Page 16 of Worth the Wait

CHAPTER 5

REZNOR

“Oh my God. Logan is going to be here any minute and Pussy is soaking wet.”

Well fuck if those words didn’t grab my attention and snap me wide awake from where I was dozing off on the backyard porch swing.

Was I dreaming?

Desi Whitman.

Yes, Whitman because I looked on the roster to get her full name after thinking about her way more than I wanted to.

The voice sounded just like hers.

I must be dreaming.

“Of course. I never take care of Pussy, and the one time I do, she gets wet and messy before he gets here to take her home to play.”

Now that? That definitely got my attention.

The damn swing creaks as I get up from it and head toward the side of the house to the left of me. The clapboard house where dogs are always barking and the sign that says Doggy Style over the garage door has frequently drawn my curiosity.

But I haven’t looked in the few days I’ve been here. I’m not here to be a nosy neighbor, and fuck if I haven’t been busy unpacking and cleaning up the place. Besides, I normally keep to myself, but when there’s talk of a wet pussy, no man is going to stand idly by and let it be.

“I’ve stroked you”—groan—“and petted you”—sigh—“and trimmed all your fur to perfection, and this is how you repay me? By getting soaking wet and filthy before your daddy comes back to town?”

My smile is wide and I’m not gonna lie, my dick is stirring to life as I walk around the front of the house and peer down the side yard to see a woman’s backside. She’s on her hands and knees on the sodden grass, with mud coating her calves and hands. One mighty fine ass is pointing in my direction.

“You dirty girl, you,” she mutters and I can’t help but laugh. I’ve seen a lot of shit in the line of duty, but hell if I can remember hearing a woman talking to herself like this before.

“Excuse me? Is everything okay?” I ask, part caution, part curiosity in my voice, but I’m sure as shit not prepared for what I see when the woman sits up on her knees and faces me.

Desi Whitman.

A soaking-wet Desi with a white T-shirt smeared with mud and the dark pink of her nipples hinting beneath the fabric.

Nothing like a wet pussy and hard nipples.

“Oh my God. It’s you.” She sneers with disdain as she jabs a finger my way and rises to her feet—irritation etched on her gorgeous face.

“Yep, last time I checked, I was me.”

“What are you doing here?” Her eyes narrow and she throws her hands on her hips, not caring that she has now dirtied the sides of her shirt.

“I’d like to ask you the same question.”

“I live here.”

“Well...so do I.” I hook a thumb over my shoulder toward the other side of the fence and watch as her eyes widen and her back straightens.

Why does it not surprise me that she’s going to fight me even now? And why do I already know that this—she—is going to be a problem in more ways than one? I haven’t forgotten what it felt like to have my hands on her for those eighty minutes last Thursday.

Or how sharp that tongue of hers is.

It’s as though I have to goad her. Have to get a rise out of her.

She starts to speak several times and then thinks better of whatever venom she has on her tongue before starting again, only to fall into the same trap and then stopping herself, so instead I get her blank stare and unmistakable anger.