Junk Mail(2)

Chuckling to myself, I shove off my boxer briefs and stare down at the prize.

I would have assumed I’d need a few stiff tugs to prep the package, but yet here is my dick, ready to impress our new lady friend.

Note to self—never go four months again without some action. It turns you into a horny teenage boy. Forget the fact I’m a grown-ass man at thirty-four. I have needs. And what I need in this moment? To impress the lovely ButterflyGirl6 so she says yes to my request for a date.

Do I find it a little strange that this woman wants to see my goods before taking a look at my face? Sure I do. But whatever, I’m flexible.

A quick glance in the mirror above my dresser reveals tanned skin, a five o’clock shadow, and a mess of dark hair that I keep a little longer than I should.

Making sure the angle is perfect, I snap a shot. When I check out my camera roll, I have to say I’m pretty impressed with my work.

I hit SEND and toss my phone on my nightstand. I can’t wait for her reply. I’m sure it’ll come any minute.

Any minute now.

Maybe just one more minute.

I check my phone once more. Sadly, it’s still silent.

I set it down and head for the shower. When I wander out a few minutes later, toweling off my hair, my phone is buzzing with a reply.

I may or may not have run over to the phone to see what she had to say about the goods.

When I slide open the message, though, her response isn’t what I expected at all.





Chapter Two


Peyton



One by one, all my friends are tying the knot.

No, not right this second, not literally. At the moment, I’m sitting at my kitchen table, waiting for a mug of soup to reheat in the microwave. But it still feels that way because over the last eighteen months, one by one, all my friends have either gotten engaged or married. I have four bridesmaid dresses hanging in my closet, and another two on order for this season’s weddings.

Meanwhile, I live with my grandmother, or rather she lives with me, but I’m as single as a serial killer on death row. Actually, that may not be entirely true. Serial killers probably get more action than I do.

It doesn’t matter. I’m pursuing my dreams, building an enviable career and nursing my entrepreneurial spirit one sale at a time. But all of that is about to change because tomorrow morning is my big chance. A meeting that can lead to my amazing subscription boxes being taken to the big leagues.

“Soup again?” Gram asks.

Gram is not only my roommate, she’s also my best friend and my maternal grandmother. Despite being eighty-two, in a lot of ways she’s hipper than I am. She wears those printed leggings that people fight over online and covet—today’s selection are a monkey-and-banana print. She gets her nails painted once a week at the salon down the street, and she knows the lyrics to all the songs on the radio. Gram is pretty much a silver-haired badass.

“Leftover split pea,” I say.

“One of us needs to learn to cook,” Gram mutters under her breath.

And by one of us, she means me. I’ve heard her say more than once to herself that you can’t teach an old dog new tricks. I also know Gram knows how to cook; she just chooses not to. Not that I can blame her. She raised four kids, was married and widowed twice, and was the epitome of a 1950s housewife. I think it’s cute that she’s having a late-stage feminist streak. So, soup it is. Or takeout. Building my business, I certainly don’t have the time or inclination to slave over a hot stove.

I grab my mug of soup from the microwave and set Gram’s inside, punching the buttons for two minutes.

“Thanks, sugar,” Gram says, picking up her latest knitting project from the counter.

Thankful to be done with work for the evening, I grab a spoon and set myself a spot at the table. While Gram fills me in on the latest gossip at the senior center, I get to work on my soup. Apparently, judging by the gossip that Gram is dishing out, even the elderly are getting more action than me.

“And when Duncan mixes his penis pills with heart pills—look out.” Gram chuckles to herself like this is the most amusing and endearing quality a man can have. And at her age, maybe it is.

And there we have it, folks. My life is officially boring.

As I rinse my mug at the sink and place it inside the dishwasher, my phone chimes from the dining table.

Gram steps outside to check the mail while her soup cools, and I grab my phone to check it. There’s a text.

Unknown User: Hey.

Peyton: Um, can I help you?

A few seconds later, a photo appears on my screen.

It takes a moment for my mind to comprehend what I’m seeing. But the realization of what I’m actually seeing, and the number of days since I’ve seen this particular piece of anatomy, has me slow on the uptake.

So many words flash through my brain at once.

Flesh.

Male.

Rigid.

Engorged.

Large.

I squeeze my eyes closed and take a deep breath. What in the world? Who in their right mind sends a dick pic to a complete stranger? And why did this very well-endowed stranger pick my number out of all the possible numeric combinations that exist?

Swallowing a sudden lump in my throat, I peek open one eye. Its size is . . . enviable. There’s no denying that. A freaking baseball bat would have Freudian-level jealousy issues.