Chapter 5
REZNOR
“Oh my God. Logan is going to be here any minute and Pussy is soaking wet.”
Well fuck if those words didn’t grab my attention and snap me wide awake from where I was dozing off on the backyard porch swing.
Was I dreaming?
Desi Whitman.
Yes, Whitman because I looked on the roster to get her full name after thinking about her way more than I wanted to.
The voice sounded just like hers.
I must be dreaming.
“Of course. I never take care of Pussy, and the one time I do, she gets wet and messy before he gets here to take her home to play.”
Now that? That definitely got my attention.
The damn swing creaks as I get up from it and head toward the side of the house to the left of me. The clapboard house where dogs are always barking and the sign that says Doggy Style over the garage door has frequently drawn my curiosity.
But I haven’t looked in the few days I’ve been here. I’m not here to be a nosy neighbor, and fuck if I haven’t been busy unpacking and cleaning up the place. Besides, I normally keep to myself, but when there’s talk of a wet pussy, no man is going to stand idly by and let it be.
“I’ve stroked you”—groan—“and petted you”—sigh—“and trimmed all your fur to perfection, and this is how you repay me? By getting soaking wet and filthy before your daddy comes back to town?”
My smile is wide and I’m not gonna lie, my dick is stirring to life as I walk around the front of the house and peer down the side yard to see a woman’s backside.
She’s on her hands and knees on the sodden grass, with mud coating her calves and hands.
One mighty fine ass is pointing in my direction.
“You dirty girl, you,” she mutters and I can’t help but laugh. I’ve seen a lot of shit in the line of duty, but hell if I can remember hearing a woman talking to herself like this before.
“Excuse me? Is everything okay?” I ask, part caution, part curiosity in my voice, but I’m sure as shit not prepared for what I see when the woman sits up on her knees and faces me.
Desi Whitman.
A soaking-wet Desi with a white T-shirt smeared with mud and the dark pink of her nipples hinting beneath the fabric.
Nothing like a wet pussy and hard nipples.
“Oh my God. It’s you.” She sneers with disdain as she jabs a finger my way and rises to her feet—irritation etched on her gorgeous face.
“Yep, last time I checked, I was me.”
“What are you doing here?” Her eyes narrow and she throws her hands on her hips, not caring that she has now dirtied the sides of her shirt.
“I’d like to ask you the same question.”
“I live here.”
“Well...so do I.” I hook a thumb over my shoulder toward the other side of the fence and watch as her eyes widen and her back straightens.
Why does it not surprise me that she’s going to fight me even now? And why do I already know that this—she—is going to be a problem in more ways than one? I haven’t forgotten what it felt like to have my hands on her for those eighty minutes last Thursday.
Or how sharp that tongue of hers is.
It’s as though I have to goad her. Have to get a rise out of her.
She starts to speak several times and then thinks better of whatever venom she has on her tongue before starting again, only to fall into the same trap and then stopping herself, so instead I get her blank stare and unmistakable anger.
She’s tall. At least five foot eight, with legs for days that paint a picture in my head of exactly what they should be wrapped around.
She’s pretty in a nonconventional way. A mixture of quirky and sexy instead of your classic beauty.
Her blue eyes are big, her lashes long, and her lips are full and wide.
It takes me a second to remember the presence of mud and water everywhere, because her tits are right there, and hell if it isn’t a damn fine sight.
And then I remember the wet pussy.
“Looks like you could use some help here,” I finally say when I trust myself and take a step toward her.
“With what?” She lifts her chin in a show of defiance.
“I don’t know. Either the mud since it looks like you might have a sprinkler leaking”—another bristling of her shoulders—“or I could always help you take care of that wet pussy of yours.”
She clenches her fists. “You’re an asshole, you know that?”
I chuckle to irritate her further. “And you’re the woman going on and on about how you never take care of your pussy, and now it’s trimmed and wet”—I shrug—“and since you went to all that trouble, don’t you think someone might as well reward you?”
I dodge as she throws the rag in her hand my way. “Figures you’d think that way.”
“I take that as a no, then?”
“No.”
“Hey, I’m only going off what I heard. Only crazy people talk to themselves like that.”
“Pussy is Logan St. Claire’s precious cat. And Logan Sinclair is one of the assholiest people out there—”
“Is that even a word?”
“Even more so than you.”
“Probably not,” I say just to push her buttons.
My words stop her—surprise her—and she looks at me with a tilt to her head. Pieces of brown hair that have fallen out of her ponytail rest against her cheek.
“Yeah. You’re right. You take the cake.”
“Says the woman who insulted me in the first two minutes of our initial conversation.”
“Glad I could leave a great first impression. Maybe you should have taken the hint and left me alone,” she says, finding her footing beneath her again and letting that temper reignite.
“You only get one chance to make a first one…”
She huffs in response and out of the corner of my eye I see a mass of white fluff—or perhaps it used to be white fluff because now it’s spotted in brown mud—skirt across the grass and into the open back door.
Pussy.
“Remind me not to like him.”
“Like who?” she asks.
Gotta keep her on her toes.
“Logan St. Asshole,” I say. “Guys who have cats—correction, guys who name their cat Pussy—either aren’t getting any or are using the name as a way to state they’re not gay when everyone already knows they are.”
“Is that so?”
“Yep. Why be ashamed of who you are and hide behind a cat? Just live the best life.”
There’s something I say that has her head tilting to the side again. She takes me in a little longer than expected. “It’s the former,” she finally admits.
I shrug. “Why is he an asshole?”
“The bigger question is how is he not an asshole?” For the briefest of moments I see a ghost of a smile on her lips, and it reminds me of how pretty she was the other day before the defense class began when she was chatting me up.
“Doggy Style?” I ask.
“That’s the name.”
“But Pussy is a cat.”
“You’re quite observant…”
“I can imagine you attract all kinds of interesting folks with that name,” I say, dismissing her sarcasm.
For the briefest of moments something flickers through her eyes and before I can put a finger on it, the emotion is gone, but it reminds me of what I saw in them the other day after class.
“Just as I’m sure you do working with SWAT.”
“Always.” I look at the cute cottage-style house. “You lived here long?”
We stare at each other in silence, and it’s almost as if she remembers she isn’t supposed to like me. Her expression and posture suddenly stiffen...probably because she realized she was smiling at me.
And fuck if I know why it turns me on.
“It’s none of your business.”
So that’s how she wants to play it? Fine.
“Then it’s also none of my business that Pussy ran into the house about two minutes ago.” She narrows her eyes and sneers at me again. “It’s your loss, Desi.”
“What is?”
“That you don’t trust me to show you just how good I am with something wet and groomed.” And with that parting comment, I flash her a lightning-quick grin before heading to my side of the fence, while she grumbles and curses me out under her breath.
I hear her door slam.
I hear her call for Pussy again.
And all I can think about is how damn unexpected she is—and at the same time such a very welcome distraction.
I think I’m going to like my time in Sunnyville.