In Cayo’s honor, I set up a foundation called Papa’s Kids to fund housing, counseling, and educational services for homeless youth. It’s been four months since its inception, and now I have a director and eight counselors on staff at the House. And that’s just the beginning. What started out of grief has become a labor of love. Building something that matters and spending time with those kids—seeing even the smallest progress—has been one of the most rewarding experiences.
But there’s still a deep void. My agent’s been on me about offers to coach pro ball or to host sports on TV. I’ve declined them all. Being in the public eye is not the life I want anymore. Not that it stops my agent from trying.
I miss writing. My stories were my lifeline. Like food and air, I needed them for survival. A couple of months ago, I equipped my home office with state-of-the-art equipment, thinking that I would start writing again. I had this brainstorm to developPrincess Dionna and the Dark Shadowinto a series. But the idea’s gone nowhere. And yet it’s stuck in my head and won’t let go. Not unlike the woman who inspired it.
The curved panels slide apart and as I step out into the hall, the sound of another door opening interrupts my brooding. “Hi, Micky.”
Lisa Manning and I share the top floor. She owns the only other penthouse, won in her divorce settlement from a business tycoon who made his megamillions by replicating the Playboy Bunny concept, called Knaughty Kittens. Lisa, a former Kitten herself, hasn’t been coy about her interest in getting horizontal with me. She fits the criteria of no strings, but I live by the motto “Don’t fuck where you sleep.” But tonight a warm, willing body beckons me to forget. And Lisa’s right here. Must be fate.
I turn with my camera-ready smile. “Hey, Lisa.”
Encouraged, she slinks toward me in her short satin kimono, revealing thighs that look firm enough to crack a walnut.
“I was watching for you,” she says.
“Oh yeah?”
Her French manicured nails crawl up my damp T-shirt. “You were gone a long time.”
“I needed to get rid of some pent-up energy,” I say, waiting for a lick of fire to spark low in my belly and burn behind my fly.
She lifts herself up on the feathered toes of her high-heeled slippers and breathes in my ear. “I can take care of that for you, Micky.” The nickname annoys me, but once we get naked, conversation won’t be on the menu. Lisa lowers her heels back to the floor and gazes up with wicked promises. “Invite me in,” she purrs.
I don’t invite women into my private space for sex. But that’s a detail I’ll sort out in a minute. Right now, I’ve got Lisa rubbing against me like a frisky cat while her fingers teasingly trail down my abs to the waistband of my shorts.
“How about a little sample first?” she says, giving her painted lips a teasing lick.
I should be as hard as granite, but all I feel is an instinctual semi at best. I look at Lisa, willing my cock to muster up more. She’s attractive with big tits. Fake but so what? I’ve slept with women before who had boob jobs, and that’s never been a problem. But I’m thinking way too much, and nothing’s happening for me.
Her fingers tug on my drawstring, and I know that in a matter of seconds she’s going to drop to her knees and suck me off in the hall as incentive. And fuck, I need that. I close my lids in anticipation, but all I can see behind them are beautiful amber eyes, silky, dark curls, and soft, golden curves.
And that’s the problem.
I don’t want Lisa.
Or Juliette.
Or any other woman.
I want Dee.
And only when I imagine her sweet, strawberry-tinted mouth on me do I start to rise in a hearty salute. Christ. I have an intense moment of déjà vu, and I know I’m not going to be able to do this now. Lisa might be willing to blow me here without a care for what’s going on in my head, but my conscience won’t let me use her as Dee’s stand-in.
I open my eyes and grab Lisa’s wrist. “Your offer is tempting,” I say by way of a polite brush-off. “But we’re neighbors and that makes anything between us potentially complicated.”
Her baby blues flicker in confusion. “You’re turning me down because we’re neighbors?”
“Afraid so.”
“What’s the real issue here, Micky?” Lisa snatches her hand back and sneers, going from sex kitten to woman spurned in a nanosecond. “Can’t get it up?”
No man appreciates a hit below the belt. “Good night, Lisa.”
“Go to hell!”
I’m still lusting over the last woman in the world I should want. My best friend of thirty years is barely speaking to me for hiring her, and now my neighbor thinks I’m impotent—and I’ll probably read all about it on Twitter tomorrow.
With the sudden direction my life has taken in the past day and a half, hell doesn’t seem as though it’s too far a trip.
