No. I need to cultivate a relationship that actually stands a chance of becoming something. No matter how good he feels between my thighs, and no matter how much his arms make me want to curl up and stay in them.
After I duct tape my door shut, I head to my office and pull up the email thread I shared with Mr. Dirty-flirty, a.k.a. NextDoor. He may or may not actually be interested in a relationship, but at least he doesn’t live next door and isn’t coming over later to work on the door he demolished while trying to save me from imagined murderers.
My heart contracts.
Adam wanted to save me. Even knocked in my door to do it.
Tender parts of me heave a sweet sigh.
But no. This can not happen.
I harden my resolve.
He’s a heartbreak waiting to happen. It doesn’t matter how sweet it was for him to kick in the door and run inside, not knowing what he would face, just because he thought I was in danger.
Doesn’t matter. At all.
It can’t.
So…what now?
Distraction.
That’s the name of the game.
I re-read the last email NextDoor sent…the one I have yet to answer.
I like the way you think. A little thumb action in the backside is definitely doable. Actually, taking a woman from behind is one of my favorite positions. We might just be made for each other.
Oh, that’s right. He’d asked how I like sex best.
Made for each other, eh? Well, I guess that remains to be seen.
I turn from my desk, but before I get to the door, an email alert dings.
I want to see you.
Oh, good Lord. I can’t meet him. What if he’s some kind of sex-crazed lunatic?
What if he thinks I’m a sex-crazed lunatic?
And what if that’s what he wants?
I may not live up to what you expect.
What do I expect?
I don’t know. Maybe you just want to see what it’s like to fuck a smut writer.
Who said I want to fuck?
No one. I probably shouldn’t have said that.
So…we can meet then?
A knock at my taped-up door draws me away from my computer.
I open the remains of my door. Adam stands there—shirtless, his phone in one hand, a toolbox in the other. He looks like he just stepped out of the television, off one of those D-I-Y shows.
My mouth fills with saliva. I swallow before I drool on him.
He holds up his tools. “Hey, I think I’ve got what you need.”
“Yes, you do.” Oh Lord, did I just say that out loud?
I usher him inside.
He winks as he steps through the broken doorway.
I bite my lip. “I mean, you have all the right tools.”
He grins and glances down to the bulge in his jeans. “Yes, I certainly do.”
I clench my teeth and talk through them. “Right. Well.”
He quirks one eyebrow. “Well?”
I let out an exasperated sigh. “I’m in my office if you need anything.”
I have to get my girly parts to thinking about something—someone—else.
I return to the email thread with NextDoor. Maybe he’s still hanging around and wants to chat. At least that will keep my mind off Adam and his perfect tools.
Yes, we can meet. We can go to dinner…like normal FRIENDS. I’ll be witty. You’ll make me laugh.
Of course, and don’t worry, I’ll be the perfect gentleman.
Loud hammering noises knock their way through the house from the living room. I shut my office door to block the sound of Adam fixing the mess he made while trying to save me.
Me.
It’s hard to believe he did that for me.
I have to read the email thread a couple of times before I can answer NextDoor.
No, you won’t be the perfect gentleman. You’ll crack sexy jokes and make me smile. So you’ll do it again and again, and on and on, until dinner is over and we’re in the parking lot…
And you’ll ask me to come to your house.
You’re very confident in yourself, aren’t you?
You will. You’ll want to cuddle.
Cuddle, my ass.
Cuddling won’t be enough for you. You’ll have an itch that demands to be scratched.
Wow. You have no confidence in me whatsoever, do you?
I don’t even know him.
I have no confidence in men in general. I know which head does the thinking when they’re in the presence of a woman they want. And you already want me, don’t you? Have since the last time we emailed.
Would you complain if I got that itch?
Silence steals through the house.
Is Adam done? Did he get it repaired already? Maybe he finished and left.
I tiptoe down the hall and peek around the corner.
Adam has his phone out. The corners of his eyes are crinkled from his smile.
None of my business.
I creep to my office.
It’s not like he isn’t free to text people or read his social media updates while he’s fixing my door.
I sit and scroll up through the email thread.