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“No more mentions of porn?” she teases.
“Please.”
“Okay.” She’s giggling now, this girlish, happy sound that makes my heart do a backflip. “No more mentions of porn. But just out of curiosity, if you’re a group sex guy in real life?—”
“No.”
“C’mon, Abel, inquiring minds want to know.”
I sweep our empty plates off the table and toss them in the sink. “It’s been a long day. You should get some rest.”
Jen has a wicked gleam in her eye. I can tell she wants to keep ribbing me. But beneath her teasing, there’s an eager kind of curiosity I cannot—will not—tolerate.
I’m not going to be responsible for putting ideas in her head.
She’s not built for it. And I’m not built to withstand her incessant... sweetness. Because that sweetness has an edge, a corner that’s loose, begging to be pried open to reveal what’s beneath.
I am nothing if not curious.
But I luck out and Jen takes the dogs outside. I make quick work of the dishes, keeping an eye on Jen and the girls through the open back door. When they come inside, I ask Jen if she needs anything.
“Nope. I think we’ll head upstairs. Are you sure you don’t want the bedroom?”
I’m not sure how I’m going to stay away knowing you’re in it.
“Positive. Holler if you need me?”
“Will do. Good night, Abel.”
“Night, Jenny.”
She hikes up her dress and heads upstairs, the girls following close behind.
The smell of her perfume lingers. It fills my head and makes my dick feel heavy.
Everything in my body feels heavy as I climb the stairs a few minutes later. I’m tired as fuck, but I know I won’t be able to sleep.
Careful to be quiet, I take off my shirt and put on my sweats. Belly up to the drafting table in my studio. I turn on the desk lamp and put in my earbuds. My favorite Nirvana album comes on, and I start to sketch.
I hope like hell working distracts me from the fact that a single wall is all that separates me from Jen. She’s right there.
Right fucking there.
In bed. Warm. Hopefully relaxed.
Hopefully not watching porn.
I’m working on the front elevation of a new build. Dixon Properties bought a great lot over on Station House Way, and while Riley wants to save it for a custom home we’ll do with clients, I’m trying to convince him otherwise. Mostly so I can design and build a house top to bottom.
I love this shit. The orderliness of it. How I can use a ruler and a pencil to tame the chaos of my thoughts. Turn it into windows, porches. Roof lines. It’s the best kind of meditation there is.
Of course, we’ll hire a professional architect to finalize the plans. I don’t have any degrees—college was never on the table for me—but I do have a vision.
As I begin to sketch, though, I’m surprised to find shapes I hadn’t envisioned at all.
Curves.
So many curves. A rounded transom above the front door. Round windows. Arched dormers and a spiral staircase that links two floors of porches. Generous proportions too. Not typically my thing. I like my houses small, tightly executed.
