I inhale deeply, knowing I’m going to regret this. “Fine. See you Saturday.” I end the call before she can continue to harp on this subject. I said yes. Probably the worst decision of my life. But maybe I can attend book club with these women without getting sucked into their lifestyle of bossy husbands hellbent on breeding their brides.
I’m no fool. I know what happens to women who visit the Wilde mansion. They never leave. They get married to one of the giant heirs and have his babies—and all of that happens in like a week.
I’ve met the latest single Wilde to arrive. His name is Brody. He was in the library one day when I came in. I fled the house of books so fast that my tires squealed as I peeled out of the parking lot.
The worst part is that it was too late. I’d already gotten a good look at Brody. Six-three. Short brown hair. Nicely trimmed beard. Deep brown eyes. Broad. Tanned from working outside. Yeah, I noticed him. Who wouldn’t?
I’m aware he owns a construction company in San Antonio, Texas. Apparently, he’s here for a few months to help with the many renovation projects that need attention in this town. Everyone knows everyone’s business in Wilde. It’s not like I snooped around to find out what his intentions are.
It doesn’t matter that his tight black T-shirt did nothing to hide his drool-worthy six-pack. The man infuriated me. For one thing, he’s cocky. For another thing, he reprimanded me. Me.
I don’t even know him, and he had the audacity to suggest that I needed to be disciplined for cussing.
Well, fuck him.
I don’t need a keeper, nor do I need anyone to tell me what I can and can’t say. I’m a grown woman. Twenty-eight years old. I’ll fucking cuss if I fucking want to.
After grabbing my phone and mug, I head inside and lock the back door. I feel totally safe here. Most of the time. Except when my imagination gets the better of me and dreams up noises that don’t exist. There’s a very low crime rate in Wilde. The only thing exciting that’s happened in years was when Smith Winston tried to kidnap Claire. She’d barely met Ryder Wilde at the time, and that man made certain Smith Winston would never set a hand on Claire again. Ryder swooped in, moved her into the mansion, married her, and got her pregnant in like ten minutes.
I turn off all but one lamp near the front door, check the locks, leave the porch light on, set the alarm, and head for my bedroom.
This cottage is my oasis. I fell in love with it the moment I saw it. It’s quaint. It came fully furnished—which is a bonus because I don’t own much. I’ve added frilly white bedding and matching curtains, but the furniture is a mismatch of decades-old pieces. Ornate. Girly. Perfect for me.
It has two bedrooms. I use the second one as my office, and I spend most of my waking hours in there writing, editing, or managing my social media accounts.
I have only shared my pen name with one person in Wilde—Thomas McAndrews, my lawyer—and I intend to keep it that way. I enjoy the anonymity. Even though most people know I’m an author, that’s about the only detail they have.
After getting ready for bed, I turn out the bedroom lights and climb under the covers. That’s when my imagination goes a bit haywire. This happens every night. No matter how tired I am or what I do to try to wear myself out so I can drop into dreamland, I have not fallen asleep easily since the day I met Brody Wilde.
Damn him.
Granted, the man has no idea he occupies my mind late at night. But I’m still mad at him for doing so. If he hadn’t come into the library that day and reprimanded me…
I start breathing heavily at the memory. The way his hand felt when he shook mine—his grip firm, unwilling to let me go. His chuckle as he tried to get me to give him my name.
But the way he spoke to me…
“Sounds to me like you’re in desperate need of a man; otherwise, who’s going to control that potty mouth of yours?”
“A pretty little thing like you should not be using such naughty words.”
Like every night, I’m consumed once again. My panties are damp. I’m not sure why I bother wearing them anymore. I should just climb into bed naked because every damn night I end up slipping them off to make it easier to touch myself.
I should have slapped him. How dare he speak to me like that. Like he has any authority over me. Not a chance. Never.
And now my panties are soaked. Again.
I sigh in frustration as I give up the fight, shrug out of both my tank top and panties, and yank open my nightstand drawer to grab one of my favorite vibrators.
Palming the one that will both reach deep inside me as well as stimulate my clit, I let the weight of it calm my racing heart. It’s become a nightly ritual I have going on here. A battle between my sanity and my physical needs. As soon as I give in to the temptation, I relax a bit.
With my legs spread, I bring the vibrator between them. It’s pitiful, but I don’t need lube. I used to, but since I met Brody and added his image to my now-nightly masturbation sessions, I don’t need it. I’m so wet that the phallic end slides right into me.
As soon as I turn it on low and press the tip against my clit I moan. Fuck, that feels good. So much better than before I met my muse.
Before Brody, I would read erotic romance at night if I wanted to orgasm. I used the fictitious scenarios as fodder. And it worked. I’d get all hot and bothered reading and then close my eyes and pretend I was one of the characters in my books.
Not anymore. Now, I have a real-life human I use to get off. I don’t even need to embellish him. The little time I spent with Brody was enough to provide me with material to masturbate to for years.
