Page 7 of Divorced from Number Thirty-Eight
My next-door neighbor especially does that.
Faye Sullivan is about all I know of the woman who occupies the house beside mine.
Along with the fact that she works from home and takes her turn hosting the neighborhood’s Book Club (or Wine Night as the men on the street call it—based on the cackling I’ve heard through the fence and then later, the sheer volume of glass bottles hitting her recycling bin after everyone goes home).
That’s it.
Oh, we exchange waves and neighborly smiles on a fairly regular basis.
Just not words.
In fact, I don’t think I’ve ever heard her say more than a dozen of them.
Something that works for me.
Women…
Well, women and I don’t mix.
Not that I don’t love women. I do. I love their curves, their hair spread out on my pillow, their sexy little smiles, and their tight, slick pussies. I love all of that and more—the scent of their perfume, their high heels, their lacy bras, their soft skin.
I love it all so much I seem to lose all common sense when it comes to the ones I invite into my bed.
And my heart.
Rolling my eyes because the last thing I need to be doing is worrying about my heart, I hit the button on the opener attached to the sun visor, wait for the garage door to roll up, and then pull inside. I’m just popping the trunk, pulling out far too many bags of clothes when I hear my name.
That voice…
It’s a prime example of me having lost all my common sense.
No. It’s the prime example.
Because that feminine voice strokes down my spine like fingers tracing nonsensical patterns over my naked flesh, moving further and further south, sliding forward, rounding my body and encircling my cock, stroking once, twice, three times?—
Without looking at the woman who’s the embodiment of my mistakes with the opposite sex, I slam the trunk and turn for the interior door, hating myself a little as I walk.
Because I know she’s going to follow me.
She always does.
And, sure enough, before my fingers reach the panel to shut the garage door, she’s there, a foot behind me, her floral scent in my nose.
It’s intoxicating.
It’s fucked up.
But that’s Courtney and me—fucked up to the nth degree.
I still let her into my house anyway, holding the door wide as she walks inside.
I follow her through the hall, the fucked-up part of me who first invited her into my bed enjoying the view of her shapely ass lovingly cupped by her tight dress as I go. We move into the kitchen and I head for the fridge, pulling out a beer, popping off the top, knowing I’m going to need it in order to survive the next interaction.
I take a long pull, swallow, then face my nightmare. “Why are you here, Court?”
She strolls over to me, hips swaying, heels clicking on the floor, smile full of feminine confidence.
She knows she’s beautiful.
