Page 50 of Neighbor from Hell
He stops, half-turning, his expression waiting.
I swallow, my throat tight, and force it out. “Why did you fly Raye to London tonight?”
Chapter
Thirty-Four
HUGH
Aflash of dread ripples through me raw and electric, my pulse spiking as I turn to face her.
Lauren stands by her front door, the porch light haloing her, her eyes fierce, unyielding, demanding answers I wasn’t ready to give. My mind scrambles—how does she know? The air’s cool, heavy with dew, but I’m burning, caught off guard, my usual control fraying at the edges.
“Where’d you get that?” I ask casually.
She steps forward, her intense gaze locked on mine. “Raye told me,” she says, her voice edged, like she’s testing me. “Backstage. She said I’m a lucky girl. That you went to all this trouble just for me.”
Her words hit, heavy, and I exhale. To say that I am irritated with Athena for revealing my identity is an understatement, but there’s no dodging this. “Well,” I say, trying for light, “Yeah sure, I pulled some strings to get her here.”
“That’s all fine, but I didn’t tell you that I liked her, so how did you know? You did some kind of search on me, didn’t you?”
I nod. There’s no use lying. “I did,” I admit, the truth raw on my tongue. “When I heard you liked her music, I wanted you to have something… special. A night that’d light you up.” My words feel too honest, and I shift uncomfortably.
Her lips part. “Was this about the land? All this—Raye, the helicopter, tonight—just to get me to sell?”
The question is like a stab on an open wound. Heat flares in my chest. “Fuck the land,” I snap, the words bursting out, fierce and unfiltered.
Her eyes widen, a gasp caught in her throat, and I’m as stunned as she is, the truth ringing in my ears. Because I mean it—every word. The shock of my confession settles deep, rewriting everything. The land’s nothing, it’s worthless compared to her, this woman who’s turned my world sideways, who’s got me chasing feelings I don’t recognize.
She stares, unblinking, her voice barely there, a dare. “If it’s not the land, then what is it about?”
My throat tightens, my heart pounding, loud enough to drown the crickets. “You know what it’s about,” I say, stepping closer, drawn by something stronger than reason. She doesn’t move. Her breath is shallow and quick as her eyes search mine. I’m close now, close enough to feel her warmth.
“You know,” I whisper as my hand lifts in awe to touch her hair, a curl soft as silk between my fingers, fire under my skin.
Her breath stutters.
A small sound that undoes me, and I’m bare, my voice low, ragged. “It’s not about the land, Lauren. Maybe it started that way, but not anymore.”
She’s still, her eyes fastened on mine, her voice soft but ferocious. “Then what is it about?”
I don’t answer—not with words. My gaze holds hers, searching, and I lean down, slow, giving her space to pull back. She doesn’t. My lips meet hers, tentative, sweet, a question in every touch. She answers, kissing me back, and it’s like a dam breaking, heat flooding through me, her taste—wine, need, something sweeter. It pulls me under. It’s gentle at first, then deeper, then it shifts, hungry, desperate. A wild, violent force that neither of us can stop or control. Her arms wind around me as her body presses close. I’m lost, my hands roaming her back, the silk of her dress sliding against my palms. We stumble toward her door. I push it open, kick it shut, crush her against a wall, and kiss her hard, like she’s air and I’m drowning.
When I raise my head again, I gaze down at her in awe.
The Tiffany lamp spills its amber light across her face, turning her skin golden. Her eyes are half-lidded and heavy with desire, and her lips, swollen from our kisses, are parted. Each breath is a soft, ragged pull that hooks deep in my chest. The smell of paint is all around us as I lift her and carry her to the only empty surface I can see: the kitchen table.
My hands are firm under her thighs as I set her down, the old wood creaking under her weight, a low groan that echoes my own fraying restraint. I’m close, too close, my pulse a wild drumbeat as I lean in, my lips finding her neck. Her skin’s fever-hot, pulsing under my mouth, and I kiss it slowly, deliberately, tasting salt and sweetness, feeling her shiver ripple through me like a current. She gasps. A frantic sound, and it’s a match to kindling, setting me ablaze.
I trail lower, my lips brushing the curve of her collarbone, then down to the swell of her breast, where the dress’s strap has loosened, teasing me with the bare skin underneath. My fingers graze it, pulling it down. My hand moves almost as if we are actors in a film that is being played at slow-motion speed. I bare her inch by inch.
“You’re so beautiful,” I murmur, my voice rough, scraped raw. My eyes rise up to meet hers. They are dark, burning, mirroring the hunger clawing at me. “I couldn’t breathe tonight, watching you.”
I tear my gaze away from her eyes before the last inch of skin is exposed.
Her breasts spill free, full and round, pink buds glowing in the lamp’s soft haze. Ah! Of course. I should have known she would be perfect. My hands find the mounds, palms warm against her softness. My thumbs circling her nipples, and they harden under my touch. Her moan breaks the air, low and trembling. I feel her arch, offering more. It’s an invitation my mouth pounces on. I’m greedy, insatiable, my mouth drawing the warm, needy bud and sucking it hard. She moans restlessly and rubs herself against me. It’s not enough—her warmth, her taste, the way she trembles—it’s a drug, and I’m hooked. My breath is hot and ragged against her skin.
I pull back, just an inch, and watch her glistening nipple. It is taut, flushed, and swollen from my rough sucking. Yes, that is exactly how I want to see it. My chest tightens, desire a live wire twisting through me. I move to her other breast, my lips brushing the curve with my tongue, teasing, before I take her in, sucking and sucking, savoring her little cries of pain and pleasure.
