Chapter
One - Sydney
Holy
fuck.
I peer around the curtain at
the man carrying boxes from a rented box truck into the house next door.
My jaw shuts like a trap.
What kind of fucking karma is this?
My fingers tremble as they
grip the curtain. I must be dreaming. Never in my life did I think my high
school crush would move… Right. Next. Door.
Right fucking next door!
My stomach churns and my
pussy clenches.
I want to call someone. I
want to run through the house screaming.
Reid
Fucking Turner is moving next door!
Fucking pinch me.
I haven’t seen him in eons.
Hell, not since graduation. And that was so, so long ago.
But I know it’s him. There's
no doubt about it.
Every fiber of my being
knows because I spent too many of my teenage years stalking—err, watching—him.
I would recognize him anywhere.
His gait. His hair (though,
it’s cut much shorter now). His shoulders (much broader than high school—the
boy has matured into a man). Those thick thighs (they’ve always been muscular,
due to him being a jock).
It has to be him.
My heart stops as he glances
toward my window. I drop the curtain like it’s on fire and pin my back against
the wall. My heartbeat goes from zero to sixty in one second flat.
Holy crap, did he see me
peeking?
The pulse in my neck throbs
and it may jump right out of my throat at any moment. I clutch my hand to my
chest while I try to slow my breathing.
Breathe in. Breathe out.
It’ll be okay.
The guy never knew I existed
in high school, so he probably wouldn’t recognize me now anyway.
I’ve changed. Matured.
My thin, flat-chested body
has definitely improved. My breasts might be bigger and heavier than I’d like
and my hips curvy enough I can no longer squeeze into skinny jeans, but I’ve
had no problem attracting men. No problem at all.
They seem to prefer
something to grab onto when they’re pounding into me, sweating all over me,
grunting and groaning, and unfortunately, most
of the time, leaving me unsatisfied and wanting.
And, most of the time, I can’t wait for them to fucking put their clothes
back on and leave.
Breakfast? No thanks. I’m on
a diet.
But back to the subject at
hand.
Reid
Fucking Turner.
I peek out the front window
again and wonder why he’s moving his stuff by himself. I should head over and
offer to help, shouldn't I?
Then I see them. A whole
slew of buff, hot guys marching in and out of the house in a line like an army
of ants.
Where does he find his
friends? Studs ‘R’ Us?
Maybe they’re all gay porn
stars. I mean, our classmates did
vote Reid most likely to succeed in high school. Porn stars are considered
successful, right? They’re stars
after all.
I swipe at the bit of saliva
gathering at the corner of my lip. Fuck.
Gay or not, that is one hell of a man buffet. But how disappointing would that
be? To find out my teenage crush turned out to dislike women?
Not only disappointing, but
devastating.
I glance up at the ceiling
and ask any deity listening, “Oh please, don’t let that be true.”
Reid has been my ultimate
fantasy, my constant masturbation material, since the ninth grade when I first
laid eyes on him.
Well, more like the day I
bumped into him. The first time it happened by accident. The other dozen or so
times over the course of our high school years were not so accidental. And one
time I even accidentally brushed
against the front of his jeans.
He felt warm and soft. But
that night, I fantasized about him being hot and hard. And all mine. That ended
up being a good night and I might have sprained a finger.
But no matter how many times
I threw myself in front of Reid Turner, he never seemed to notice me. I had no
cleavage, no shape. And I certainly wasn’t a cheerleader, or even on the
booster team or squad, or whatever the fuck it was called.
I was a nobody. Just another
body moo-ving down a narrow, crowded
hallway, going in and out of classrooms like herded cattle.
I’m not saying I never
garnered any interest. Just not from
Reid Turner and his ilk. Oh, I got kissed and fingered, and eventually my
cherry popped, but none of it was worth writing home about.
And every time I found
myself in some closet, the backseat of a car, the bedroom of some boy’s house
whose parents went out to dinner, I’d close my eyes and picture Reid.
That’s how I had my first
orgasm (one without doing it myself). If I’d squeeze my eyes shut really hard
and pretend the guy was Reid, then I’d… Yeah.
And the poor schmuck probably thought he had skills and most likely
disappointed the next girl he fumble-fucked. And if he did, not my problem.
However, that ended up
screwing me, too. Because no guy was ever good enough for me.
None of them were Reid
Turner.
The fucker ruined me for any
other man. And he never once even touched me.
Not. Once.
Whether he knows it or not
(I’m pretty sure he doesn’t), the man owes me a mind-blowing orgasm.
I snort as I imagine
stomping over to his house to demand he make me climax. Wouldn’t he shit a
brick.
Though… Maybe I should give
that some serious thought.
He may call the cops.
Possibly apply for a restraining order. Damn.
I tap my finger on my chin
as I contemplate all the ways I can approach him without getting myself
arrested.
Then it hits me. He won't
call the police. It’s not because he’s a criminal and wants to avoid the men in
blue.
No, it’s because he is the police. I forgot he’s a cop. Hot damn. How could I forget that juicy
piece of information?
I remember hearing about his
career choice when I was at our lame five-year class reunion. The one I
attended just to see him. Though, he never showed. And he never came to our
tenth either. It was at that joyous occasion when I found out he had married his
main squeeze in high school, Pamela Johnson. Head cheerleader, prom queen,
voted most popular. Yeah, yeah, yeah. Blech.
So, that meant he wasn’t
gay. Or did that bitch turn him?
My eyes rake over the man
meat carrying the heavy boxes and random pieces of furniture. No sign of her.
But that doesn’t mean they
aren’t still together. Though, that might fuck with my fantasies.
Damn
it.
And of course, his life
choices are all about me. Right?
Right.
I pace my living room,
wanting to know everything about his life right
now. He leaves me no choice.
I’ll have to do some recon.
* *
* *
I actually question my own
life choices when I sneak around the outside of his house after dark. What have
I been reduced to? I feel like I’m a high school stalker—err, student—all over
again.
All those times I attended
his wrestling matches, his baseball games, I’d sit in the bleachers and root
him on. Not that he ever noticed, even though I was his biggest supporter. The
ultimate fan.
But hell, at least he chose
two sports where he wore tight outfits. Both, that snug onesie thing he wore in
wrestling and those tight baseball stretchy pants. His round, muscular ass
looked spectacular in both. But that unitard… No, I remember being scolded at
one match by someone sitting nearby. It wasn’t called a unitard, they called it
a singlet. Didn’t matter though, at least in that outfit he didn’t wear a cup.
I think all the females, including the mothers, noticed the healthy-sized
Kielbasa link in his singlet. You
couldn’t miss it. In fact, I wouldn’t doubt a few of our classmates’ mothers
hit on him. And possibly even scored. What teenage boy didn’t want to fuck a
MILF?
Anyway, now fifteen years
later (give or take a year), I’m skulking around my neighbor’s house like a
freaking peeping Tom.
All because Reid Fucking Turner moved next door.
This isn’t high school
anymore, though. No. At thirty-one years old, I’m now dead serious about
getting a piece of Reid. Especially since he owes me.
When I step on a stick, it
cracks loudly under my foot and my heart, once again, goes into warp speed. I
slam myself against the side of his house.
Holy fuck, if any of my
other neighbors see me…
Screw them. This is all
about me.
And Reid, of course.
I blow out a breath when I
realize I might be a good candidate for the loony bin. I shake my head to clear
it. I’m a freaking adult. What the hell am I doing?
How can the sight of this
man reduce me to this crazy-assed behavior?
Fuck.
I drag myself back into the
house, my head hanging in disgrace. I should be ashamed of myself. Maybe I
should go over, knock on the door, and apologize for my bad behavior. Welcome
him to the neighborhood. Invite him over for some sweaty sex.
I lock my front door and sit
in my dark living room totally sickened by my actions.
Then I run upstairs.
