By the time the sun sets, I’m absolutely fucking exhausted. Running a business—a successful one, at that—isn’t easy. Regardless if it’s my passion or not, I want nothing more than to go home, pour a glass of scotch, and sit in the garden. Usually, when I’m anxious or worked up, viewing the flowers and listening to the cicadas in the late afternoon help me relax.
As soon as I get home and walk in, I go straight to the kitchen, throw some ice cubes in a glass and pour a double of Johnny Walker Double Black. Wilma comes trotting down the stairs and rubs her body against my legs. Bending down, I pet her and place some treats on the floor before walking outside. She’s too busy eating to even notice me leave.
Finally, I let out a deep breath. I sit on a bench close to the fountain I had installed last summer and listen to the water trickle down the rocks. Just as I put the glass to my lips, Vada comes waltzing by, and I swear she’s purposely shaking her round ass. As soon as she turns around, I’m halfway through an eyeroll. I’m actually kind of getting used to her death glare.
“No hello or anything?” Her hands fall to her hips, and I have a feeling she’s used to addressing people this way.
This woman has no filter and calls it like she sees it. After only twenty-four hours, she calls my bullshit like she’s known me for years. Not many people point out my antics; most just look at me with sorrow in their eyes. I push those thoughts away as quickly as they came. Giving a smile that doesn’t affect her in the least way, I realize I may have met my match.
“Just sitting out here enjoying the peace and quiet.” The sarcasm isn’t lost on her, and she takes a few steps forward, closer to me, just as I take a sip of scotch.
“I was always told southern men were gentlemen. Going forward, I’m going to argue with anyone who believes that and let them know how entirely wrong they are.” She pauses for a moment, glaring at me. When I don’t respond, she continues. “So now who’s the one gawking?” she asks as she crosses her arms over her breasts.
I didn’t realize I was staring until she spoke, but I brush it off. “Just returning the favor from yesterday.”
She grinds her teeth. “Let me set the record straight. I wasn’t gawking at you. I was confused that you were shirtless and wet. Most people don’t answer the door like that. At least not where I’m from.” She takes a step closer.
“Really? Most people don’t shower where you’re from? Hmm. Thought it was a common practice, you know, around the world.”
I can tell she’s getting annoyed as she narrows her eyes at me.
To add fuel to the fire and to see how worked up I can really get her, I remind her of the deadline she’s been so worked up about since she arrived. “Don’t you have a book to write?”
She scoffs. “Well Casanova, I’m actually a little uninspired after going to this crappy pottery shop downtown today. It was absolutely awful in there. You must’ve heard of it, considering you have a few of their pieces. Paris Pottery & Studio?”
I don’t know if it’s the scotch that’s sending a burning sensation through me or her words, but somehow, I force out a smirk. One of those that make me look like a bigger asshole than I really am.
“Really? That’s a shame,” I say, completely unamused. She has to know I own the place and she’s trying to get under my skin, but she can’t play the player. Realizing she’s not getting to me, she continues on complaining about nonexisting issues.
“The walls were terrible. The art was sad. The lady working there was rude as hell…”
I lift my eyebrows, allowing her to finish, and that’s when I realize she’s carrying a bag with an Eiffel Tower logo and the Paris inscription. A devious smile touches my lips, and I nod my head and listen to her make a complete ass out of herself. Once she’s finished, I stand, set my glass down on the bench and yank the bag from her hand.
“What are you doing?” she squeals, finally realizing she’s been holding it the entire time.
“Just seeing which awful piece you decided to waste your hard-earned porn money on.”
Her mouth falls open, and I can tell she’s offended. “I do not write porn.”
Nodding my head, I peek inside and see two items wrapped in brown paper. Mugs. It’s the only thing she could have bought. “That’s not what Google says about you.”
“You did not Google me.”
My eyes meet hers for a brief moment as I carefully unwrap the brown paper from one of the items. She chose one of the most recent pieces I made one early morning a month or so ago. After looking out the tall windows that surround my office, I painted it the color of the sky just as the sun was rising. As she opens her mouth to say something else, I pretend to almost drop the mug, and she gasps trying to catch it.
“Just what I thought,” I tell her as I carefully wrap and place it back into the bag and hand it to her.
With puckered lips, she looks up at the sky as if she’s trying to pluck her words from the clouds. “Fine. You busted me. I know you’re the owner of Paris Pottery & Studio. Are you happy?”
“I bet that was painful to say.” I’m smiling—a genuine smile—as she stands there defeated that she didn’t win this round.
“So now you’re going to truthfully tell me your opinion about the shop, right?”
It’s almost as if she’s trying to force the words off her tongue. Her voice is so low that whatever she says is completely inaudible.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t hear you,” I say, cupping a palm around my ear.
She huffs. “I said, I loved it. Everything about the place was perfect. The selection, the art. I was actually shocked when I saw your picture there. I don’t know why you just didn’t say yesterday morning when I was admiring your work.”
My face softens, and I relax. “Because it’s not a quick conversation, and it’s easier if we don’t get personal.”
Almost instantly, her demeanor changes as if my words offended her, but it’s the truth. Getting personal with my tenant only causes problems, and she’ll only be here for a week anyway. What’s the point?
“Well okay then, Casanova. My sincerest apologies for being an ass about your shop. I should probably get back to writing my porn now. Have a good night, Ethan.”
It’s the first time she’s said my name, and it almost sounds sweet coming from her lips. Vada turns and walks away, and before she closes the door to the cottage, I speak across the garden to her. “Goodnight, Vada.”
The door to the cottage clicks closed, and I grab my glass from the bench and walk inside. Before heading upstairs for a shower, I pour the melted ice and scotch down the drain and bend over to pet Wilma who’s begging for more treats. I tell her no and go upstairs to my workspace on the third story to make sure the kilns are amping down.
Unbuttoning my shirt, I stand at the large windows that surround the tower room and look out at the garden. It’s so high up above everything, that it helps me forget the worries that follow me throughout the day. I almost feel as if I’m in the clouds. After checking a few of my pieces on the wooden boards and just as I’m about to turn around, my eyes wander to the cottage.
Expecting to see Vada working at the small desk, I’m shocked when she walks from the bathroom with nothing more than a towel wrapped around her tight body. She snaps the sheer curtains shut, and the towel drops to the floor in a crumpled pile. As she crosses the room, I swallow hard at the outline of her naked body. Not able to turn away, completely magnetized to her, I watch through the large skylight that’s conveniently positioned above the bed. When she lies down, I know exactly where this is going.
Her dark, wet brown hair cascades on the pillow, and she looks like pure perfection with her soft skin against the white comforter. Vada closes her eyes, allowing her hands to roam to her nipples, and I memorize every curve she has. If I concentrate hard enough, I can almost hear the soft sound of her moans and breaths as she pinches and pulls at her nipples. I shouldn’t be watching her, but then she moves one hand down to her clit, and there’s no way I’m walking away now. Taking her time, she teases herself with slow circular movements while palming one of her perky breasts. I halfway wonder if she can sense my eyes glued to her because she’s putting on one hell of a show for me.
Watching her and imagining the way she feels is making my dick so goddamn hard, I’m going to have to take care of this sooner than later. The woman is teasing herself with such fervor that I’m getting worked up, which isn’t something that typically happens to me. Then again, I’ve never experienced a beautiful woman masturbating in my cottage with every light on, giving no fucks about anything but her pussy.
I’m halfway tempted to go over there and ask if she needs any help. Just as the thought crosses my mind, she opens her legs wider and slowly inserts a finger. No, she doesn’t need any help. She actually has it all taken care of. Fuck.
Vada is careful with herself, moving her fingers along her wet slit before inserting them back inside, over and over again. The rhythmic motions as she sinks deeper and deeper is driving me fucking insane. She’s an expert at pleasing herself, and now I’m curious about the sex scenes in her books.
When her back arches and she picks up the pace, I know she’s teetering on the edge. I wait with bated breath for her release as she continues to simultaneously finger fuck herself and rub her clit. Without slowing down, she gives her pussy exactly what it deserves, working herself to completion. She bites down on her bottom lip as the orgasm violently rushes through her, causing her body to buckle on the bed. Her mouth falls open, and I know she’s moaning loudly, allowing the moment to take full control of her. Continuing to ride the euphoric wave until the very last moment, her body eventually relaxes, and it’s the sexiest thing I’ve ever witnessed. I can only imagine how wet she is and the urge to want to taste her overcomes and shocks the shit out of me.
Her breasts rise and fall, and a small smile hits her lips as she exhales, completely satisfied with what she accomplished. With flushed cheeks and nipples as hard as pebbles, she lies there without a care in the world. Vada’s beautiful and mesmerizing, and I can’t seem to pull away from her. Though she doesn’t have a filter on that mouth of hers, I find myself fantasizing about being inside her, giving her everything she can’t possibly give herself sexually. My heart pounds so hard in my chest as her naked body stretches across the bed, and I can’t deny this feeling inside me. It’s raw. It’s pure lust and hunger. Once her breathing steadies, she slides off the bed, puts on a robe then sits at the desk. Opening her laptop, she begins typing away with a shit-eating grin on her face. I can only imagine the words she’s writing at this very moment. Dirty girl.
Somehow, I force myself away from the windows and walk downstairs to my bedroom, but the images of her and the look on her face as she came won’t stop replaying in my head. My dick throbs so hard in my jeans that it’s almost painful. Heading to the bathroom, I begin disrobing, dropping my clothes along the way. Once I turn on the water and step in, I close my eyes and grab my dick that’s as hard as steel. As the water runs down my body, I grab myself in long strokes. Trying to steady myself, I place a hand on the wall, picking up the pace, feeling the orgasm ready to rip through me. Everything about her fills my mind. Moments later, my body is convulsing with the quickest orgasm I’ve had in years, and it’s all because of that smart-mouthed writer and her perfect pussy. If only she could write about that.