Page 18 of Playing With Fire
She sends me the squirting water emoji and I chuckle, feeling the pressure lighten in my chest.
I don’t bring women to my place. Ever. That’s my sanctuary and where I spend a lot of time with Cam and Ally. I don’t want to have to worry about them coming across a rogue thong, sex toys, or edible lube. I silently adjust my evening in my head and make a mental note to leave by five-thirty to get to Wendy’s place right on time.
Two weeks go by before I have another delivery for Shannon’s house. I’ve tried everything I can to stop thinking about her, but it’s no use. The more I fight it, the more I see her face and incredible body in my mind.
I called Knox to lament because Phoenixrarelytakes anything seriously and Jake’s still in his happy bubble with Dylan, living their best lives. I don’t want to add any stress tohis life because he’s suffered enough already, and I absolutely hate the fact that I wasn’t there to help them when they needed it.
When discussing things with Knox, he tried to reassure me that I haven’t done anything wrong, explaining maybe this is my brain’s way of telling me it’s time to settle down. That would be lovely, however, if my brain could have given me the memo without using a married woman to get my attention, that would have been even better. It also seems like overkill, considering settling down was already what I wanted to do.
When I pull up to Shannon’s house, I see a familiar black Ferrari in the driveway and I immediately know it was the same one I parked next to that night I went out with Phoe. My stomach sours at the thought that maybe her husband came home for a lunch quickie, but honestly, good for them. I hope she’s happy and fulfilled. Maybe knowing that will help me move the fuck on from this inappropriate obsession.
It’s hotter than Satan’s asshole today, and I have sweat dripping down my neck, back, and ass crack. In an effort to stave off a heatstroke, I’m wearing a t-shirt with the company logo instead of my uniform button-up. It’s a little tight because it’s usually worn as an undershirt, but it’s all I’ve got.
Grabbing the box—the fucker weighs about a hundred pounds—I make my way to the door.
I press the box into the stone wall on the front porch, leaning my weight into it so I can free up a hand to knock.
A man opens the door and my teeth clench. I have no reason to dislike him, other than he gets to share dinners with Shannon, but she’s his wife for fuck’s sake. They have a kid which means they’ve shared a helluva lot more than dinner.
I stare for a second. He’s not what I pictured as her type.As if you know anything about her type, dumbass,my subconscious chides.The man ismaybesix feet tall. His brown hair containsseveral gray strands, but it makes him lookdistinguishedrather thanold.It’s his posture that makes him appear much older than Shannon, however old she may be. His rounded shoulders are at odds with the intellectual look he seems to be aiming for with his suit. He’s lean, but soft.
I shake my brain, trying to force a smile.
“Oh, good it’s here,” the man says, not even looking at me. “Be careful with that. It’s an ancient vase.”NowI’m annoyed. Just pronounce it v-a-s-e, like everyone else in this country. It’s not avahzjust because you have money.
“Sure thing,” I say out loud. “Can you sign here?” I exaggerate my southern accent, just to emphasize the difference in the men we are.
I bristle at how quickly I’ve allowed this man to get under my skin.
As I hand him the electronic pad, I try not to be too obvious that I’m looking for any sign of Shannon, but I don’t see her.
“Where would you like this?” I ask, pulling away from the wall and bracing the weight of the vase against my chest.
“In here would be fine.” He gestures for me to come in the house and follow him around the corner into what is clearly his office. Technically, I’m not allowed to go inside people’s homes, but I’m stalling, hoping like hell Shannon makes an appearance.
My efforts are rewarded when a moment later, I hear light footsteps on the staircase.
“Oh, Hudson, hi!” she whispers enthusiastically. Her long hair is flowing over both shoulders and her blouse is unbuttoned to a distracting level, revealing the swell of her perfect breasts. I’m assuming her unembarrassed greeting means she most likely isn’t aware I caught her pleasuring herself two weeks ago, even though I can’t get the images out of my head.
My cock twitches at the memory, and disappointmentwraps me in a cold embrace. Part of me wanted her to know. The masochist in me wants to know how she’d react.
“Hey, Shannon.” I set the vase down and rub my hand across the back of my neck, suddenly much warmer.
“So, you’re the guy who brought my wife flowers,” her husband says. I’d be impressed if he sounded angry, but he actually sounds almost…bored.Like he wants me to knowheknows I brought them, but also that he’s so cocksure about Shannon’s love for him that I pose no threat at all.
Is that true?
Wait, I’m not a threat. Am I? Do I want to be?
Ugh, well played, asshole. Now you’re in my head.
I stand up taller and inhale in a way that puffs my chest out just a little more. “Hudson Goddorah,” I say, sticking my hand out. “I, uh, woke your daughter up and your wife was very unhappy about it. I felt I should apologize.”
The man must not be as cultured as I expected him to be because he makes no comment about my last name before his eyes run over my exposed arms where the veins in my biceps and forearms are now popping thanks to the weight of the box.
The man actuallychuckles. “Gregor Hartley.”
The name sounds familiar, but standing in Shannon’s presence means I have no bandwidth to figure it out, so I let the moment pass.
