Page 12 of Neighbor from Hell
And I lose it—mind fraying, slipping away fast on a deep, rolling wave that explodes. I come hard, a scream clawing up from my sex and bursting out, loud and ragged, shattering me to pieces. But it doesn’t stop—my body keeps going, pulsing wild, and I try to pull back, gasping, clawing for air, and I can’t. It’s relentless—I grab at his shoulders, then the sofa, fingers sinking into the fabric, trying to stop, and it won’t—fuck, I can’t—and panic seeps in, slow, icy, curling around my ribs. Am I going mad? My heart slams, terror cutting sharp through the haze, and I’m trembling, lost, drowning in it.
I wake with a cry of fear, air rushing in so thick like it is pulling me under, a scream caught in my throat, my hand slamming hard over my mouth, pressing tight enough to hurt my lips. The still cottage surrounds me full of dark, cold shadows, eerie as hell. The air presses in like a weight. I feel my heart pounding so hard my ribs rattle. I look down and seethat I’m sprawled on the sofa, blanket twisted tight around my legs, my clothes are damp, and my sweat runs cold. My thighs stick together. My phone’s gone—lost somewhere in the junk. It’s dead and silent, but Sandy’s voice is a faded echo in my head.
Shit. I fell asleep talking to her, and that… that was a freaking dream.
“I’m losing it.” My voice is a cracked whisper, barely audible in the dark. “The butler. Fuck. I’m fucking losing it.”
I sit up slowly. My skin’s buzzing, alive, too much—his hands, his mouth, his cock still crawling over me, so real I swear I feel the ache between my legs, the wet heat still there, pulsing faint. “I’m losing it,” I whisper again.
My head spins as I stand on unsteady legs. They tremble under me like they’ve forgotten how to hold my weight. My hands shake as I fumble through my bag clumsily, fingers brushing my stuff from another world, keys, my Kindle, before I find clothes, a pair of underwear, a crumpled shirt, and a soft hoodie. I clutch them hard, and tell myself this is real, not that, but I can’t shake those wolf-like eyes boring into me, that rough voice scraping my ears, the way he fucked me, slow then hard. It happened right here. My thighs clench involuntarily, and I feel a slickness still there, warm, real, and I’m horrified. My stomach twists sharply as my body betrays me. How can it be that I’m still turned on?
What the hell is happening?
I collapse back on the sofa, frozen with shock, and wonder—why was it so intense, so goddamn vivid? I could feel him like it was real, his tongue dragging wet, the roughness of his hands gripping me. Even the stretch of him inside me lingers like a bruise.
I need to cool the fuck down, get my head straight.
I push up and shuffle up the stairs to the bathroom. I flick on the light, A harsh, yellow glow from a naked lightbulb. I turnon the shower. After some anxious coaxing, hot water pours out, and I am so grateful for it, I almost cry. Slow, steaming, thick clouds rise lazily into the air, and I peel off my soaked clothes and step under the hot spray.
I tilt my head back, letting the heat sink deep into my bones. My hands press against the tiled wall. I open my eyes and watch the water stream through my fingers as I try to pull myself together, claw back some grip, some sanity. But it won’t go away—his weight on me, his breath on my neck, those mesmerizing eyes cutting through the dark, that slow, rough voice, filthy with need. I shudder with a mix of dread and want, horrified at how my body hums, still craving for him, even now. I don’t know how to shake it off, and so I stand there for ages, water pounding on my head, trying to drown it out.
The butler, for God’s sake.
What the fuck is wrong with me?
Chapter
Nine
HUGH
To say I’m annoyed doesn’t even begin to cover it—it’s a gnawing itch that’s got my stomach in knots. It just won’t go away. No matter what I do.
I sit at the head of the long dining table, the polished mahogany gleaming richly under a good spread: bacon crisp at the edges, eggs soft and golden, toast slathered with butter, coffee steaming in a white porcelain cup. Everything is exquisitely presented, but I have no appetite. The staff move as quiet as shadows, careful not to clink a dish or drop a spoon. They sense it, the storm brewing in me, but it’s not them making my head pound.
It’s her.
I didn’t sleep last night. Not one bit, even though I was bone-tired when I got back from her cottage. I stepped under a hot shower and collapsed into bed, exhausted, yet my shoulders remained tight and my eyes stayed open, fixed on the ceiling.
What a shocker. But that goofy, neurotic slip of a girl with her sharp tongue and dusty hair kept me up. She’s fucking stuck in my mind like a burr I can’t remove. No one’s ever lingered around this long—hours, maybe if they’re really special, then they’re gone, forgotten. But this one?
I lay in the dark for hours and her order, ‘Get out,’ ringing sharp and clear, turning me on like I’ve never been before. It’s all so ridiculous. To start with, I’ve never had to hatch absurd plans to seduce and ditch a woman just for a patch of land, or twisted myself up like this for a woman. To top it all, I’m looking forward to the challenge of breaking her. I should be disgusted with myself for letting her drag me into these childish games.
When I finally gave up the idea of sleep, I had to contend with a painfully hard erection.
I tried to will it away, rolled over, buried my face in the pillow and tried to think of the most boring business deal I could, but her image refused to fade away—strawberry blonde hair dusted with grime, and those startlingly blue eyes glaring, fierce. As alive as flames.
With a groan of defeat, I hauled myself to the bathroom, flicking on the shower. Cold water poured out, sharp against my skin, streaming over my chest, my legs, but it didn’t help—still hard, still throbbing.
I gave in, wrapped my hand around it and stroked, hard and fast. Water dripped off my knuckles, my jaw, as I moved, picturing her—lips parted as she cursed and swore at me while I fucked her. I saw her sprawled out, legs wide open, her curses loud in my ears. My grip tightened on my swollen dick as I came hard. The spray washed away my release as I stood there, breath ragged. Fuck her. Wanting her is bad enough, but jerking off to her like that is just pathetic.
I went to bed disgusted, and for the first time in longer than I can remember, I overslept and missed my morning run. By thetime I woke up, the sun was already in the sky, and it was too late to hit the trails. Not being able to shake off the excess energy threw me off and left me restless and out of rhythm. The exact kind of thing I left London to avoid.
I look at my plate, the eggs are cold and untouched. I’ve had enough of sitting around, letting her ruin my morning. I decide to take decisive action. I call out to Bertrand, my butler, and he hurries over.
“Bring me a pen and one of our cards,” I say, my voice flat.
He nods, darts off, and returns with a thick cream card, embossed with the Montrose family crest. I grab a pen and start to scribble an invitation for tea, intending to be as precise and curt as humanly possible:
