The Other Man(26)

But I could be very tenacious.  If anyone was up to the task of housebreaking a man like Heath, I figured it was me.

His flesh felt amazing under my hands, his neck corded and strong, his chest hard and soft in all the right ways.

I rubbed my hands over him in small circles, staying focused on his chest and neck, massaging, soothing.  I knew to take it slow.

“Is this okay?” I asked, tone soothing, almost a croon.

He let out the breath he’d been holding, then sucked it in, out, in, out, finally saying, “It’s okay.”

I kept going, stroking his body with a light touch.  I tried to chat him up while I did it, but as usual, he was not too chatty.

“It was nice waking up with you still here, for once,” I said.

His only response was a less than encouraging grunt.

“Do you have to leave soon?  Or can you stay for a bit?”

“I need to make a few phone calls tonight, but aside from that, I should have some time.”

I leaned into him, hanging my arm over his nape so I could put my cheek to his chest.  My free hand slipped down to his stomach, rubbing.

“So we have the day together?”

“If you’re free, yes.”

“I can take the day off.  I’ll need to make a few phone calls this morning, but nothing important.”

“Perfect,” he said succinctly.

We stayed like that for a long time, with me straddling his lap while I ran my hands over him tenderly, getting him used to my touch.

At some point (something sneaky on Heath’s part) my top and bra disappeared.

He was still fully dressed, and I was decent from the waist down, but it was one of the most erotic experiences of my life.

I stroked his hair as he fondled me with both hands, his face buried between my soft, sensitive breasts, nuzzling endlessly.

I cupped his head to my bosom.  I was rubbing my sensitized nipple back and forth, back and forth, dragging it along his rough cheek until he moaned, snapped his head to the side, and took it in his mouth.

I’d tried to prolong for as long as I could before it turned purely sexual, but our chemistry was an explosive with a very short fuse.

I was kind of impressed we’d lasted as long as we had.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

It was a strange day, but not strange in a bad way.  For the most part, it was just the opposite.

And surprisingly, we didn’t spend it all in bed.

I worked a bit, and then we went for a long walk.

Heath held ’Tato’s leash, and my dog walked just behind him, clearly showing deference to Heath’s dominant personality.  I swear all Heath had to do was look at him and he dropped to his back in submission.

In his other hand he held one of mine.

Unfortunately, before we’d gone far, we happened to pass by one of my neighbors, Deborah Dillon, and I could tell by the way her squinting eyes latched onto our clasped hands that we’d just made ourselves the hot topic of the day.

Dammit.  I knew it was too much to hope that she wouldn’t notice how young he was.

It was bound to happen with us walking around my neighborhood like this.  I just hadn’t given it a thought until I saw my least favorite neighbor hanging out in her front yard, which was surely an odd thing for her to be doing, since most days her kids were outside, roaming the neighborhood.  I couldn’t remember the last time she’d actually been caught out with them.

Here’s why I (and the entire neighborhood) didn’t have much tolerance left for the Dillon family, otherwise known as The Dickhead Dillons. (I swear I wasn’t the one that came up with that.)

No one blamed their children, who were nine, seven, and five, and boys, but that didn’t mean we had any patience left for them, either.

The nine year old had recently slapped the neighborhood sweetheart, a precocious little eight-year-girl named, Gilley, who wouldn’t hurt a flea.  I’d actually been witness to this (it was a hard slap and shocking to see), as I was walking ’Tato when it happened.  His parents hadn’t reprimanded him.  They’d blown the whole thing off with the disclaimer: ‘That’s a nine-year-old boy for you.’

I’d had two nine-year-old boys of my own once, so I knew very well that was not the case.

This wasn’t even the nine year old’s most grievous offense, just the most recent one I’d seen firsthand.

The seven-year-old could be found on any given afternoon pounding his five-year-old brother senseless.  Everyone, and I mean everyone, that saw this, tried to interfere and stop it, but the parents were adamant that the youngest brother needed said poundings, to ‘toughen him up.’

And the five year old, who I pitied the most out of all three feral boys, was best known for digging beach ball sized craters in other people’s nicely tended yards, or in general just destroying property, as all three kids were left unsupervised most hours of the day.

They were all bullies or headed that way, but you didn’t blame kids that young for things like that.

Everyone blamed the parents.  Because the parents were dickheads.

Messy dickheads.  The kind of messy that literally fell onto everyone around them.

Literally because of the unruly dog they let loose to roam for hours, day and night, pooping in everyone’s yard and going after any dogs that crossed his path.