My tongue reaches out of its own volition and licks the finger that is shushing me. I lick him! I swear it's totally involuntary, just the smallest taste of this man, but he obviously feels it.
His pupils blow wide, the black almost eclipsing the amber of his beautiful eyes, and I'm trapped, motionless, at the chasm again, knowing this time I will gladly fall.
I’m not sure how it happens, but the next thing I know, his hand fists in the back of my hair and I am staring up at the clear night sky.Oh, there’s the dipper,I think, and then I feel his breath at the base of my throat as he licks the hollow above my sternum, filling in the little dent there with the tip of his tongue.
I can’t move, can’t breathe, can’t think beyond—McHottie licked me. He freaking licked me back!
I am instantly aroused, my nipples hardening in the cool night air, as my blood flow coalesces into my vag. And then I sag against the railing of my stairs, as Mr. Tall, Pale, and Handsome drops his hand out of my hair like a lead balloon and steps back, looking shocked at his own actions.
“Good evening,” he says stiffly with a formal nod, as he turns and disappears around the corner of the building.
I stand there, mouth gaping. Had I done something wrong? What the hell? He can’t just lick me and walk away!
I run after him, and I swear I am only a few steps behind, but he is nowhere to be seen in the alley. So, I walk the entire way up to the main street and look right toward his property, but he is simply gone.
I dejectedly turn and come back down the alley, dragging my sorry ass up my stairs and in through the door. This night held all the promise of my wildest fantasies until his sudden departure dashed them with a bucket of ice water.
I lean back against my closed front door, thumping my head in frustration. “What the fuck?” I say to the room at large. “What in the ever-loving fuck was that about?”
My frustration channels itself into anger. Of course, McHottie is a fuckface. He gave me whiplash with his actions. And I still don’t even know his name. I groan out loud.
I am so thankful tomorrow is Monday. Tonight, I will have a solo nightcap, pass the hell out like a starfish alone in my queen bed, and then tomorrow, I will sleep in like it’s my j-o-b.
Then I’ll stay in bed all day surfing social media and indulging in an epic pity party. I’ll forget about angels and dogs and shadowy creepers. And I will absolutely forget all about hot mysterious neighbors.
I head to my bathroom and swap out my updo and handkerchief for a quick messy bun, wash my face, and smooth on a rose clay mask, hoping it sucks out both my anger and the junk in my pores.
I let my clothes fall to the floor, and with them, the stress of the day. I drop my bra and take a deep breath, feeling my shoulders relax without its heavy binding weight. I throw the discarded garments in the wicker hamper in the corner and change into my long smoking jacket and hot pink bunny slippers.
The silky material of the robe caresses my skin, and the slippers are heavenly on my tired feet. As I move, the silk slides against me like a lover’s touch. My little indulgences drag me closer to a more relaxed state, comforting and familiar.
I figure I’ll help further my relaxation along and head back to my kitchen. I’m still stuffed from a full dinner and dessert but pour myself my favorite dark red wine, anyway.
Probably not the wisest choice on top of the bourbon I already had, but the anger, hurt, and confusion are simmering just below my surface. I think the wine will be the last item to chase them away completely.
I down the first glass and start a second, just about emptying the bottle with my generous servings and enormous wine glass. I pull up my playlist and send it through the house speakers.
My mask is tight, so I know it is almost time to wash it off. Skin care is another indulgence of mine, and this mask is my favorite. I meander around my open concept first floor, tidying up a few things, putting some shoes away with angry movements to waste time while my mask finishes drying.
When it feels like a piece of old pottery as fragile as my confidence, I head back to the bathroom to rinse it off. I wet a washcloth, wring it out, and then hold it against my face to soften the mask.
I take several steadying deep breaths, each one calming me more than the last. The rose scented air picks up humidity from the warm wet washcloth, and I feel more and more relaxed with each steamy inhalation.
Laying the cloth aside, I bend down over the sink and splash warm water on my face. Between my skin care and the two glasses of wine downed in quick succession, my anger has dissipated, leaving me mellow—if a little hollow.
I gently blot my face dry with a towel and see in the mirror I missed a pretty big swath down on my jawline. I go to rinse it off when I hear a knock at my door.
What the hell? I spin and stomp toward my door. Who on earth would come over this late on a Sunday night? I feel a familiar prickling at the back of my neck, but no, it can’t be him after his hasty retreat earlier.
I step up to the peephole, nervous for a second after tonight’s events about who or what is on the other side. I remind myself that I have a solid door with a good lock, and I am safe. All I have to do if it is someone dangerous is simply not open the door.
I peer out and can’t believe who it is. I stare with one squinty eye at the warped image of McHottie’s profile. Even the fisheye glass can’t distort this man’s raw and primal good looks. What in the serious hell could he want?
Just like I sometimes speak my inner monologue out loud, sometimes when I drink too much, I can get a little snarky. And the emotional whiplash this man has put me through tonight has blown straight past snarky and brought out my inner bitch.
Forgetting my ridiculous get-up, my smoking jacket and hot pink bunny slippers, and of course, the hunk of face mask still clinging to the side of my face now entirely devoid of make-up, I rip open the door to snarl, “What the hell do you want?”
He stands with his hands pressed into the top of my door frame, head downcast. With his arms up like this, his leather jacket and shirt ride up, exposing his Adonis belt dipping into the black jeans slung low on his hips.
