Holt
She likes it quick and dirty.
I like orders and rules.
She hates small talk.
I hate to share.
She’s an open book.
I’m a closed dresser drawer.
She rides a Harley.
And that drives me f’ing nuts.
Annalyse and I have both lived in our own personal hells for half a decade. She’s learned to love the warmth, and I’m still consumed. But my new neighbor is stoking more than my libido these days. We agreed on only pleasure. But she changed the rules.
And now I’m not even sure what they are.
Maybe there’s a reason she found me that night, maybe there’s a reason I can’t stop thinking about her, maybe there’s a reason for the pain. Maybe not.
We all look for reasons in life. Reasons for death, love, pain. Why one thing happens and not another? It’s human nature. We’ve been looking for the meaning of life since the beginning of time. But maybe the reason for all of it — life, love, loss, heartache — is the curvy brunette living next door.
Annalyse
“You should have on a life jacket.”
“When I kayak or when I ride my motorcycle?” I ask.
He tries not to smile, but he does. “Pissed, huh?”
“Observant, aren’t you?”
“Motorcyclists are twenty-five percent more likely to die and five times more likely to be injured than a passenger in a car,” he says.
“You looked that up just to lecture me, didn’t you?”
“Not the point,” he says. “No more motorcycle.”
Did he really think he could go all alpha male on me? Usually, it would be hot as all-get-out to see a man in control, dominant, but right now alpha equals asshole! Note to self — I should do a blog post on that. Where have all the good alphas gone? “Who do you think you are?” I say, walking away. “You’re not my husband or my father. Come to think of it, I wouldn’t let my father or husband order me around like this.”
His fingers lightly touch my elbow. It isn’t a grab. I barely feel it, and as quickly as he touched me, it’s over. “I’m a doctor. I’ve seen what . . .”
“You’re a gynecologist! You’ve seen what a motorcycle can do to a vagina?”
Oh God, I’m in trouble. He’s got the dirtiest look in his eye. “I’d imagine the vibration would feel pretty damn good.”
I can’t help it and bust out laughing. “You are impossible.”
“And it’s the law to carry a life vest for every person in a kayak,” he says.
“You should have on a life jacket.”
“When I kayak or when I ride my motorcycle?” I ask.
He tries not to smile, but he does. “Pissed, huh?”
“Observant, aren’t you?”
“Motorcyclists are twenty-five percent more likely to die and five times more likely to be injured than a passenger in a car,” he says.
“You looked that up just to lecture me, didn’t you?”
“Not the point,” he says. “No more motorcycle.”
Did he really think he could go all alpha male on me? Usually, it would be hot as all-get-out to see a man in control, dominant, but right now alpha equals asshole! Note to self — I should do a blog post on that. Where have all the good alphas gone? “Who do you think you are?” I say, walking away. “You’re not my husband or my father. Come to think of it, I wouldn’t let my father or husband order me around like this.”
His fingers lightly touch my elbow. It isn’t a grab. I barely feel it, and as quickly as he touched me, it’s over. “I’m a doctor. I’ve seen what . . .”
“You’re a gynecologist! You’ve seen what a motorcycle can do to a vagina?”
Oh God, I’m in trouble. He’s got the dirtiest look in his eye. “I’d imagine the vibration would feel pretty damn good.”
I can’t help it and bust out laughing. “You are impossible.”
“And it’s the law to carry a life vest for every person in a kayak,” he says.
I roll my eyes. “You like rules.”
“I like order.”
“Ordering people around,” I say.
“Only certain people,” he says.
Don’t ask me why, but the thought of him “ordering” me around made my legs clench together, or maybe it was the mention of vibrations. Either way, the idea of him taking control of my body didn’t sound bad to me at all. It would be nice to not think so damn much all the time and just feel something good for a change.
“I like order.”
“Ordering people around,” I say.
“Only certain people,” he says.
Don’t ask me why, but the thought of him “ordering” me around made my legs clench together, or maybe it was the mention of vibrations. Either way, the idea of him taking control of my body didn’t sound bad to me at all. It would be nice to not think so damn much all the time and just feel something good for a change.
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Prescott Lane is the Amazon best-selling author of Stripped Raw. She's got five other books under her belt including: First Position, Perfectly Broken, Quiet Angel, and Wrapped in Lace, and her new release, Layers of Her. She is originally from Little Rock, Arkansas, and holds a degree in sociology and a MSW from Tulane University. She married her college sweetheart, and they currently live in New Orleans with their two children and two crazy dogs. Prescott started writing at the age of five, and sold her first story about a talking turtle to her father for a quarter. She later turned to writing romance novels because there aren't enough happily ever afters in real life.
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