Page 42 of Average Joe

I pondered my predicament. Mind-blowing sex was an excellent way to de-stress, but definitely not with the man who caused said stress. Definitely not on a night where I had nursed a bottle of Petite Sirah to forget the hunk who currently towered over me with nothing but lust swirling in his gaze.

That look could very well be the death of me.

Joe needed to leave. I needed to go to bed.

“One drink,” he argued. “No touching. Then I’ll head home.”

“Fine,” I conceded, then ordered, “Sit.” I pointed to the front step of the porch before closing the door.

Joe inside my four walls? Not for a million dollars. As a matter of fact, no man entered my domicile.

After tugging a long cardigan over my bare arms, I headed to the kitchen to grab a goblet. I swigged straight from the bottle, filled his glass, then joined him outside in full view of the neighborhood, zero risk of losing my clothes.

Joe sat on the top step. I handed him his wine and sat, too, the gap between us slight but a buffer nonetheless.

I ignored his chuckle.

“Comfy?” he asked, lifting the drink to his nose for a sniff.

“Yep.”

Joe scooted closer, bringing us shoulder to shoulder.

“What are you doing?” I yelped, desperate to flee but with nowhere to go.

He stretched his arm behind me, resting his palm on the cold cement at my rear. “Enjoying a glass of wine with my neighbor.” He sipped from the goblet, his large fingers wrapped around the skinny stem in a ridiculous display. “This is good shit.”

“You strike me as more of a beer man.”

“Ah, the drink doesn’t matter. Company’s what’s important.” He took another long swallow before placing his drink out of harm’s way, then dropped elbows to knees and sunk into the weight of both arms, rolling his head to catch my gaze.

Oh, Lordy, there he was, a mountain of sinful temptation, staring down at me with dubious intent. The scent of virile man enveloped me, warm and heady. He must’ve worked on his truck or motorcycle at some point during the day, because I also detected a hint of old motor oil and degreaser.

When he asked, “How was your day?” the simple words struck me by surprise and took too long to register. When was the last time someone had asked me,“How was your day?” and actually gave a shit?

A smirk twisted those full lips while he waited for my response.

“Busy,” I said to his mouth because if I looked up, met his gaze, I ran the risk of exposing my soul. “One of my girls quit after her uncle drove through the stand. He didn’t know she worked as a bikini barista, and the poor guy lost his shit. There was a lot of yelling and tears, and I had to pull out my baseball bat—”

Warm lips quieted my rant, surrounding me in heat and need and that dangerous spark of hope—that blind faith that only led to disappointment. Only with Joe, the fire burned hotter and desire rooted deeper, the ache to be wanted intensifying with every sweep of his tongue, every brush of his fingers, every throaty moan and heavy inhale.

Joe kissed like I was a lifeline, his only tether to humanity. My body responded by going soft, relaxing, like he was a hot bath after a long hike in the rain. His arms were too assuring, his lips too promising, the potential for disaster too blaring. I shoved away, struggling for breath, desperate for a moment of sanity.

“Been thinking about kissing you all week,” Joe rasped, lips parted, chest rising and falling in barely controlled bursts.

“You promised no touching.” I tried to stand, but he caught my wrist.

“Tell me you don’t feel what I feel.”

There was no hiding my state of emotions. My cheeks burned, my skin tingled, and my nipples hardened to pleading peaks. Joe needed to go and leave me be. I had to make him hate me.

Reclaiming my arm, I stood, snatched his glass, moved to the door, and blurted over my shoulder, “You’re not my type.”

“Not your type?” He was on me in two steps, his chest to my back, fingers claiming my hips, his breath in my hair. “Tell me then, gorgeous. What is your type?”

Well, wasn’t that the question of the week? The answer was obvious. Joe. Unfortunately,mytypebroke my heart, over and over and over again. I forced the lie, “Extraordinary. Driven.”

“What do you see when you look at me?”

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