Lisi’s wish list is pretty short — getting laid. Finally divorced from her philandering ex, forced to sell the historic house she loves, Lisi needs some downtime, some sexy loving, to get her back to enjoying life. However, living in a small town, where the list of available hunks is pretty limited, means getting laid is a lot easier said than done.
Until Joe Roop, the new owner of her house, gives her a call. He’s looking to take some photos of his purchase, but when Lisi discovers the hot body that goes with that sexy voice, photos are the last thing on her mind — or Joe’s. A chance meeting later leaves no doubt that there’s a lot more going on than just a change of address.
Oh shit! Hot shit.
Joe Whatever walked slow, slow and smooth, head high, shoulders wide, narrow hips made for clamping her fingers around, legs hidden under the damn slacks. At least she could see a certain bulge. Mouth watering and dry at the same time, Lisi ran her sweating palms down her thighs. Thank goodness he was looking around at the soon-to-be-his turf, otherwise, he’d see her nose pressed to the window and her eyes bulging.
Face. Yeah, gotta check that out too. But get a load of the way those legs work and the easy hang to his arms. Some men looked as if they never got dirty while others gave the appearance of never getting near a bar of soap. She didn’t think much of the squeaky-clean, check-out-my-expensive-suit males who figured women would be all over them because of the amount of money in their wallets. Her taste went more toward dirt-under-their-nails guys. They stuck her as more real.
Joe? Which was he? The clothes said white collar but his hair was a bit scraggly, a few weeks past needing a cut. His dress shirt looked as if he’d pulled it out of the dryer, not picked it up at the dry cleaner’s. His footwear confused her. Tennis shoes and slacks? Maybe he was having an identity crisis. If so, welcome to the club.
That’s what they had in common? she pondered as the doorknob gave a shorting-out buzz. They were both looking for direction in their lives?
Then she opened her door, determined that he was a good foot taller than her and way broader across shoulders and chest and identity crises mattered not at all. He had no smell, no aftershave or cologne or sweat. His eyes were set deep and then a little deeper in their sockets which called for an extended study to determine their color. Grey. With a touch of green thrown in for interest. Shaggy brows, narrow nose, cheekbones that would make an artist drool, just the slightest bit of shading on his chin saying he knew all about five o’clock shadows.
And a hand too big for a white-collar type heading her way.
They shook, each saying, “Good to meet you”. He kept looking at her which gave her an excuse to continue to do the same thing. He was frowning a bit, staring with his head tipped a bit to the side and his fingers not releasing hers, as if she minded.
She stirred, at least her blood did. Nothing wrong with her circulatory system. Blood pressure elevated, not that she was complaining. Respiration approaching what it reached when she went running. Sweat glands doing what sweat glands did on summer afternoons outside.
No way was she going to tell him about the rolling knot low in her belly or the absolutely insane impulse to catapult herself at this man and drive him backward and to the ground so she could straddle him.
“You aren’t what I expected,” he said.