Skin for Skin
Zoey
Legend has it that a beautiful young woman was traveling through these snowcapped mountains and set down stakes once she caught a glimpse of the heavenly blue lake. She stayed long enough to have her heart broken by a gorgeous yet philandering miner and before she left, she shook the dust off the soles of her feet and cursed this place with its wicked moniker—Lake Loveless.
Loveless has been wicked in my own eyes for as long as I can remember. I too suffered a broken heart—not by a man—by death. My brother and I lost both of our parents years ago, orphaned in a single dark night. But years have passed. I had escaped Loveless for a time. And in the mother of all ironies, another kind of heartbreak had brought me back.
I brush all thoughts of that heartbreak out of my mind and focus in on the wonder before me.
The barley and sod that border the lake spear through the damp soil, gleaming like silver knives as spring gives way to summer. The moon hangs so low tonight, you can almost take a seat on its glowing crescent. The air is perfumed with sweet night jasmine and the fireflies float in eerie suspension, deep in the arms of the scrub oaks that create a shield between this end of the lake and the expansive homes across the way. Loveless in winter is grand, but Loveless in the summer carries its own special brand of enchanted magic. The thick verdant evergreens, the expansive cerulean blue lake and miles of white powdered sand are the jewels in the crown of this cozy small town.
But my gaze isn’t captivated by the grass or the hordes of electrified insects. It’s landed on something far more wondrous. Abel McCarthy’s bare ass is hewn from the finest marble. His entire naked frame is a work of art for the ages—an exact replica of Michelangelo’s exquisiteDavid.
I take a sip from the bottle of Grey Goose I’m nursing and slouch behind the curtain. The lights are out in my tiny boathouse, but outside, the moon and the stars bathe all of Lake Loveless—all of Connecticut in their supernatural splendor. I’ve watched for two steady weeks as my new brazen neighbor morphs into quite the exhibitionist around eight thirty every night. Not that I find anything wrong with that. In fact, I applaud his right to air out his low hanging fruit—ripe for the picking as it might be.
This distal end of the lake is barren, with the exception of the rogue bear and mosquitoes that take up residence here this time of year. There’s still snow up in the heights, but early June here at the lake is downright balmy during the afternoons. A welcome crispness settles over Loveless in the evenings.
My nudist of a neighbor wades down to the waterline and I lean in, partially drunk, mostly excited beyond measure to catch a glimpse of said low hanging fruit, and I accidently knock the tip of the bottle against the glass.
Abel turns abruptly my way, and if I didn’t know better, those piercing eyes of his just burned right through to my soul.
“Crap.” I slap my fingers over my mouth and back up from the window as if the world outside just combusted into a heated blaze. Truth be told, the flames are right here inside of my body. I’ve always held a fire in my heart for those gorgeous McCarthy boys. They have been my weakness for as long as I can remember. I’ve slept with Warren. Made a play for Caleb. But Abel has been a slippery fish. We’ve never had an official introduction, but our paths have crossed on more than one occasion.
An abrupt knock comes over the front door, and I hold my breath at what might come next.
What have I done? Stupid, stupid booze. I strangle the bottle as if to punish it. I knew I shouldn’t have been so close to the window, pressing my nose against it like an eager puppy, and now he’s discovered me. He’s probably going to report me to the police for ogling his penis. My God, is that a thing? One of my deepest fears is getting into a legal tussle I can’t get out of. I can see it now—me serving serious time all because I couldn’t control my urge to admire his perfection. He should be imprisoned for tempting me.
Another series of knocks ensue, this time with a little more vigor.
What the hell am I thinking? I’ve done nothing wrong. Last I checked it wasn’t a crime to glance outside. Nor is it a crime to knock your vodka to the window as if saluting your nudist of a neighbor with a toast. I couldn’t help myself. It’s practically vulgar the way he whips that bat between his legs around with little to no shame. And when you get down to it, every last delicious inch of him is toast worthy.
The knocking grows with intensity yet remains at a steady polite clip.
“I know you’re in there,” a male rumbles from the other side in a friendly manner and something about his baritone voice makes my thighs quiver as if accepting an invitation he’s never sent.
My God, why doesn’t he just go away?
“I’m busy,” I shout back a little more feebly than intended. Busy? With what? Making love to my Grey Goose? I am for all practical purposes, but that’s none of his undressed business.
“I just thought I could introduce myself,” he persists. “I’ll make it quick, I promise.”
In the nude? Perhaps he’s drunk, too.
“Oh, we’ve met,” I mutter under my breath as I make my way to the door. I’ve been abruptly introduced to all of his bits and pieces over the last several weeks. The boathouse I’m holed up in is tiny. All of the boathouses that line this edge of the lake are thimbles in comparison to the spacious mansions that grace the proper parts of Loveless.
A kinder, gentler knock erupts. “I’d actually like to apologize.”
I swing the door open, ready with a smart-aleck quip on my lips, and my next breath gets caught in my throat.
God in heaven. Abel McCarthy is downright arresting in this close proximity. I had seen evidence of his cutthroat handsome ways from afar, but that dark, slicked-back hair, those lantern-like blue eyes have my heart thumping, my body jumping in all the right places.
“An apology?” I swallow hard while my gaze dips down to his bare chest, those sculpted abs that ripple without effort. He’s donned a pair of Levi’s for the occasion, and I can tell he threw them on in haste. His feet are bare and something enlivens in me at the sight of him like this, dripping wet, comely beyond reason and logic. I’ve always had a soft spot for barefoot men in jeans. There’s something intoxicating about a man who has already stripped himself of his shoes—and in this case, shirt. “I’d say you owe me more than an apology.” He owes me a good lashing with that whip dangling between his legs.
A dark laugh strums from him. “I’m Abel—”
“McCarthy, I know.” I’ve always been lousy with timing and secrets. That’s primarily what sent me running back to Loveless in the first place. A part of me knows I belong at Port University, but I can’t seem to go back. Not after the hell I’ve been through. No, there’s only so much fresh hell I can take, and the entire last year had me strapped down in the deepest part of that infernal place.
“I’m Zoey.” I open the screen, offering up my hand, and as soon as his strong, thick fingers connect with mine, the Grey Goose slips right out of my other hand.
