I stomped to my front door, my heels pounding into the hard-wood floor. I was beyond angry. I was livid. I’d been so close. I opened my front door with the strength of a thousand angry Os, denied release for centuries. I began to pound on this door. I pounded hard and long, like Clooney had been about to do. I banged again and again, never relenting, never letting up. I could hear feet slapping toward the door, but still I didn’t let up. The frustration of the day and the week and the months without an O unleashed itself in a tirade the likes of which no one had ever seen.
I heard locks rattling and chains coming undone, but still on-ward I banged. I began to yell. “Open this door, you asshole, or I will come through the wall!”
“Take it easy. Quit that banging,” I heard Simon say.
Then the door swung open, and I stared. There he was. Simon. Silhouetted by soft light from behind, Simon stood with one hand grasping the door and the other hand holding a white sheet around his hips. I looked him over from top to bottom, my hand still hanging in the air, clenched into a fist. It was pulsing; I’d been banging so hard.
He had jet-black hair that stood straight up, likely from Giggler’s hands buried in it as he plowed into her. His eyes were piercing blue, and cheekbones just as strong as the jaw. Completing the package? Kiss-swollen lips and what looked like about three days’ worth of scruff.
Jesus, there was scruff. How had I missed that this morning?
I gazed down his long, lean body. He was tan, but not a premeditated tan—outdoorsy tan, weathered tan, manly tan. His chest rose and fell as he panted, his skin coated in a thin sheen of sex sweat. As my eyes traveled down farther I saw a smattering of dark hair low on his torso, which led below the sheet. Below the six-pack. Below that V that some men have, and which on him didn’t look weird or Bowflexed.
He was stunning. Of course he was stunning. And why did there have to be scruff?
I inadvertently gasped as my gaze dropped lower than I had intended. But my eyes were drawn, as if by a magnet, lower and lower. Beneath the sheet—which was already lower on his hips than should be legal— He. Was. Still. Hard.
ALICE CLAYTON worked in the cosmetics industry for over a decade before picking up a pen (read laptop) and starting a whole new career as an author. She enjoys gardening but not weeding, baking but not cleaning up, and is in the process of convincing her boyfriend to make her an honest woman.