Page 24 of Misadventures of a Biker

The home was just as hideous as the pictures depicted. High Venetian plaster ceilings, dark woods, darker tile, and a hideously out-of-place dark wood floor—it was about as welcoming as the federal prison’s special housing unit or hole.

I laid my bag on the kitchen island and placed the bottle of wine I’d purchased in the refrigerator. After a quick survey of the flooring and trim, I was convinced the new floor would be a breeze.

Pleased with my findings, and even more thrilled with what the night might hold, I sauntered to the grand entrance.

“Any sign of them?” I asked.

She shook her head. “No.”

Leaning against the door with her hands behind her back, she seemed scared to come inside.

“I took a look at the flooring in there,” I said. “This is going to be a breeze.”

“Do you think so?”

I unbuttoned my shirt and started to take it off.

Her eyes shot wide. “What are you doing?”

“Taking off my shirt. I don’t want to get anything on it,” I said, pulling it over my shoulders. “This shithole’s been sitting vacant for six months. There’s a layer of dust two inches thick on everything. I was going to show you something. Settle down.”

She looked me up and down. “Show me what?”

“The flooring and trim.”

I took off my shirt and folded it. Standing in front of her in a ribbed tank top, I had her undivided attention.

I extended my hand. “Here, take this.”

She lifted my shirt as if it were an active bomb.

I got on my knees in front of the long stretch of baseboard that ran the length of the stairs. “Just find somewhere to put it, I guess.”

Clearly flustered, she draped the shirt over a section of handrail at the bottom of the stairway. Standing at the base of the steps thirty feet to my right, she crossed her arms. “Okay. What are you going to show me?”

“Come here,” I said with a laugh. “You can’t see it from over there.”

Her dress had worked its way to mid-thigh. As she strode across the floor in her heels, I fixed my eyes on the hem of her dress. Her thighs had compact, firm muscles, like that of a ballerina. I diverted my attention from her to the wood trim on my left.

On my hands and knees, I reached for the baseboard. “See this?” I asked, tracing my finger along the bottom of the board. “Someone’s already replaced this flooring once. This wood is thinner than what was in here before. The gap between the bottom of the trim and the floor’s surface is about three-sixteenths of an inch or more.”

I glanced to my right. Two cream-colored Jimmy Choo’s were within inches of my face. I looked up. Despite her five-foot-two height, her shapely legs stretched for a mile.

She was bent over slightly and had her eyes fixed on the baseboard. Her position and her wide-legged stance weren’t by accident. The sexy little bitch was standing over me with her legs spread three feet apart.

Eight sexless years in prison took its toll like someone flipped a switch.

I stood in the twelve inches of unoccupied space between her and the wall. My chest brushed against hers as I rose.

“What the fuck are you doing?” I asked.

“I was…I was looking at the…” She nodded toward the floor. “The trim.”

Our faces were so close, I could taste the spearmint on her breath. With our lips nearly touching, I looked her dead in the eye. “Unless you want me looking up your dress, you need to take a step back.”

She swallowed heavily. “I should?”

“That depends.” I narrowed my gaze. “Do you want me looking up your dress?”