Chapter 9 Wesley
Wesley
I’ve been staring at my books for four hours.
Four. Fucking. Hours.
Everything’s a blur… because my mind is busy elsewhere, on her. My gorgeous new neighbour.
I have no choice but to ignore her because I’m fucking embarrassed.
“She saw your penis…Wesley,” the angel on my shoulder keeps reminding me, while the devil has other plans.
I pinch the bridge of my nose and try to get back to work, but every time I try to focus, my hand betrays me.
Little peaches mark the page, lots of fucking juicy peaches.
At least that’s what I pretend they are, but let’s be honest, I know exactly what I’ve drawn, and it’s got fuck all to do with peaches. My notepad looks like teenage me crushing on the hot girl next door… all doodles and cringe.
First, I see her at the pub, then she’s sitting in my office, and now, she’s living next door.
Swiping a hand over my stubble, willing the thoughts away. She can’t live next door. One of us has to go. She’s already turning my brain into a tornado of mush and fucking peaches.
Curtains. I need to close them. I can’t be walking around with my cock out, sporting a semi.
Since I’ve moved back here after my divorce, my only neighbours have been horses and foxes, cows and creatures who don’t stare at my dick with their mouths wide open or push their faces flat to the glass to get a better look.
Yeah, she liked what she saw.
Yes, I saw her. Yes, I admit it turned me on.
Christ, I feel like an exhibitionist.
Laughter echoes from outside, yanking me back to reality, and knowing I won’t be able to think about anything else tonight, I push back from the table and head to the fridge, grabbing a beer. Popping the cap off the worktop, I slip outside, sticking to the shadows like some kind of stalker.
What the fuck am I doing? I crane my neck, but her voice is too muffled to hear anyway. I need a fence, then she’ll be out of sight and hopefully out of my mind. Giving up, I head back inside, flopping down into Dad’s old leather recliner and flick through the absolute shite on TV.
I close my eyes for what only feels like a second.
BANG. BANG. BANG.
The door nearly comes off its hinges, and a voice roars my name through the letterbox. The fuck?
“Wes, open the door,” Tristan's voice booms from the other side.
What the fuck is he doing here? It’s 10:30 p.m. Dragging myself to the door, I swing it open, only to find Tristan standing there.
Shirtless, barefoot. Just a pair of jeans.
“What are you doing here?”
He puffs out a breath, hands wiping sweat off his forehead like he’s just run a marathon.
“Mate, I’ve been calling you. I kind of got into a bit of trouble.” Great, here we fucking go. I switched my phone off while I was trying to do my books.
Pulling him inside, shutting the door behind him, already regretting the decision. Tristan’s unbothered; he heads straight to the fridge like he owns the place, pulling stuff out for sandwiches.
“Got a new job about six miles from here, mate, the house, you should’ve seen it.” He gestures, animating the size of the house with his hands.
I pinch the bridge of my nose and throw him a glare.
“I don’t care about the house, Tristan. What the fuck are you doing here at—” I glance at my watch again. “Half fucking ten?” I fold my arms across my chest, giving him a ‘don’t fuck around and just tell me’ look.
He gives me a strange look, then points a butter knife at me. “What’s going on with your head?” I reach up and rub the lump. It’s grown even bigger.
“Don’t change the subject. Why are you here?” I’m losing patience with him.
“Yeah… yeah. So, this woman comes out in a bikini, all like, Come in, come in.” He slips into a feminine sultry voice, high-pitched, flirty. Already knowing where this is going, I mentally check out until he gets to the part I can’t ignore.
Because, despite not wanting to know about Tristan’s sex life, I know something in this story is going to be absolutely unhinged.
“So we’re in her room, right? She shoves me to the bed, then pounces. Fuck, mate, I was a little scared.” I shake my head.
He continues, “The tip of my dick…”
“Nope!” I cut in, throwing up my hands, waving them frantically. “I don’t need to know all that shit.” Tristan, however, is completely unfazed and continues to butter two slices of bread, not bothering to ask if I wanted a sandwich.
“Her fucking husband storms in… big bastard,” he says, waving the butter knife like he’s sword fencing before dipping it into a jar of English mustard.
“Grabs me by the scruff and fucking dangles me off the balcony.” He shakes his head, then slaps two slices of ham onto the bread.
And even I’m shocked at this point.
Tristan’s done some stupid shit, but this? He’s never been dangled from a balcony before.
He knows I hate cheating of any kind, but he still believes every single story these housewives spin him. They’re divorced. Their husbands are off shagging their secretaries. They’re single.
And every fucking time he falls for it. He can’t see the truth past his dick.
Tristan loves women. I know he genuinely wants to meet the one who stops him in his tracks.
He seems to think when he meets the person he’s meant to marry, he’ll just know, because he won’t be able to string a sentence together.
If she takes his breath away, she’s the one.
Tristan was supposed to marry someone, but his then fiancée never showed up, leaving him standing at the altar. He hasn’t been in a relationship since.
“He dangled you over the balcony?” I say, still trying to wrap my head around it all.
“Yep. Then he dropped me in a fucking rose bush,” he says before taking a big bite out of his sandwich. Then it dawns on me, where's his truck?
“Tristan, where’s your truck?” He holds up a finger as he chews, taking his time before answering.
“Ah, well, that’s why I’m here. I need a lift and a tow in the morning.
The wanker stabbed all four of my new tyres.
” He keeps eating his sandwich, unbothered, whereas I’d be pissed off in both scenarios, catching my wife fucking the gardener?
Not something I’d want to picture. I’ve been cheated on in a similar scenario and caught my ex-wife in the act. I know exactly how it feels.
But then I look at my mate, handsome bastard, with a mouth that not only gets him into trouble but gets him into bed with whoever he fancies.
Never been my thing. Never interested me to shag around like he does. I wanted something real. Still do. I’ve heard enough tonight. “You can have the sofa. We’ll be leaving at 8am.”
“Are we not going to talk about the elephant in the room?” I raise an eyebrow. “What elephant? Reckon that bush pricked your brain, mate.”
“I’m talking about the hard-boiled egg poking out your head,” he says, lifting his sandwich to my lump.
“Goodnight, Tristan.”
The smell of frying bacon, eggs, and freshly brewed coffee wakes me up before my alarm. Tristan pokes his head around the door.
“Morning mate, bacon and egg sandwich in the kitchen for you.”
“Cheers.” He disappears, leaving me to drag myself out of bed, feeling the ache in my joints from all the heavy lifting at work. Most of the grafting is left to the labourers, but I’d never dish out a job I wouldn’t do myself.
I head to the bathroom, locking the door, the only room where the blinds are never open. Kicking off my boxers, I flick on the shower, stepping in and ignoring the icy water biting at my skin.
As the hot water flows over me, soothing the dull ache in my bones, my hands slick with soap as I trail a path of suds over my skin and down my body, the familiar ache tugs deep and heavy as I wrap my fist around my hard cock, and my thoughts drift to Shannon.
Pressing my back against the cold tiles, gritting my teeth, but even the chill biting at my skin won’t will away the needy ache.
A vision invades my mind, pulling me into the scene of Shannon on her knees before me, her deep brown eyes shining up at me, lips parted. All this only adds to the vivid image.
“Christ.” I suck in a harsh breath as I look down at myself, watching my hand move back and forth with easy strokes over my soapy length, pumping out my pleasure as I watch the suds fall from the tip of my cock.
I toss my head back, sucking in a breath, groaning at the sensation with each stroke.
No, there’s no use fighting it, my mind is already lost in her.
Hands splayed across my thighs as I feed her my cock, watching her take as much of me as she can, her pretty eyes glistening on choked back tears only drives me to push in deeper.
“Shit… feels good.” A broken moan slips out louder between my staggered breaths.
I can’t shake the image of my hands all over her, but it’s the sight of her full, bouncing tits and my face buried between them that has me slipping off the edge, and working my cock harder.
My grip tightens, each stroke turning rougher, more frantic, my palm sliding back and forth over my wet, soapy cock.
I drag my thumb over the sensitive tip, coating it with slick precum.
“Fuck.” My voice is scratchy between my clenched teeth, balls pulling tight as my hand slaps against the tiles, steadying my balance.
Eyes locked on my cock, watching it glide through my fist, harder, faster, wishing instead it was her pink lips wrapped around me.
A teasing tongue flicking over the head, tasting me.
My breaths turn ragged as I grit my teeth, a guttural groan ripping from the back of my throat as the first hot ropes of cum hit the tiles.
Chest heaving, I picture Shannon swallowing me down, my cum dripping from her lips.
“Ah, fuck.” Moaning as the final streaks paint the tiles in thick ribbons.
“Jesus.” Chest heaving as I come down, rinsing off my mess, then finishing off cleaning myself. The sound of the knock against the door snaps me back.