Page 8 of You Had Me At Thirteen

I pull the covers to my chin. There are only three people in this world who know the real me. My mum, Audrey and Clive. They are always there for me, no matter what.

This realisation sends a twinge of guilt knotting my stomach that I lost my temper at Audrey and Clive today. Although they deserved it for laughing at my misfortune, and subsequent tantrum, I still feel bad that I stormed off the way I did.

It seems I still haven’t built a bridge over thirteen-year-old-me issues involving Wren.

But are they right? Do I talk about Wren that much?

The only time I ever mention him is when I’m bitching about how he’s forgotten to un-invite me to his one-on-one fuck sessions. Didn’t he get the memo that I’m not interested in viewing his weekly dick show? I swear he keeps his curtains open on purpose just to piss me off.

That’s reason enough for me to stay away from him. I can’t give in, no matter how much my body tries to convince me otherwise.

He uses women. Just like my dad did with me and my mum, discarding us when it suited him, only to come crawling back with his bottom lip dragging on the ground when the newest member of his Mistress Club had enough of his shit.

The first time he cheated – way before the Stevensons moved in next door – Dad had been helping the original owner, Mrs Paulson, with some yard work. Turns out, it wasn’t just yard work he was helping her with.

Mum was furious and kicked him out. Two weeks later, he turned up at the front door, begging her to take him back.

My dad was never really the affectionate type, not with me anyway, so when he moved back in, things stayed fairly the same. I avoided him, and he acted most of the time as though he didn’t have a daughter. Him acknowledging me was reserved for the times when he thought I was a winner.

Even back then, I never knew why my mum stayed with him. I wanted her to have more respect for herself than to let someone like him have such control over her.

Anyway, she let him do whatever, and whoever, he wanted after that. Apparently, it was easier.

Easier for who, exactly?

My hard exterior was built up over the years because of my dad, but it remains there to deal with boys like Wren, so there’s no way I’m letting him gain another inch into my life.

He’s my neighbour. And that is it.

There’s no place for him in my life to be anything more than that, nor will there ever be. And tomorrow I’m going to make sure it remains that way.

FOUR

Wren

* * *

When I stepped into my room after my shower, I wasn’t expecting to find Matilda staring at me from her bedroom window. Especially after she told me she had no interest in working with me. A cold shower was all I could do to calm myself after I let that information sink in. And that was after I spent a good hour pacing my room, contemplating calling Jordan, before deciding that freezing my balls off was the better option.

But seeing her standing there watching me in nothing but a pair of shorts and a tank top, her perky breasts bouncing each time she sucks in a breath, has me reminding myself that if I don’t get my shit together, I’ll be back in that cold water.

She arouses more than just my dick, my heart doing that weird flip-flop thing again. I’m lightheaded, unable to take a deep breath, so when Matilda disappears and her lights turn out, I switch mine off as well and climb into bed, forgoing covers because my body is on fire.

And my dick is hard. Again.

I already jerked off in the shower, but after seeing Matilda in her sexy pyjamas, I know there’ll be no getting to sleep with this hard-on, so I yank my cock out and wrap my hand tight around the shaft, moving it up and down to the image of Matilda in her little shorts, her long, lean legs on full display, her chest rising and falling with each breath. It doesn’t take long for me to come, my muscles convulsing as I grunt out my release.

Fuck, she’s already getting to me, and I haven’t even started with her yet. My body’s reaction to her just makes me want her more.

I take a moment to come down from my high, then clean myself up with some tissues, before I head into the bathroom to flush the evidence of my growing Matilda obsession. They say you always want what you can’t have.

But do I want her?

Stupid question. Of course I want her.

I’m just not happy about the fact that she hates me, so getting into her bed, and her body, is likely to be a challenge. And when I say likely, I mean most definitely.

Matilda is the itch I can’t scratch. Navigating her attitude is like paddling into the middle of the ocean and picking a fight with the biggest, meanest great white you can find. You aren’t coming back with your dick and balls attached, that’s for sure.

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