I slide the cookie sheet onto the rack and reset the timer. Pacing hurts. Sitting has me spinning in my own thoughts. I need a physical outlet.
Nine minutes is more than enough time for an orgasm. I grab my trusty vibrator—the Cadillac version that works every time—and bail onto my sofa. The wine has me loose. The smell of warm sugar permeates the air.
I flip the device on and… relax.
Liam
I know better. I so know better.
And Jesus, Mary, and Joseph would be proud of my discipline. Because when Lorien Anderson wanders the hall back into the frame of the camera, singing feminist rock into her shiny, silver vibrator, it takes every ounce of my self-control to stop the feed.
The moment she grabs for her waistband, I know I’d be crossing the line from keeping her safe and secure, while enjoying a hint of humor and entertainment, straight into creeperville with a side of gross old man. Minus the old.
I’m not disgusting, but I’m no saint either. I turn off the mechanical equipment in the house… the fans, the cooling, and wait.
It takes less than four minutes to hear anoohand the groan of an orgasm that is followed quickly by a giggle and “Oh God, the neighbors. Shit. The cookies.”
I’m sporting a semi. The cute little neighbor with the spine of steel is baking cookies, getting herself off, and worried I might hear.
I’m tempted to stroke myself and let her hear a real groan, but knowing her, I’d end up with cyanide cookies without her even trying.
When there’s a knock on my door, I adjust my dick in my pants before pulling on the door.
“I bake as a way of saying thank you.” She thrusts the plate of cookies into my hands. The cling wrap on top is fogged with condensation. “I’m hoping you won’t need to keep saving me and I can slow down.” Her eyes are soft and lazy as her eyes trail down my chest and lower still.
I clear my throat, unable to stop the smirk. If she keeps going, she’ll be able to see the barbell and neither of us needs that. Scratch that. Ineeda release. But not with the cute little neighbor who’s a terror with all things confectionary.
Her eyes spring to mine and lock. They’re sated and soft. The anger and vitriol she tends to aim my way is gone.
If this is her after getting off, I’m a fan.
“How’s your foot?” Turning away from the stoop, I wander toward my kitchen to vent the cookies. “Want to come in?” Why did I say that?
She doesn’t follow. She looks from my doorway to hers before standing a few inches taller. “I abhor cheating.” And with that, she’s gone.
And I’m left to wonder who she’s seeing and why they’re never around. Why was she on her own with movers on a Saturday morning? Why is she baking for me instead of the person she’s committed to? He should be protecting her.
Against my better judgment, I try the cookie. I know better. I truly do. I spit it out, but peel the chocolate off the top, hoping it can cleanse my palate of the taste that shouldn’t be in any cookie. It only half works.
My thoughts flip back to the girl next door. Why does she need a vibrator? Because she shouldn’t need that with a man who can read her body.
She wouldn’t need it if she were with me—that’s for damn sure.
7
chum in the water
Liam
The open road is calling my name. And Briggs Barnett is one of the reasons why. While I can access his system via a master control override I installed as an emergency measure, he’s old school and likes the face-to-face.
It gives me hours on my bike. I’ll never argue that.
The open road, the clear deep blue skies, the freedom.
It’s the way life was meant to be lived.
The weird thing is where my mind goes. Usually, it creates, or blanks, or relaxes until little connections and threads weave themselves into beautiful knots.
