Versa heard the humming before the deep, sexy growl kicked in with the words. He never sang any other song, only that one Tom Jones oldie, and she didn’t care. She’d spent all summer listening—and watching—and she was just about fed up with trying to ignore the need she felt. She had a desperate urge to march right over to the construction zone next door and…
She’d grab that face she’d been watching for months, pull those smiling lips down to hers, and kiss the hell out of him before she dragged him across the dirt and dust and trampled bushes of the yard next door, through her perfectly manicured lawn, and right on upstairs to her big shower.
First, she’d taste every inch of him while she washed the sweat from his glorious body. She’d seen it almost every day, dripping wet. He often stepped outside, ripped off his shirt, and ran the hose over his torso.
The sight of tanned, sculpted chest and back got her throbbing. When he threw back his head and laughed, her pussy started to drip. Every. Single. Damn. Day.
For almost four months. She’d lasted almost four months. Versa didn’t think she’d last much longer without giving in to her increasingly overwhelming urges.
Face flushing with anticipation, Versa tried to ignore her racing pulse and her aching nipples. She didn’t have the nerve for it. She’d been through too much in the past ten years. A bad marriage. A miserable two years trying to get out of it. And a failed and boring relationship trying to get herself back in the game.
Even one as sexy, as tempting, as fuckable as Theo?
Not yet. Maybe not ever.
She wasn’t ready, might never be ready again. If she could convince him that it was just sex and he’d actually treat it that way… But no. In Versa’s experience, all men professed they weren’t interested in a relationship until their cocks took over, right after the first orgasm. Once that happened, their cocks convinced them a relationship was necessary.
Because their cocks had an agenda: sex, sex, and more sex.
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