1
LEX
Dead men tell no tales. That’s the saying. And I’m supposed to be dead to the world.
But my body’s telling me a demanding tale as I stand at the front window. In the home that isn’t really a home. It’s a hiding spot. Never mind that a man like me is more suited to fighting and bloodshed than hiding behind a half-closed curtain.
Whoever she is, she’s making me savage. Not in a violent way. My pole pushes achingly against my pants. My heart hammers like it’s trying to smash out of my chest. I’m tense all over.
In the front yard, my new neighbor leans down to pull another set of weeds. Wearing a white T-shirt that shows her purple bra beneath. Her big curvy mounds shifting with each movement. Makes me wonder what the shape of her nipples are, how easily they get hard when somebody—no,me, not fuckingsomebody—teases them.
I close my eyes for a moment. Take a breath. Nobody has ever had this effect on me. Ever. It makes no damn sense.
She’s got her light brown hair in a braid over one shoulder. A braid made for wrapping round my fist as I guide her glistening lips to mine. No makeup on her face, just natural beauty, eyebrows knitted in determination.
She turns, tosses some weeds into her garden sack. Gives me a mouthwatering view of her denim shorts barely containing the gorgeous thickness of her ass.
I reach down, my hand almost pressing against my aching length to relieve some of the tension.
I’m not the kind of man who touches myself while secretly watching a woman.What the f…
I grip the windowsill so hard the material flakes away in my hand. I’m sure I feel the house tremble.
She stands, stretches her arms over her head. Across the street, a man is climbing from his car. He looks over at the woman, waves a hand. They exchange words I can’t hear. It seems like pleasantries, plus I know that guy’s married.
But it still pisses me off. I don’t want her talking to anybody else. Those curves, those knitted-in-concentration eyebrows, that round ass and those shifting, heaving tits …
They’re mine.
Fuck.
Calm down.
I want to know what her lips taste like. How desperately she’d try to moan if I pushed against her. Hard. Let her feel the rough texture of my mouth.
She’s not made for a man like me. Can’t be, because she looks civilized and normal.
I’m anything but.
So far, I’ve managed to hide here.
If I leave, I leave at night by the back entrance. Jump the fence and disappear so that my neighbors never see me. If I’m going to stay alive—or avoid slaughtering the bastards the Bratva will send after me—I need to keep it that way.
She returns to her weeding. Kneels in the grass then leans up slightly to adjust her braid.
The tension in my cock begins to pulse. But as she plays with her hair, I can’t stop myself from thinking …
It’s like she’s kneeling before taking me in her mouth, lips pouting, ready for my slick end to glide between her waiting lips and make her moan. I’d flow in and out of her steadily at first. See how much she can take. Then, as her eyes widen with lust and her hand slides between her legs to rub and pleasure the slickness there, I’d shift my hips harder. Firmer. Own her pretty little mouth.
A car pulls up. A sleek sedan that bounces the afternoon sunlight off the hood and the tinted windows. A thin man climbs out, all business, receding hairline and horn-rimmed glasses.
When I see he’s approaching the new neighbor, the angel with the kissable lips and the fuckable-as-fuck body, I take a risk. Crack my window open so I can hear what they’re saying.
“Miss Hart?” the man says.
“Uh, yeah?”
“I’m Roger Kent.”
