breath and her pulse slowly returned to normal.
“Whew,” she said to herself before picking up the glasses and peering out again. They were up and about and were moving beyond her sight.
Sometimes she felt like he was putting on a show for her--but that was just ridiculous and very uncomfortable thinking. She did not want to dwell on that. Bad enough that she watched him at all--worse to think that he knew about it.
He’d caught her eye mowing his lawn one day not long after she’d moved in, shirtless, his muscles glistening in the hot summer sun. She’d been riveted to her kitchen window, unable to look away. Of course, she could have used the hot day as an opening to go outside and offer him a drink, but she was far too much a coward to ever approach a man that sexy outright. No, she liked being safe, but alone, in her house. Watching was fun and interesting.
Here, he was all hers—every sexy, muscular inch of him. She could imagine him doing to her all the things she watched him do to other women, imagine herself in their place, feel his touch. She could imagine giving herself to him with wanton abandon. Her doubts didn’t plague her. Her little insecurities never crossed her mind.
Miranda sighed and went to her own bathroom to clean up. She tried not to think about feeling guilty for being a pervert, and when she was finished, she crawled into her empty bed to dream of handsome strangers fucking her brains out.
* * * *
When Miranda got off from work the next day, she stopped at her mailbox to see how many bills had arrived and what junk was cluttering up her mail. She flipped through the envelopes, absorbed in sorting when a male voice called out to her.
“Hey. I wondered when I’d get a chance to speak to my new neighbor.”
Miranda looked up, startled but intrigued by the deep, unfamiliar tone, then cringed inwardly when she saw who had spoken. Not just any of her neighbors-- him . She swallowed, forcing a smile on her face, wondering if she could just wave and ignore him so that she could make good her escape inside.
“Not exactly new,” she said nervously, eyeing her front door and safe retreat as he approached and wondering if her wobbly legs would betray her if she tried.
He sauntered up, looking quickly in his own mailbox before slamming it shut and moving toward her. His gaze flickered over her, assessing, seemingly noting every detail.
“You haven’t been living here that long, have you?” he said, a charmingly crooked smile on his face. His dark hair rioted over his forehead in a rakish way, curling slightly in the humidity of the deep South.
Miranda felt sweat gathering between her breasts and beading on her forehead. She swiped at it and gave a nervous chuckle. “Oh. Uh. About four months, give or take a few weeks.”
He extended his hand. “I’m Reece Auclair.” His Cajun French accent was faint but still noticeable. It made her feel warm inside just hearing it. Damn it. He shouldn’t look so much better up close and personal. Being this near him made her feel palpitations in her chest. She wondered if she was suffering a panic attack.
Miranda reluctantly shook it. “Miranda Clay.”
He leaned on her mailbox, invading her space in a way that made her faint with alarm—because she felt faint. “So … how long have you been watching?”
Miranda, who’d been about to say something about the weather, strangled on her own saliva as a gasp tore through her throat. She choked, her eyes watering. Guilt made her cheeks flush hot, and she knew she was blushing. “Excuse me.” She coughed some more to keep from drowning. “I--I’m sorry. What did you say?”
He grinned, obviously enjoying her reaction. He leaned closer, intimately closer. She could smell his aftershave and the cologne he wore. God, he smelled really, really good. “I wanted to know how long you’ve been watching me fuck the women I bring home,” he murmured in a low voice that resonated with the promise
“Whew,” she said to herself before picking up the glasses and peering out again. They were up and about and were moving beyond her sight.
Sometimes she felt like he was putting on a show for her--but that was just ridiculous and very uncomfortable thinking. She did not want to dwell on that. Bad enough that she watched him at all--worse to think that he knew about it.
He’d caught her eye mowing his lawn one day not long after she’d moved in, shirtless, his muscles glistening in the hot summer sun. She’d been riveted to her kitchen window, unable to look away. Of course, she could have used the hot day as an opening to go outside and offer him a drink, but she was far too much a coward to ever approach a man that sexy outright. No, she liked being safe, but alone, in her house. Watching was fun and interesting.
Here, he was all hers—every sexy, muscular inch of him. She could imagine him doing to her all the things she watched him do to other women, imagine herself in their place, feel his touch. She could imagine giving herself to him with wanton abandon. Her doubts didn’t plague her. Her little insecurities never crossed her mind.
Miranda sighed and went to her own bathroom to clean up. She tried not to think about feeling guilty for being a pervert, and when she was finished, she crawled into her empty bed to dream of handsome strangers fucking her brains out.
* * * *
When Miranda got off from work the next day, she stopped at her mailbox to see how many bills had arrived and what junk was cluttering up her mail. She flipped through the envelopes, absorbed in sorting when a male voice called out to her.
“Hey. I wondered when I’d get a chance to speak to my new neighbor.”
Miranda looked up, startled but intrigued by the deep, unfamiliar tone, then cringed inwardly when she saw who had spoken. Not just any of her neighbors-- him . She swallowed, forcing a smile on her face, wondering if she could just wave and ignore him so that she could make good her escape inside.
“Not exactly new,” she said nervously, eyeing her front door and safe retreat as he approached and wondering if her wobbly legs would betray her if she tried.
He sauntered up, looking quickly in his own mailbox before slamming it shut and moving toward her. His gaze flickered over her, assessing, seemingly noting every detail.
“You haven’t been living here that long, have you?” he said, a charmingly crooked smile on his face. His dark hair rioted over his forehead in a rakish way, curling slightly in the humidity of the deep South.
Miranda felt sweat gathering between her breasts and beading on her forehead. She swiped at it and gave a nervous chuckle. “Oh. Uh. About four months, give or take a few weeks.”
He extended his hand. “I’m Reece Auclair.” His Cajun French accent was faint but still noticeable. It made her feel warm inside just hearing it. Damn it. He shouldn’t look so much better up close and personal. Being this near him made her feel palpitations in her chest. She wondered if she was suffering a panic attack.
Miranda reluctantly shook it. “Miranda Clay.”
He leaned on her mailbox, invading her space in a way that made her faint with alarm—because she felt faint. “So … how long have you been watching?”
Miranda, who’d been about to say something about the weather, strangled on her own saliva as a gasp tore through her throat. She choked, her eyes watering. Guilt made her cheeks flush hot, and she knew she was blushing. “Excuse me.” She coughed some more to keep from drowning. “I--I’m sorry. What did you say?”
He grinned, obviously enjoying her reaction. He leaned closer, intimately closer. She could smell his aftershave and the cologne he wore. God, he smelled really, really good. “I wanted to know how long you’ve been watching me fuck the women I bring home,” he murmured in a low voice that resonated with the promise
Similar Books
