Page 9 of Don't Bite the Boy Next Door
The drive over is quicker than I hoped. It seems like only seconds later we are pounding on his door, his little dog barking its head off inside as heavy footsteps make their way down several flights of stairs, to the front door.
When he opens it, I’m fairly sure my mouth pops open like a fish out of water exactly the way Pru’s does. He’s wearing just a pair of loose track pants, hung low over his hips, and no shirt. His chest is hairless, nipples hard due to the cold, stomach as flat as a pancake and taut with muscles. I see he has a long, purple scar on his side, about the length of a hand, and wonder what caused it. At the same time, I notice his hips are hard ropes of muscles where the pants sit low, and I begin to salivate. I quickly raise my eyes to his face, just in time to see a slow drop of water run down from his hair to his cheek and slide down the side of his throat.
Everything seems like it’s in slow motion as I coil like a cobra inside and prepare to strike.
Luckily, Pru, recovering more quickly than I, grips my forearm tightly and digs her nails in with enough force to draw blood.
I draw in a sharp breath. Every single atom of my body wants to launch forward and sink my fangs into his bare, damp neck while I press up against that hard, hard stomach.
“Hello?” he says, meeting my wide eyes. His own show his confusion over why I am here, especially, I imagine, given how rude I had been to him twice now.
Saying nothing, lest my fangs show and forewarn him. I shove the plate of cookies towards him and lurch slightly forward, but Pru steps in front of me and elbows me sharply in the breast.
The pain is incredible, but I say nothing, shaking my head to clear it of my murderous intent.
“Hi,” she replies, “I’m Pru, Tess’ sister, we’ve come with a peace offering. Some home-baked cookies – it’s Ryan, isn’t it?”
“Yes. And thank you,” he murmurs, looking past her to me, “would you like to come in?”
I shake my head, but Pru answers for us.
“Love to,” she reaches back and grabs my hand, pulling me into his home, but keeping her body between him and me, as he stands aside for us to enter.
I stand rigid as I try to control my ragged breathing, my insane desire to kill him, as he closes the door and his scent intensifies.
“Keep it together, or I will take you out!’ Pru hisses under her breath, loud enough for only me to hear.
I nod and grit my teeth.
“I’d offer you a drink, but I only have beer,” he says apologetically as he leads us from the wide, bare hallway, into a large day parlour with deep bay windows. The windows offer a sweeping view of his front lawn, garden, and the trees beyond.
“Beer would be great,” Pru smiles, “if you have enough.”
“Sure,” he shrugs, “make yourself at home.” He points to an old couch in front of a roaring log fire.
The couch is the only furniture in the otherwise bare room. I notice, glancing around, that he has replaced one of the glass squares in the top of the window that was previously smashed, and the floor is now in excellent repair, some boards having been replaced, but none yet polished. He had done the same to the floor in the hallway. It was clear he was doing work bit by bit, as I had done, although I tended to do one room at a time. It looked like he was tackling things more methodically, from the ground up.
Shivering, I head straight to the fireplace and stand with my hands out. The fire might be roaring, but the house is freezing. I don’t know how he can stand it to walk around bare-chested.
As if reading my thoughts, when he returns to the parlour, he is wearing a grey hoodie that matches his track pants. I see it has a tiny insignia of two little red swords, crossed, on the upper left-hand side, but I don’t recognise it.
Part of me is happy he has covered his delicious stomach, but another part of me wishes I could stare at his body all night by the flickering firelight.
‘Yes, his body, his dead body, because he wouldn’t last five minutes if you were alone with him, you murderer.’
“Sorry about answering the door half-dressed,” he smiles at me. “I was in the shower when I heard you knocking.”
“No need to be sorry,” Pru laughs, “at least you have running water, Tess didn’t for the first six months after she moved in.”
I shiver as he hands me a beer and his fingers brush mine before he turns and flops into the over-stuffed and threadbare couch. It looks timeworn and much loved; I imagine it is very comfortable; it would give Charlotte nightmares.
“Running water is a luxury you can learn to live without,” he says, his brow knitted, “like a great many other things.”
“Well, she has it now,” Pru shrugs, “and solar power. But you two will have plenty of time to compare notes on doing up old houses; I’m sure you have a lot in common. Which is why we thought we should welcome you to the neighbourhood properly,” Pru says, as she opens her beer can with a loud crack.
“Really?” he raises one eyebrow and considers me, silently.
I say nothing, just stare. His eyes are so pretty, and so kind, even now, as he considers me, no doubt thinking I’m mentally unstable.
