frequently out my window toward
the neighbor’s cabin. I wondered what he did for a living. I wondered where
he’d learned to fight. But most of all, I wondered where on earth this
overpowering attraction to him had come from.
I couldn’t even write the steamy scenes he’d so inspired.
Instead, on this sunny day off, in the last hours I had to myself before my
brothers crashed into my life, I sat there at my desk, staring across the lake
at his stupid cabin.
For the last four days, I’d thought about retaliation for
the water glass incident. I’d planned about a dozen different ways of getting him
back. But I knew, after him letting himself into my house and watching him
manhandle my attackers, that it was a bad idea. The man was dangerous, and it seemed
like neither of us had brakes. The situation would surely escalate, like in
those mob movies. People would die, and someone would find a bloody moose’s
head on their sheets.
I wouldn’t put it past my diabolically good-looking neighbor
to climb in through my second-story window to consummate some devious plot. Actually,
most of my fantasies of him crawling in my window like Edward Cullen—a sex
scene I’d written before he’d broken in and read my stuff, dammit—didn’t
involve the kind of moisture that came out of a glass. And, unlike Edward the
sparkly vamp, my fantasy lover wasn’t hesitant and full of teenage angst. No,
he had pitch black hair and a sexy dent in his chin, and he jumped on my supine
form, pinning me to the mattress, and latched directly onto my neck.
I gasped, hand rising to cover a phantom hickey. See?!!
This was why I couldn’t write, couldn’t think, couldn’t do much of anything,
really. Pent-up sexual frustration at its worst. My pussy’d been burning for days .
Because of him . I gnawed on my lip, still staring
across the water.
What was he doing over there? I’d heard hammering
noises, had been hearing them all day. The faint rasp of a saw…. I closed my
eyes, imagining him sprawled in a sunbeam swirling with motes of sawdust, lying
back on his elbows on an unfinished floor in nothing but an old pair of
Carhartts.
This situation couldn’t continue. I was obsessed;
absolutely, irrevocably in lust with my evil neighbor.
So what were my options?
1: I could kill him. It was an option I’d already explored
at length. I had a foolproof plan for body disposal, but he was rich, and I
knew he had friends. People would investigate, and I was the only suspect—they’d
probably find blood spatters, powder burns on my fingers, footprints, and my
gun. I’d watched CSI; I knew how this worked.
And then there was my conscience, the potential jail time,
and the fact that I’d be robbing the world of a gorgeous specimen of
masculinity. Albeit a loud one.
2: I could ignore him. Yeah, that wasn’t working, not at
all.
The only choice left to me was, 3: Have sex with him.
Hopefully over, and over, and over again, wild, sweaty, screaming monkey sex
that put the ramblings of my sex-starved mind and shaking, feverish,
key-stabbing fingers to shame. Dirty, dirty shame up against a wall, on some
stairs, in the mud, in a canoe, in a frickin’ tree if we could manage it.
I shuddered, trying to find a more comfortable position in
my chair. The problem was, there wasn’t one that didn’t apply pressure—but not
nearly enough!—to my raging lady-boner.
So, sex. But how should I go about it? Having been born
and raised in Alaska, and having spent the last four years of my life in the
woods, I was socially awkward. I knew it, probably everyone I met knew it.
So, option 3A: I could put on makeup and stick out my chest and made small
talk and try to flirt like a normal person… but I’d probably just look and
sound ridiculous.
Option 3B: Just walk over there, and grab him. Yeah, that
seemed more my style. It would take guts, though. And I probably
the neighbor’s cabin. I wondered what he did for a living. I wondered where
he’d learned to fight. But most of all, I wondered where on earth this
overpowering attraction to him had come from.
I couldn’t even write the steamy scenes he’d so inspired.
Instead, on this sunny day off, in the last hours I had to myself before my
brothers crashed into my life, I sat there at my desk, staring across the lake
at his stupid cabin.
For the last four days, I’d thought about retaliation for
the water glass incident. I’d planned about a dozen different ways of getting him
back. But I knew, after him letting himself into my house and watching him
manhandle my attackers, that it was a bad idea. The man was dangerous, and it seemed
like neither of us had brakes. The situation would surely escalate, like in
those mob movies. People would die, and someone would find a bloody moose’s
head on their sheets.
I wouldn’t put it past my diabolically good-looking neighbor
to climb in through my second-story window to consummate some devious plot. Actually,
most of my fantasies of him crawling in my window like Edward Cullen—a sex
scene I’d written before he’d broken in and read my stuff, dammit—didn’t
involve the kind of moisture that came out of a glass. And, unlike Edward the
sparkly vamp, my fantasy lover wasn’t hesitant and full of teenage angst. No,
he had pitch black hair and a sexy dent in his chin, and he jumped on my supine
form, pinning me to the mattress, and latched directly onto my neck.
I gasped, hand rising to cover a phantom hickey. See?!!
This was why I couldn’t write, couldn’t think, couldn’t do much of anything,
really. Pent-up sexual frustration at its worst. My pussy’d been burning for days .
Because of him . I gnawed on my lip, still staring
across the water.
What was he doing over there? I’d heard hammering
noises, had been hearing them all day. The faint rasp of a saw…. I closed my
eyes, imagining him sprawled in a sunbeam swirling with motes of sawdust, lying
back on his elbows on an unfinished floor in nothing but an old pair of
Carhartts.
This situation couldn’t continue. I was obsessed;
absolutely, irrevocably in lust with my evil neighbor.
So what were my options?
1: I could kill him. It was an option I’d already explored
at length. I had a foolproof plan for body disposal, but he was rich, and I
knew he had friends. People would investigate, and I was the only suspect—they’d
probably find blood spatters, powder burns on my fingers, footprints, and my
gun. I’d watched CSI; I knew how this worked.
And then there was my conscience, the potential jail time,
and the fact that I’d be robbing the world of a gorgeous specimen of
masculinity. Albeit a loud one.
2: I could ignore him. Yeah, that wasn’t working, not at
all.
The only choice left to me was, 3: Have sex with him.
Hopefully over, and over, and over again, wild, sweaty, screaming monkey sex
that put the ramblings of my sex-starved mind and shaking, feverish,
key-stabbing fingers to shame. Dirty, dirty shame up against a wall, on some
stairs, in the mud, in a canoe, in a frickin’ tree if we could manage it.
I shuddered, trying to find a more comfortable position in
my chair. The problem was, there wasn’t one that didn’t apply pressure—but not
nearly enough!—to my raging lady-boner.
So, sex. But how should I go about it? Having been born
and raised in Alaska, and having spent the last four years of my life in the
woods, I was socially awkward. I knew it, probably everyone I met knew it.
So, option 3A: I could put on makeup and stick out my chest and made small
talk and try to flirt like a normal person… but I’d probably just look and
sound ridiculous.
Option 3B: Just walk over there, and grab him. Yeah, that
seemed more my style. It would take guts, though. And I probably
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