Page 17 of The Pucking Grump

His eyes find mine and he holds them. Unabashedly, he lets his gaze dip lower. My throat closes as he slowly peruses my bare cleavage for the second time. I force myself to breathe normally as he looks up at me.

“There’s only one bed,” he announces. “So, we’ll be stuck sleeping together for a while.”

6

INDECENT PROPOSAL

My lower back stings with pain as I twist on my stool. There’s an even worse pressure on my neck as I crane it upward, toward the TV hanging above my head. All around me are other men, townies, who troop in here every afternoon to watch soccer day in and day out. There’s a lot of drinking and jeering, particularly after a goal has been scored.

In the past, Shane’s bar was my go-to spot when I was holed up in the cabin for a while and was starting to miss human interaction. It’s a dingy, lousy place that serves nothing stronger than beer and wine, but it does its work nicely.

Until now.

I turn toward Shane, a sixty-something year old genial man who has worked the bar all his life and always managed to look content while at it. “Ever think of getting some of those fancy chairs to replace these bar stools? My back is going to give if I keep sitting on them.”

Shane looks up from his book and grins, exposing a set of yellow teeth. “Son, you’ve been coming here for years, and you’ve never had a complaint about my seats.”

“Things change.”

Especially when you have a disconcertingly attractive popstar stashed in your abode. One that you’re dying to get the hell away from.

If Faye wasn’t in my home now, I would probably be lounging on the chair in front of the lake behind the house, with no care in the world whatsoever. The lake is my favorite part of my cabin, the happy coincidence that came along with buying it. It’s also the one place I haven’t been able to enjoy since Faye stumbled into my life.

Shane’s smile turns curious. “Come to think of it, you’ve been in here four days in a row, hours on end. I’ve never known you to show up quite so much.”

“Your TV is much better quality than mine,” I fib, throwing my head back for a swig of beer. “I’ll stop coming once the soccer season ends.”

Or as soon as I find it in me to stop getting tormented by Faye Strummer.

Shane returns to his book, and I look up at the screen. As much as I try to focus on the players or even the arguments between the other men, I can’t.

I can’t think of fucking anything.

The first night with Faye was the worst. Hell, it was most likely the hardest night I’ve ever had in my life.

The bedroom in my cabin is tiny, and the bed is narrower than a queen. For a six-foot-three man, there isn’t enough space, and I often sleep sprawled over it diagonally.

Still, that hadn’t mattered much to me. Until Faye Strummer walked into my life.

She wore that ridiculous corset to bed, complete with the lacy panties that cruelly accentuated her ass cheeks. Every time I turned, I brushed against some part of her porcelain skin; her arms, her back, her knees. And who made those perfect breasts, just the right size to fit into my palm?

Thirty minutes in, all of the blood in my body was pumping into my dick, and I was slowly going crazy. Somehow, Faye had slept through it all, but I spent the entire night staring at her ass, trying to convince myself that it was a monumentally bad idea to wake her up, rip the excuse of underwear off her and have my way with her.

What made it even harder to not pull her toward me was the knowledge that she was into me. I saw it from the moment I carried her up to my cabin. Not entirely surprising, because I’ve had girls throwing themselves at me ever since I became a hockey player.

The problem here is me. I have never had to fight this hard to maintain control, sometimes not even when the woman was completely naked.

And then, because of the sexiest piece of lingerie known to human existence, I spent seven long hours wondering how Faye would respond if I pushed her legs apart and allowed myself to taste her while she was still half asleep. Maybe once she woke she’d moan for me, and I’d oblige her, turn her around, lift her hips and slide into her, filling her to the hilt. Imagining her ass bouncing to my thrusts had almost caused me to come right next to her.

I woke up early the next morning and went to the nearest clothes store I could find. I skipped over skirts and dresses, settling for the bulkiest, most unattractive sweatshirts I could find. I also got her roomy jeans, some sweats, and a couple of pajamas, because seeing her in regular nightgowns would have been the end of me.

Nothing changed, though. Even if Faye moped around the house wearing bulky clothes, my hard on refused to back down. It came up at odd times, watching her walk across the cabin, reading one of my old Pablo Neruda volumes or falling asleep at night.

Every damn thing she did aroused me.

So, I did the gentlemanly thing and got the hell out of there. For the past four days, I spent more time in Shane’s bar than I have in my own home. It does piss me off, but I prefer this over the alternative.

Plus, Faye has been in a dark mood and now barely says a word to me, so it’s not exactly a horrible choice. I come back at night with new books and supplies, spend the next few hours rolling in bed and forbidding myself from touching her, and then skip off back to town as soon as I can.

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