Page 23 of The No Touch Roommate Rule
Nix: Damn. That’s not a bad deal. Maybe you aren’t a hopeless simp.
Parker: Thanks. Now fuck off. I have this all under control.
Chapter
Six
PARKER
Five Days Later…
Nothing is under control.
Which is normal for a night out at The Brass Monkey, but this isn’t thefunkind of out of control. This is the “the sexual tension in my house is about to drive me fully insane” kind.
It’s Friday, nearly a full week since Makena became my roomie, and I’m sitting in a cracked booth by the karaoke stage at my favorite dive bar, nursing my second Trash Panda. I should be feeling no pain—aside from the occasional throb in my bum knee. But thanks to a round of steroid shots, regular icing, and the genetic gift of speedy healing, my MCL isn’t bothering me all that much.
No, what’s bothering me is the woman murdering “Hungry Like the Wolf” up there in the hot pink stage lights. The woman in ripped jeans and a tiny black tank top that keeps riding up as she wails into the mic like a tone-deaf gerbil, because ananonymous donor promised five hundred dollars to flood relief for every person who sings tonight.
Makena couldn’t carry a tune in a wheelbarrow with four friends along to help her push. And she doesever-so-slightlyresemble a gerbil when she first gets up in the morning and her face is still puffy.
And yet, these facts only make me want to ravish her on the closest horizontal surface even more.
Nix was right.
I’m fucked.
At this rate, it’s a matter of days—hours, even—until I cross a line, I promised myself I wouldn’t cross.
I’ve already gotten way too close for comfort.
Like this morning, when Makena was up at the crack of dawn, making coffee in a t-shirt that barely covered her ass, and I crutched my way into the kitchen to grab a juice before starting my “arms only” cardio routine. She reached up to grab a mug off the shelf. I caught a flash of lacy white panties, proceeded to pitch a tent in my gym shorts, and had to turn tail and hobble back to my room before I embarrassed myself, like some prepubescent horndog.
I am not prepubescent, but Iama horndog.
A horndog, who hasn’t fucked anyone in nearlya year, a tragic personal worst. At first, I was on that “start the season off strong” grind, then I was on the “if I can’t fuck my sexy former babysitter, I don’t want to fuck anyone” Stubborn Train to No Pussyville.
Currently, I’m in a borderline abusive relationship with my own hand every time I catch Makena in downward dog on her yoga mat or wiggling her ass to whatever’s on her headphones as she harvests herbs in my garden to whip into something incredible for dinner.
I want her to harvestmyherbs.
Or, even better, whip me up for dinner.
I want it so bad, even her ear-scarring karaoke stylings make me a little thicker.
“Wow, she’s really going for it, isn’t she?” Nix observes, wincing as Mack hits a note that probably has dogs howling for mercy in the neighborhood behind the strip mall.
“That’s my girl,” I say, lifting my glass in a silent toast as she reaches the chorus and her hips really get in on the action.
She may be tone-deaf, butholy hell,can she dance. She dances as if she’s possessed by the music, like her blood burns with the need to move. Every hip swivel is an act of defiance, celebration, seduction, and liberation, all tangled together, and I am positive she would ride my cock with the same magnificent abandon.
Positive.
And it haunts me.
So bad…
“She’s glorious,” I murmur.
