I smoothed my hand over the head of my cock and down the base, spreading the lube over my skin.

My eyes were shut, my mind elsewhere. Not in my bedroom in the house, but back at Rebecca’s place, on her front porch.

I pictured us there, as we’d been the morning before. She held the glass of lemonade in one hand, condensation snaking down the side of the glass as her throat worked to drink it down. This time, she didn’t put the glass on the tray.

This time, I knocked it out of her hand, wound my fingers into her hair and tugged her head back, and parted her lips with a kiss that would make her pussy so wet she’d slip off the fucking porch and onto my cock.

“Fuck,” I growled. “Fuck, fuck.” I stroked harder, faster, set up the familiar rhythm I’d developed over years of doing this. What I’d do to you. What I’d fucking do to you, Rebecca. If only you knew.

Christ, I took her, slammed her against the wall and ripped those shorts down, found the expanse of warm, wet flesh I needed, and lifted her leg high. I plunged my cock into her, again and again, her velvet folds closing around me.

Her eyes rolled back in her head, her lips parted and gasps escaped. “Too good,” she moaned. “You’re too good.”

“Come for me,” I growled. “I want you to come. I want you to break. I want you to know that you’re mine and only mine, Becca.”

Her pussy closed around me, pulsed, even as she moaned and dug her nails into the flesh of my neck.

“Fuck,” I growled, opening my eyes in my bedroom. “Fuck, you sexy fucking—” My balls tightened up, and I grabbed a handful of tissues from my bedside table just in time. I squirted into them, one, two, three, fucking Christ, four times, then sat back heavily on my king-sized bed.

What the fuck.

It was the first time I’d fantasized about a woman in years. It was the first time I’d come in two minutes flat since I’d been a hormonal teenager.

Rebecca was dangerous. She was everything I couldn’t have and everything I had to have, right fucking now. Which was exactly why I’d rubbed one out that morning. In about fifteen minutes, I was due to arrive at her house with all the wood I could carry, and a suggestion.

There was something about her—some vulnerability—that had me irked. I needed her to be safe. Last night, I’d sat up after dark and watched the side of her house between the trees that separated our two plots of land. I’d fucking worried. About a woman I barely knew.

Not a year ago I’d walked in on my ex-wife cheating on me, and not a week ago our divorce had been finalized. My house was filled with boxes. I was half-packed. I had a job all set up halfway across the country.

Yet here I was whacking it over my next-door neighbor and spending nights worrying about her safety.

Clearly, I’d lost the fucking plot.

I grunted and put the doubts behind me, spent the next twenty minutes showering, dressing, and mentally prepping myself for today. It was a Sunday. It was the last day I’d have to endure the torture of being around this woman.

At least for another month. There was still too much to do on that house, and she couldn’t do it on her own.

I ignored the boxes in my entrance hall and made my way out and down the front porch to the truck. I was supposed to move within the month. I’d planned on it, and I never backed out on my plans or promises, but… Rebecca needed the help.

Wanting to help wasn’t new to me, but at this level? At the risk of losing an opportunity in another state and finally escaping Stoneport and all the gossiping cunts around here? Damn, it was something else.

I parked in front of her house and got out, scanned the eaves I’d repaired the day before, then the front door, which had yet to be replaced. It was closed, and Becca was nowhere in sight. A letter was tacked to the door.

I frowned and strode up to it, but my wrinkles smoothed out at the sight of the handwriting sprawled across it.

Back in fifteen minutes. Sorry, I forgot to buy a charger for my cell phone and it died or else I would have messaged you. Thank you again! I’ll pick up some eggs too and make it up to you with breakfast.

Becca

Even her handwriting was attractive. Kind of messy, but feminine. And the paper smelled of her perfume—rose petals, and something else—an elusive scent I wanted to explore. I removed the paper from the door, folded it carefully, and tucked it into the pocket of my jeans.

I couldn’t work on the door with her gone, but the outside of the house was fair game.

Work was fast without the distraction of her here, watching, waiting. I stripped off my shirt, and the sun beat down on my back, heated my skin as I started with measurements for the shutters. I hummed under my breath, enjoying the sensation of rough wood against my fingertips and the sweat trickling down my spine.

“You look happy when you’re doing this,” a soft voice said behind me.

I lifted my head and turned it, caught Becca in my peripheral vision, and took a second to catch my breath.

Christ, she grew more beautiful every day. Her hair was loose around her shoulders, and she’d chosen a baby blue skirt and a cream blouse for today. Her feet, broad at the front, were encased in sandals. She gripped a brown paper bag in both arms, holding it to her chest.

I scanned her as I had every day I’d seen her and exhaled between gritted teeth.

Can’t fucking do this.

I grunted and returned to my work.

“And good morning to you too,” she said and walked past me, up the front steps to her door. The jingle of keys came, followed by a creak and a slam, then silence.

Way to go, jackass. You pissed her off. But that was the point. I needed to piss her off. I had a move to make. This favor had already gone too far.

Ten minutes passed, then fifteen. I kept working in the heat, baking, dry-mouthed.

Finally, the scent of cooking wafted out of the open windows near the front of the house and I paused. Damn, that smelled good. I lifted my nose and sniffed. Eggs? Bacon? My stomach grumbled, and I dropped everything, disregarded my manners, and stomped up the front steps. I knocked once on the front door then entered, following my nose.

Noises emanated from the kitchen—the sizzle of a stovetop, music from the radio, and a pop tune I didn’t recognize. I halted in the open doorway, a smile tugging at the corners of my lips.

Becca stood in front of the gas plates, bobbing her head up and down. She swayed from side-to-side, twirled her hips and sang, totally out of tune, to the song on the radio. “No tears left to cry! Ooh!”

“I should hope so,” I said.

Becca shrieked and tossed her spatula up. It made one full rotation before she snatched it out of the air and spun toward me. “Hey! You scared the shit outta me.” She gestured with the utensil. “Didn’t your momma teach you to knock first?”

“I did,” I said. “You didn’t answer.”

“So you just came in?”

“I couldn’t resist the smells,” I replied. “What are you making?”

“Breakfast,” she replied, with a sigh. “I figured I owe you at least that much for helping me out.”

“You don’t owe me shit,” I said and entered the kitchen, still topless and covered in sweat. “But I won’t say no to breakfast. Good morning by the way. Sorry about earlier. I was lost in thought.”

Becca shrugged and turned back to the stove.

I stood where I was, didn’t walk up behind her and place my hands on her shoulders. “There a place I can freshen up?”

“Bathroom’s down the hall and to your right.”

I followed the instructions and washed up, studying myself in the mirror as I did, eyes narrowed. Keep it together. Don’t fuck her on the breakfast table. Don’t be a prick. Say what you want to, get it out the way, then leave.

I strode back into the kitchen, where Becca had already set the table. She sat with a plate and glass of OJ in front of her, waiting. I took a seat and gestured to the full plate of eggs and bacon. “This looks great,” I said. “Thanks.”

“No problem,” she said and cut into a sunny-side-up. “Like I said, I owe you.”

“And like I said, you don’t.” We ate in awkward silence. There was too much of it between us, whatever the fuck it was, and it clogged up the works. I had to find a way to get rid of it before it choked up my plans. “You mentioned something earlier, that I look happy when I’m doing something?”

“Oh, that,” Becca said and shrugged again. “I just meant that you looked content when you were working with wood.” Her cheeks pinked. “I mean, with the—carpentry. When you were—you know.”

I laughed. “You’re right.”

“I was curious about it,” she continued. “How does a doctor wind up becoming a carpenter too?”

“He doesn’t,” I replied. “I’m not technically a carpenter. I grew up out here, see. My mom died when I was a kid, so my dad was the only person I had. He was a gruff old bastard, but he was proud of me. He taught me everything I know, and he drove me to be a better person than he was. That was how he put it. Everything I know about carpentry, about car engines, fishing, all of that shit, comes from him.”

“Wow,” Becca said and paused with the fork halfway to her mouth. “I’m so sorry about your mother.”

“I was two when she passed. I don’t really have memories of her, apart from one or two vague ones. They’re more smells than actual memories.”

“I think I know what you mean,” Becca said and gave another of those soft, feminine smiles.

Christ, she was delectable. She was silk with steel tucked underneath, and I wanted to peel back every layer and explore her.

“Is your dad still around?”

“No,” I replied. “He passed the year before I graduated from med school.” I waved before she gave me another sorry. “It was a tough time for me, so I did what any sane doctor would do.”

“What’s that?”

“I went into the army. Served my time there, then came back to Stoneport when I was done.”

“Wow,” Becca repeated. “Ha, that’s quite a life story. I’m afraid mine is boring in comparison.”

“I highly doubt that,” I replied.

She ate a slice of bacon and chewed pensively, her head tipped to one side. Finally, she swallowed, and I watched her lips work to form a sentence. Nothing came out.

“So? What about you, Miss Starr? What brings you to Stoneport?” She’d been close-lipped about it yesterday, but that might’ve been because we didn’t know each other for shit.

Rebecca inhaled sharply, then coughed and set down her fork. “It’s—um, as good a place as any.” Silence followed the proclamation, and we returned to our meals. There was something about the way she’d said it, the way she’d avoided my gaze.

She’s hiding something.

I brushed the thought aside and focused instead on why I’d come today in the first place—apart from the proffered carpentry help. “I’ve got an idea,” I said and took charge of the situation. The sooner I alleviated the weird concerns I had about this woman, the sooner I could leave Stoneport behind without anything weighing on my conscience. “One I think you might like.”

“You do?”

“Yeah. What do you say we go somewhere after breakfast?”

“We?”

“Yes, you and me. Unless you’re hiding someone else in your closet,” I replied.

Becca shuddered and looked past me, and I instantly regretted the comment. She was definitely afraid of something. Or someone.

“Where do you want to go?” she asked, at last.