Total pages in book: 23
Estimated words: 21644 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 108(@200wpm)___ 87(@250wpm)___ 72(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 21644 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 108(@200wpm)___ 87(@250wpm)___ 72(@300wpm)
The memory of the curvy girl touching herself behind the bushes forces me to adjust myself in my jeans. What would Colleen look like nude, crawling to me on her hands and knees, her brown curls spread over her back? That hungry expression turned me on, and if my sweet neighbor wanted to join the fun last night, I wouldn’t have said no.
But then, I force myself back to the present. What am I thinking? I haven’t even formally met my tempting neighbor yet. Instead, I’ve exchanged small talk with her parents and caught glimpses of her as she sailed by on her bike, but I haven’t said so much as a “hello.” Even more, I think she’s in her teens and probably barely legal. Shit, what’s an old coot like me doing, fantasizing about a sweet young thing?
With that, I growl and stride into the backyard to clean up. Forcefully, I throw all the cans in my recycling bin and put the chairs away in the shed in the back corner of the yard. Then I slam the door to the shed shut, bolting it tight before stalking back into the kitchen with my pretty neighbor still on my mind. Damnit.
Then again, Colleen shouldn’t have been spying on us. Yes, Frank, Dylan and I have rancid tastes, and yes, sometimes we like to indulge. We enjoy letting go with beautiful women, and there’s no reason to get bottle service at a club or to hit up one of those seedy joints in Manhattan. Instead, you can order from City Girls, and it’s almost like selecting an entrée from a menu. Make that luscious, glistening entrees that giggle when you joke and who know exactly how to make you hard. It had been a while since the last time the three of us enjoyed women together, and now that we’ve had another taste, I know we’ll want it again soon.
But it’s not Genesis and Skye at the forefront of my mind. It’s my sweet neighbor, Colleen Weston. I exhale heavily and stalk into my living room. I’m going to need to do something to get my mind off the gorgeous teen because she lives with her parents, for crying out loud! I’m such a dirty old man, and I need to get my head on straight.
Suddenly, my eyes are drawn by something glinting outside. What are the chances? It’s Colleen doing her evening bike ride and she sails by on her Schwinn, legs pumping as she stares ahead with a determined look on her face. But then her front tire hits something. It’s probably the pothole they have yet to fix on my street, and to my surprise, she goes tumbling over her handlebars headfirst.
“Ooof!” she shrieks before landing in a heap on the asphalt. Her bike skids to a stop and falls over, right on top of her. I bolt upright, staring. Oh shit, is the curvy girl okay?
I move immediately to the front door and run outside. The sweet thing is clearly injured, and she’s twitching on the ground like a stunned animal.
“Colleen!” I growl, kneeling by her side. “Don’t move your head,” I instruct, sliding one big hand under her neck to provide support. “We don’t know if something’s broken, so just stay still.”
The pretty brunette is utterly dazed and blinks a few times. “Carl?”
Clearly, we know each other’s names, even if we’ve never spoken. But this isn’t the time to get into details.
“Are you okay? What hurts and where?”
The curvy girl groans a bit, but then manages to sit up. Her arm is covered in scratches and she winces a bit, looking at a faint trickle of blood sliding down her elbow. There’s gravel pressed into her arm, and her knees also look a bit bloody.
“Oh shit,” she murmurs.
“Okay, I definitely see some scratches, but does anything feel out of joint or out of whack?”
Colleen shakes her head and then winces.
“Everything feels out of whack,” she says ruefully. “Although I don’t think I’ve broken any bones. Can you help me get up?” she asks.
Nodding, I grab one arm and sling it around my shoulders. Then I slide one of my arms around her waist so that I can support her, and manage to help her to her feet. She’s weak and wobbly, and we turn to my house.
“Come on, I’ll get you cleaned up,” I growl.
“But my bike,” she protests.
“No, it’s fine,” I say. “It’s out of the way, so cars aren’t going to run over it. The most important thing is getting those scratches taken care of.”
She bites her lips and nods, and then together, we make our way into the darkness of my house. I look calm on the outside, but actually my heart’s racing as my body stiffens with anticipation. There’s electricity swirling in the air between me and this curvy girl, and now the opportunity has come for us to discuss our attraction.