering trees very slowly. Not that her Jetta was new; it wasn't. But it had to last her a few more years.
Another gate was open at the entrance to the farm yard, the house to the left, the barn and outbuildings to the right, and from the sound of blaring music, it appeared as though the party was in back.
She debated briefly whether she wished to pierce her eardrums or call it a night. Curiosity got the better of her—along with a reluctance to give up the possibility of another few hours of hotter-than-hot sex. So she'd put Kleenex in her ears if the sound was out of hand. What she had in mind didn't require much talk anyway.
Parking beside Danny's truck, she followed the music and a flagstone path around the side of a white clapboard farmhouse with a wraparound porch outfitted with wicker furniture. The reason, no doubt, Danny understood the limits of wicker. Window boxes decorated the first floor windows, the spicy scent of geraniums pungent in the air. Through the lighted windows she saw a cottage-feel interior with bright-colored furniture, book shelves everywhere, and—jeez—flowers in a vase on the kitchen table. The
Midwest Country Living
atmosphere made her suspicious of a possible wife or—God willing—only a decorator. This place definitely didn't look like a bachelor pad.
Nor did the screened-in pool she saw when she came around the corner.
Nor the pool house and strategically placed lighting that illuminated the water and the artfully planted garden bordering it.
Christ—maybe Martha Stewart was a relative. It looked that good.
"Hey—over here!"
Somehow Danny was able to make his voice heard over the Grateful Dead's "Casey Jones," or maybe she was reading his lips. Either way, he seemed glad
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