Page 68 of Sweeper
“Your dad called you Buddy Boy, didn’t he?” Daphney asks, her finger lazily tracing the edges of the tattoo on the inside of my bicep.
We’re both in a postcoital fog, me naked and staring up at the twinkle lights on her walls. She, also naked and draped over the top of me as my hands sift gently through her blonde strands.
After the surprising bus confession a few days ago and our crazy shower the next day, I’ve used the remainder of this week to remind myself exactly what I’m doing with Daphney. She isn’t my therapist. She isn’t my teammate. She isn’t someone I need to confess my innermost thoughts to help me through all the shit I’m dealing with in my fucked-up head.
She’s my hot neighbor who lets me fuck her.
Yes, her moment in the shower was somewhat mind-boggling. I’m not even sure why exactly. It was like I watched her come out of her shell before my very eyes. I’ve watched many women come, but watching her make herself come was somehow sexier and more stunning than any other woman I’ve been with. And mostly because I know it’s new for her. It was impressive to see her take charge like that.
But Daphney and I are just sex. We have rules in place to confirm that decision. So, after a few late-night booty calls the past couple of days that were very much two-sided, I thought we were back on track.
I guess I was wrong.
I pull my arm down to conceal my ink. “Yeah, he did.”
Daphney flattens her palms along my chest and rests her chin on the back of her hands. She looks so sweet and innocent, her toes pointing up to the ceiling as she swings them casually. “When did you get the tattoo?” she asks, her eyes gazing up at me.
Kissing her senseless sounds like a lot more fun than the direction of this conversation. But I don’t want to be a dick, so I begrudgingly reply, “I did it the night I found out he died before I flew out to be with my mom. Probably not the smartest decision of my life.”
“I think it looks nice.” Her lips purse as she grabs my elbow and holds my arm back up to inspect the tattoo again. “Those B’s are the same as your hat.”
“My dad was a huge Red Sox fan.” I swallow a knot in my throat.
“And you?” She quirks a dark brow at me.
I shrug. “I’m more of a soccer lover, but I was a fan of my dad.”
“That’s really sweet.” A tender look sweeps across her face, and that little dimple in her chin forms again. “Oh, by the way, I have a cookie container on the counter for you to take to your match tomorrow.”
I glance down at her in shock. “You made me cookies again?”
She shrugs. “I put a bunch in the freezer from the first batch I made. It’s not that big of a deal.”
I school my features to look grateful, but knowing that this cookie will taste the same as the last one I had to gut down causes my stomach to churn. Shit, that cookie was awful. And Daphney looked so excited when she gave it to me. It’s like she has no idea what an oatmeal raisin cookie is supposed to taste like.
I could maybe blame her nieces for screwing up the batch, but surely Daphney tasted them, right? Even the smell of the cookie is off. Like it was made with decade-old flour or something. I feel like this is part of a long con, but I don’t want to call Daphney on it in case she actually thinks her cookies are good.
And hell, at least she’s trying. My mom has obviously given up. And it’s not because she doesn’t know how international mail works. She’s figuring out how to send me baseball cards, no problem.
My mood is shifting to a place I’d rather not visit, so I quickly reach down and grab Daphney’s leg to roll us over. Sliding down her body, I place openmouthed kisses along her cleavage and growl with pleasure as her back arches, and she feeds more of herself to me. Her skin is so fucking soft. And her noises make me hard again even though it’s only been five minutes since I last came.
“What are you doing on Sunday?” I murmur against her flesh, wrapping my lips around her hardened nipple.
She groans a sexy noise as her hands fork into my hair. Fuck I love when she does that.
“What?” she asks breathily as she wraps her long legs around my back.
“Sunday,” I say, moving my mouth over to her other breast to pay it equal attention. “We’re in Leicester tomorrow, so I’ll be gone late, but I’m free later on Sunday.”
She inhales sharply as I apply expert pressure with my teeth on her nipple. “I have Sunday dinner at Vaughn’s.”
“Skip it,” I growl, my lips moving down her belly and kissing softly across her navel. It’s crazy how much I’ve become addicted to the taste of her this week.
“I can’t.” She gasps and curls into my touch. “Vi gets cross at me when I skip.”
I grumble my displeasure as I nibble her hip bones that jut out slightly. “Can I come?”
“To Sunday dinner?” She whimpers as I tease my thumb over her slit. “That doesn’t seem like a neighbors-with-benefits kind of event.”
