6 - Greg.
961 Words
I've scared my sweet little neighbor. Made her nervous and awkward around me; made her desperate to avoid my eye. All because for one stupid moment, one weak moment, I let her catch a glimpse of how I feel about her.
Fuck.
Tessa's right. She should be freaked out. I'm twice her age, more than twice her size, and I've got no business lusting after her the way I do. Especially after I've been with her best friend for almost five years, completely neglecting her affection. But it still guts me, still makes me want to bellow like a wounded animal, and I move through the rest of the week in a hurt, horrified daze.
On Wednesday, I stop calling out to her when she arrives home from work. No sense forcing conversation on the poor thing. Sure enough, Tessa enters her cottage in silence.
On Thursday, I make sure I'm safely inside, not lingering on my driveway, so she doesn't need to see me at all. It's better that way.
And on Friday, Tessa seems surprised to find me waiting outside Sofi Cafe when the late shift ends, her pink motorcycle helmet gripped in my hands. I'm straddling my bike, thighs spread and throat tight, and Tessa whispers a quiet "Thank you," before she swings a leg over the seat behind me.
I'll bring her back tomorrow for her Saturday shift. Won't make her walk here without her bike. I'm not ready to let that part of our routine go, the parts where I provide for her. Where she lets me. And when Tessa wraps her arms around my middle, when she crushes her tiny body against my back, I can't lie to myself about why.
I'd sell my soul for this stolen contact. For these perfect minutes when her body touches mine, the wind on our cheeks and the stars glittering overhead.
She wraps her arms around me... and I'm home.
"Thank you, Mr Hampton," Tessa murmurs again once I steer us onto the driveway and kill the engine. It's still ticking quietly, cooling down, and my fingers are stiff where they grip the handles. Tessa slides off the bike behind me.
"Gregory," I say, and I don't even know why. What's the point of correcting her, of asking me to call me by my name, when Tessa doesn't even want to speak to me anymore?
I suppose there's less risk now. I'm less exposed.
Because Tessa already knows how I feel about her. She knows the shameful truth. How much worse can I make things, really?
But my neighbor pauses, and I turn and peer at her with a crackle of shifting leather. Tessa's black hair is mussed, her topknot all squished from the journey in her helmet, and her eyes are bright, watching me so closely. Like she's been waiting for this. Holding her breath.
If Tessa would let me, I'd buy her full leathers as well as that helmet. I'd kit her out, make her motorbike-ready, then take her roaring down the empty highways.
As it is, she's not mine to dress up like that, so the pink helmet has to be enough—and I drive us back extra slowly, taking obsessive care with every bend and corner.
"Gregory." Tessa says my name slowly, trying it out. The corners of her mouth lift. "It's a good name. Suits you."
And f**k, this is the warmest interaction we've had in days. I'm bathing in it. Luxuriating in it. Sinking into her cautious smile like it's one of the town hot springs, soothing my aches and pains.
Then that smile flickers. "I guess I'd better head inside."
Away from me. My chest throbs.
"Sure, honey." With effort, I peel my fingers off the bike handles. "Sleep well."
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Sleep well.
Fucking hypocrite. I can't even take my own goddamn advice. Maybe I should sign up for that sleep study next month, because it can't be normal the way Tessa haunts me at night. It's like I've been shuffling through my waking hours like a zombie, dead inside and out, and the second I lay in bed under a single cotton sheet, I crackle to life.
I feel everything.
Each thump and squeeze of my heart. Each breath, dragging in and out of my lungs. Each hypersensitive nerve under my skin. The brush and slide of the cotton sheet is enough that I grit my teeth, temples pounding.
Fuck, I want her. I want that sweet girl.
I want Tessa under me. Desperate and sweaty and moaning.
I want to catch her rosy n*****s between my teeth and tug; I want to nudge her thighs open then sink into her wet, perfect heat. In my fevered brain, she wants me back as badly as I want her. This need is mutual. Burning us both up from the inside.
In my muddled dreams, she scores red lines across my back with her fingernails. She tackles me to the mattress then sits astride me, proud and hungry, riding me into oblivion.
Talk about wishful thinking. It's so far-fetched, I'd never breathe a word of this aloud, because I know, I know how ridiculous it sounds.
Tessa is a goddess. She could have any man she wanted.
What are the chances she'd ever pick an older, hairy brute like me?
So thoughts are all I have. And since I've clearly screwed things up in real life, since thoughts are all it will ever be... I let loose. Let myself imagine every thrust and clench and growl. Her silky hair slipping between my fingers; her lips parting on a sigh.
I grip my c**k and work myself raw with her name on my lips.
Tessa.
The sweet, perfect girl next door.
- Writer
