There’s only one obstacle preventing me from kissing Audrey’s sexy lips. She’s more than ready for some delicious tongue-tango, and I’m sporting a woody that only a good hard fuck—or more likely my skilled hand for the time being—will fix.

The only thing keeping me from kissing her stupid is the image of Cooper Johansson storming into the pool area as soon as I make my move. The old timer has cock-blocker written all over his rugged face.

Not that I blame him. If I ever have a little girl, I’ll scare men away too. I’ll probably scare away women interested in my sons too. People and their genital diseases scare the shit out of me thanks to Mom’s very graphic sex education.

“I want to kiss you,” I say from my corner in the deep end.

Audrey hangs from the pool ladder and shrugs. “You didn’t ask for permission at the sandwich place.”

“Your father might come in and piss on our fun.”

“If he hasn’t already, he isn’t going to.”

“Are you sure?”

“I know my dad as well as I know the chick in the mirror.”

“So not well at all, huh?” I tease.

Audrey has the audacity to feign confusion. “What does that mean?”

“You’re insecure for no reason. You’re riled up when nothing’s causing it. You’re unsettled despite your life being easy. Can you explain why you have those reactions? Let me answer for you. No, no, you can’t. From my point of view, you don’t know that hottie in the mirror at all.”

“And you know yourself so well, huh, dickhead?”

“Yeah. I know how far I’m willing to go to protect those I love. How far I’m willing to go to protect my business. And finally how far I’m willing to go to protect a stranger. Is there really more to life than those three questions?”

“Yes, there is,” she says, having no idea what those other questions might be.

“Such as?”

“Like what you’ll have for breakfast or how many babies you’ll have or what’s the best song by Skynyrd.”

“I don’t listen to Skynyrd, I always eat the same breakfast, and I don’t know how many babies I’ll have until I have them.”

“You can’t be serious about Skynyrd.”

“I don’t lie about music, Pip.”

“I need to come up with an insulting name for you.”

“I thought I was Farmer Ted.”

“Everyone who pisses me off is Farmer Ted. You need something special.”

“Special sounds right,” I murmur and wink at her.

Audrey wants to be pissed—Skynyrd is evidentially essential to rednecks from Kentucky—but she can’t help smiling when I wade through the water in her direction.

“I’m claiming you, Audrey Johansson.”

“What’s the mean exactly?”

“It means you can’t bang anyone else or I’ll break the guy and probably shit on your car.”

“I really don’t want you shitting on my car.”

“Then keep your lovely lips away from any man that isn’t me.”

Despite her wide, nervous eyes, she lifts her jaw defiantly. “If I claim you, does that mean you’ll keep your dick packed away for everyone except me?”

“Yep. You and I are an item. No one interferes with us, or I’ll fucking break them.”

“And shit on their cars.”

“Don’t laugh. I can shit on command.”

“Really?”

Shaking my head, I cover her lips with mine and inhale the scent of the woman I plan to claim for good.

We’re it.

I don’t know how I know, but I just do. Like when I was a kid, and I knew Keanu was a friend I’d keep until we were crusty old men sporting walkers and comb-overs. My gut knows shit, and it states for a fact that Audrey Johansson won’t be kissing any other men ever. I’m hers as much as she’s mine. Based on the way she turns to putty in my hands, she’s happy with our new, permanent arrangement.