Page 3 of The Carpenter's Obsession

Fuck, I have to get control of myself. She's talking again, and I can't let her see how badly she's affecting me.

"So, when do you want to start? How does all this work? I've never had a carpenter over before," she admits.

Good.I don't like the thought of any other man ever being at her house—much less alone with her.

"Well, first I'll need to come over and look at the space so I can give you an estimate."

She nods and licks her lips. My eyes home in on the motion, and more precum froths from the tip of my cock.

"Can you come now?"

I stare at her, my brain short-circuiting as my dirty, depraved mind takes that statement and runs away with it. I know that's not how she meant it. She's too sweet and innocent, and I'd bet my right nut she's a virgin.

And that last thought does nothing to help the state my cock is in.

I'm gripping my dick for dear life, trying my best not to nut in my pants right here in front of her, but Christ, I'm losing the battle.

This girl has me going crazy.

"Excuse me," I croak out before I turn and practically leap from my chair before I embarrass myself like an overeager schoolboy.

I can feel Melanie's shocked eyes on my back as I hurry down the hallway to my bathroom, but it was either get the fuck out of there or throw her across my desk and commit every sin imaginable with her young body.

Motherfucker.

CHAPTERTWO

Melanie

I watchas John practically sprints away from me, my cheeks burning.

God, how could I be so stupid?

I guess it's the aftereffects of being a romance writer. I fantasize too much and then make everything awkward.

From the moment the sexy carpenter moved in next door, I've been fixated.

His dark beard, those muscles that bulge underneath his flannel shirt as if it's all the material can do to contain him...

It's no wonder my latest novel took a turn straight toward John. Whether I unwittingly did it or not, the hero in my book is a carbon copy of my super sexy next door neighbor.

My cheeks flame even harder when I think of the fantasies I've had about him.

And what's crazy is even though I write naughty stuff for a living, it's usually faceless, nameless men in my books. I've never fantasized over a real-life man like I have John.

I've certainly never stroked myself to orgasm while imagining a real man.

My cheeks burn even brighter when I remember the way I petted my clit and was finally able to achieve my first orgasm while thinking of John. I know. It's ironic, isn't it? I write erotic romance, but I've never actually had sex myself.

Actually, it's not ironic. It's pathetic. I'm almost nineteen years old and have never even been kissed—much less had a man's cock inside me.

I'd tried to bring myself to orgasm before but could never do it.

Not until I thought of John.

That thought makes me squirm in my seat. I clench my thighs together to ease the ache that blooms between my legs.

And then I remember the way John jumped up and ran away from me, and I feel the overwhelming need to apologize. I was probably looking at the man with lovestruck eyes and it freaked him out.

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