Invasion (13 page)

He comes so close he’s pressing against me, angling past me to the massive puddle on the floor, his attention now on the leak I vaguely alluded to. The moment the chaff of his sweater divorces its perfect pressure from my nipples on his brush past I follow his trajectory, subconsciously, staying so close I’m invading his space, his masculinity needling into my hypersensitive senses.

Dropping to his haunches he looks around the machine, then stands, slanting over the washer to take a look at the back. “Do you have a wrench?”

I have a wretch, does that count? It’s an itch in my panties that you started, it’s so insistent it’s yelling for you.

I part my lips to inhale, desperate to just kiss him, to storm him like some movie army where the good guys surround the bad guys, to corner him and HAVE him. I almost beg,
I need you
, then catch my craze.

Nodding, unable to trust any words out of my mouth, I take a moment, thinking of soiled diapers, of the time I got so inebriated on Sambuca I hurled my guts for three days, and I finally clamp down on the desire crawling all over my major organs, racing from my skin to my nipples to my clit to the convulsive contractions of my pussy.

It wanes for a brief moment, and I use it to speak coherently. “Yeah, um, Mark’s toolbox is here somewhere.”

“Mark?” he asks, a scowl brutalizing his beauty.

I can see him wondering why the man himself isn’t here to fix what needs fixing. Ha! Mark doesn’t do dirty, in the bedroom maybe, but not around the house and definitely not in the yard.

“My ex,” I explain, the thought of Mark enough to douse the fog of passion wringing the sanity from my senses.

Except … except this is the kind of attraction that tilts reality, rips your soul out of your chest, and reduces you to an ache for everything forbidden and erotic.

Mark Mark Mark Mark, hate hate hate, bastard cocksucker motherfucker prick!

Holding to it, I use it to fortify reason and logic, oiling the corroded cogs of polite interaction, pretending I don’t thrum every time my clit rubs my crotch seam, that I’m not as much a puddle in my ‘nude fit’ silk panties as he’s standing next to at the washing machine. Except mine’s hot enough to cause discomfort and the one on the floor is colder than snow.

I need to change. Now. Right now.

I need to inject space between us, a tiny pane of reason, a minuscule niggle of lucid logic, get out of these soaked panties and yoga pants and into something easy to rip off, in case, you know, wishes come true or something.

He’s tall, filling the laundry room with effortless strength, and a paroxysm of mindless adoration shivers through me, my mind subjugated, my sexuality shackled. I so desperately want to reach out and feel his body, to caress it, to discover the landscape so rudely hidden by cotton and acrylic.

Gavin looks at me, leaning against the folding-laundry counter, linking his ankles, waiting for me to move away, to find a wrench, when my reproductive organ is wrenching to burrow out of me to clamp herself to his penis in the hopes it’ll still the madness riddling my existence.

Walk away Carly, go find a wrench, go find your dignity before you do something inappropriate.

David
:

I need other tools, so turn to the babe when she provides me with a jug. “Can you bring me the toolbox?” Standing too rapidly, I halt her with a hand on her arm, “Never mind, it’ll be heavy. Just tell me where to find it.”

She points to the next door along the wall past the kitchen. “In there. How about I show you and you can carry it?”

The wild visions her words elicit in my mind’s eye tug a grin onto my stoic visage, and I clear my throat, murmuring, “How about I just take what I need from the toolbox, and we leave it where it is?”

“Take whatever you need,” she gushes softly, a coy smile on those precocious lips, nodding, nibbling her cheek and tapping her fingernails together, undulating side to side in an unconscious sway, as if she might need a pee, or is rubbing something with contact because it feels good.

Jesus christ I wish I’d stop thinking of her pussy. I need my fucking handprint on that little tush, not Mark Cocksucker’s.

I stride to the door with the wrenches I didn’t need, getting space, because the nearer she is the more heightened the urge is to body slam her over the washing machine and sink my cock all the way to her coccyx.

Opening the fireproof door to the garage I step in, immediately seeing the blandly blue toolbox sitting on the third shelf, calling behind me, “Found it. Be right there.”

Hooking the tops open so they fold out I rifle through the Gedore tools, grabbing the flathead screwdriver and the box cutters, turning with what I need and halting abruptly. She’s standing there, weight supported by the doorframe which is the space of two bricks, devouring me with her gaze. She’s making no bones about it, no pretend anything, politeness gone, just sheer lust gobbling up the gap between us, depleting the room of free ions.

Christ Carly, if you do that once more I swear to all that is holy I’ll grip you by the neck and fuck you raw.

Ignoring it even though all the blood in my entire body has stampeded directly to my cock, I shove past her, attending to the issue before attending to her. We have plenty of time, let’s clean one mess before we make another.

I can’t work fast enough, burying myself in the task, pretending she’s not behind me, watching me work, her breath shaking out of her like she’s struggling with courage.

Using the wrench I undo the clamp, grab the box cutter and slice off the frayed end of the hose, reattach the fixings, tighten the metal hose clamp with a brutal twist of the flathead screwdriver, and stand, pushing the machine back where it belongs.

Now that I’ve hooked the machine back to the water feed I test the connection is waterproof by turning the faucet back on, standing over it and watching the housing when pressure is redelivered to the Speed Queen. Nothing drips.

Except maybe my precum. Good thing I’m wearing gray camo cargo’s, it disguises everything.

Still trying my damnedest to avoid her stare I grab the dish towel and wipe the counter of droplets, handing her the jug I used to catch the water from the hose. “Thanks. All done. Good as new.”

“Thank you! You are like a divine messenger sent in my hour of need, you have no idea.” She’s staring at my tattoos, at my physique barely concealed by the military vest. “Ex marine?” she asks, clearly curious.

It’s one thing seeing her naked and watching her hungrily, but with the shoe on the other foot her blatant eye fuck marginally pisses me off, paradoxically it’s also exciting as fuck to think she wants in, cos I’m game if she is.

“Can’t say.” I shrug, having no clear memory of what I did. Military is a good guess, considering the few clues I have to go on.

“More coffee? I’ve got cookies here somewhere,” she mumbles, heat in her cheeks, glancing at me quickly when I yank the sweater back on, hiding the story I can’t tell.

Every tattoo has a history, a tale behind it, and I have nothing to say for any of them. I don’t know why I got them, I don’t know when I got them, and I don’t know why I’d spend so much money permanently marking my skin.

Shit, the cookies are all gone. Oh well, she’ll know soon enough. “I’d love that, thanks.”

“Come into the kitchen, it’s warmer there. Grab another coffee while I get them.”

Following her again, I just want to pick her up and hoist her. She must weigh next to nothing. Feverish excitement injects into my veins again, filling my head with bombastic pressure. I want to grab her, to do unspeakable and biblical things to her. To see her cry after she cums.

Caution soldier, don’t blow it this early.

Coffee makes a great distraction so I do as bid, using the same mug as before, refilling it, when I turn to offer her some and stop, hand hovering in midair holding the coffee pot, smiling at the display of this midget trying unsuccessfully to reach a shelf.

She’s straining and stretching up onto tiptoes, then sees me looking and wheedles sweetly, pointing, “Can you grab that tin? It’s got the cookies in …”

Losing the coffee I sidle up behind her to reach for the snowman cookie jar, despicably utilizing the opportunity to press my body against hers, smelling her hair two feet beneath my nose, invigoratingly alive and feeling decidedly audacious. I’m being reckless and savoring it.

Hooking the snowman down I pass her the tin, chuffed to know where she keeps the secret stash of cookies.

She opens it, putting a wad of hundred dollar bills on the counter, then unearths the packet beneath, opening it up and offering me a cookie. “I’m possessive over these, it’s my mom’s secret recipe. I can’t live without them.”

Intrigued, I take one, biting into the caramel and macadamia morsel. It melts in my mouth the way I’m sure her cunt will the second I get to wrap my lips over it.

Keeping it über cool I don’t even acknowledge the wealth she just dumped on the counter. It’s all consuming but I’m a master at poker.

I am?

Maybe. Fuck, I know shit I don’t know. Shit I should know. It’s all shit isn’t it? Maybe knowledge is overrated.

Now I know where she keeps her emergency money and can go get supplies. I doubt she counts it, there’s more money there than I can recall ever seeing. It’s a fat roll as wide as the tin. Thousands probably. Next time she sees me I’ll have a haircut and new threads for sure. I could use jeans that actually fit me.

“These are amazing, did you make them?” I ask, helping myself to a kitchen stool and sitting at the marble counter, cradling my coffee cup, appreciating the small luxury of conversation and treats.

“I did. I don’t cook often but if I don’t have these in the house I feel abandoned and unwanted. It’s weird and hard to describe. I feel rejected if I don’t have this comfort from my childhood.”

She sits with me, at a right angle, our knees touching, leaning over to pour herself coffee into the waiting baby-blue mug. I might be able to ignore money but the cleavage in my line of sight derails my willpower. My Adam’s apple suddenly feels swollen, blocking my ability to breathe unencumbered.

Carly continues. “Mom died in a car accident, she killed dad with her. I hate christmas. They went to a party and dad was so paralytic he couldn’t drive - so mom did. The roads were icy and she couldn’t control the massive SUV he loved, and she plowed them both through the armco railing and right off the drop to the ravine.”

“I’m so sorry,” I say immediately, keeping my tone intimate, briefly covering her hand with my own and giving the tiny appendage a squeeze. I’m not sure that dainty hand will even reach all the way around my raging boner.

“How much do I owe you?” she asks, changing the subject, distracting her thoughts from the morose track she was riding down.

“Sixty bucks.” It’s the going rate for a handyman per hour. I looked it up compliments of her home computer. Research is important to me. Weirdly I could hack it. To eradicate a search history is far more than hitting delete or dragging to the trash. I have skills. In a way it’s kinda awesome discovering you’re supernaturally talented with killer skills of stealth and espionage.

She breaks through my train of thought, protesting my price by saying, “Don’t be daft! Three hundred at least! If you hadn’t come when you did I’d have flooded the house and had to call the plumber, and he charges me $250 just to show up at my door!”

I just smile at the ranting waif, happy either way. I know where the rest of the emergency money is, so who cares how much she pays me now. “That’s very generous of you.”

The doorbell rings again just as she is about to reply and she slams her mug on the counter, giving me the evil eye. “That’d better not be Mark.”

“His name sure comes up often,” I say, giving her the opportunity to fess up about him so I can mow him down like a howitzer.

“I hate the asshole. He’s trying to get back in my pants and I just want him to fuck off and leave me alone. The asshole’s been leaving slimy messages on the machine, on my phone, in my email. It’s harassment! What part of
ignore
does he not comprehend?”

Watching her temper escalate, at the rabid rage in her expression, the wild look in her eyes, I’m singing inside. This is sexy as all hell.