Page 15 of Charmed By the Next-Door Neighbor
But then he just nods. "See you at seven."
"Seven," I echo.
He leaves, and I close the door behind him and immediately slide down to sit on the floor. My heart is racing. My face is hot. And my underwear is definitely ruined.
I drop my head into my hands and let out a long, shaky breath.
This was supposed to be simple. Easy. A straightforward transaction. He pretends to be my boyfriend, my parents get scared, everyone wins.
But nothing about the last hour felt simple.
Nothing about the way he looked at me, or the way his arm felt around my waist, or the way my body reacted to him felt fake.
And that's a problem.
Because Nash is doing me a favor. He's being a good neighbor. That's all this is to him. I can't let myself forget that.
Even if my body is screaming at me that it wants more.
Even if I spent the entire conversation with my parents fighting the urge to turn in his arms and kiss him just to see what he'd do.
Even if some traitorous part of my brain is now imagining what tonight's dinner will be like. Sitting next to him. His hand on my knee under the table, maybe. His arm around my shoulders.
I press my thighs together and bite back a whimper.
I'm in so much trouble.
Chapter 4 - Nash
I make it exactly five steps into my house before I have to stop and brace myself against the wall.
My cock is so hard it hurts. Has been since the second I put my arm around her waist and felt how perfectly she fit against me.
Soft. Warm. Mine.
Except she's not mine.
She's not anything to me except a neighbor who needed help, and I'm a sick bastard for standing in my entryway with my dick straining against my jeans because I got to touch her for five goddamn minutes.
I push off the wall and head for the bathroom, shedding my shirt as I go. Cold shower. That's what I need. Another one. The third one this week and it's only Friday.
But the second I'm under the spray, I know it's not going to work. Nothing's going to work except my hand and the memory of her body pressed against mine.
I'm going to hell.
I brace one hand against the tile and wrap the other around my cock, and I don't even pretend I'm thinking about anyone else.
It's her. It's always her.
The way she looked in that blue sundress, the fabric hugging every curve. The way her hand felt against my chest, small and warm, right over my heart. The way she smelled: vanilla and something sweeter, something that made me want to bury my face in her neck and breathe her in until I couldn't remember my own name.
And the sounds she made.
Christ, the sounds.
Little catches in her breath when I pulled her close. The way her voice went higher when our fingers touched. She'd been nervous, yeah, but there was something else there too. Something I'm probably imagining because I want it so badly I'm inventing it.
But for a second, just a second, I let myself believe it was real.
