Total pages in book: 104
Estimated words: 101466 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 507(@200wpm)___ 406(@250wpm)___ 338(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 101466 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 507(@200wpm)___ 406(@250wpm)___ 338(@300wpm)
Or maybe that added to the attractiveness.
Jesus. I needed to get a grip.
I crossed my arms. “The wind chimes are on my side of the porch. I checked the tenant rights online, and there is nothing that says you can stop me from having them.”
“It’s on my beam,” he snapped.
“I measured. The hook is more on my half than yours.”
He stomped past me, and I couldn’t help but ogle him as he did.
He rippled. His muscles bunched and flexed, moving under his skin like a wave on the ocean. His thighs and calves were well-developed, and I could imagine him carrying someone out of a fire with ease.
I found myself imagining him carrying me around with that ease. If he flung me over his shoulder, I could touch that spectacular ass of his. I wasn’t sure I had ever seen an ass on a man so well-formed.
His voice brought me out of my musings. I frowned as I realized he had a tape measure and was holding it on the beam. “The hook is on my side, if you want to be exact,” he said smugly. “In fact, that means these belong to me.”
Before I could protest, he deftly unscrewed the hook and took my wind chimes, walking into his house and shutting the door.
Firmly.
I paced around the living room, unsure what to do.
Walk over and demand my wind chimes back?
Break in and steal them?
I stopped as I wondered what he was doing to them. Had he thrown them out? Was he destroying them?
I scratched my head. I could make another set, although maybe not as elaborate. Maybe if it were smaller and not so close to his side, he would let it go.
I mean, he couldn’t rip down every single one I made, right?
I sat down and got to work.
The next morning, I went to the hardware store and bought some cup hooks. Easy to install, and they held enough weight that the wind chimes would stay up. The new set I made was smaller, still pretty, and made a lovely sound when the thin tubes hit the clapper. I only used four bells and limited glass, but the echoing noise was still effective.
I peeked out back, but Thorne’s truck wasn’t there, so I hurried to the front and screwed a hook into the side of the porch rail at the top and hung the new set of wind chimes. Being more open, it immediately began its dance, the sound melodic.
I sat down, enjoying it for a moment, then heard my phone ringing and hurried inside, hoping it would be the client I was waiting to speak with. I was pleased to see it was, and I sat down with my notepad and pen ready.
As I was discussing a new software package he wanted installed, I heard Thorne’s truck. I waited to see if cursing would follow. Heavy footsteps on my stairs. Then I could lambaste him, accuse him of trespassing, and insist he give me back my other set of wind chimes. I had a bunch of ideas I had gotten off the web to threaten him with.
But I heard nothing. I felt oddly disappointed, but I concentrated on the client. After we hung up, I peeked out the window, but my chimes were still there.
Thorne had either given up too easily, or he hadn’t heard them yet.
I should have made them louder.
Except I decided to claim this victory, so I reached for my headphones, laughing at the irony. I loved the sound of the chimes, but I needed total silence to work. It was the only way I could concentrate. I did plan to enjoy them once my work was done. Coffee on the porch sounded like a great idea.
An hour later, I stood and stretched. I was hungry and needed a break. The code I was writing was complex and demanded my utmost concentration. But once it was finished, it would add a nice chunk of change to the bank, and I wouldn’t have to worry about landing too many clients too fast.
In the kitchen, I put together a sandwich with the last of the roast beef. I smiled, recalling Thorne telling me how delicious it was and how much he had enjoyed it.
Thinking of Thorne made me remember yesterday. Him in his sweaty, angry glory. I had thought of him that way last night when I was lying in bed, unable to sleep. I could picture him hot and sweaty for another reason. Imagine him in my bed, his attributes on display.
And what a display it was.
He might act like a dictator, but from what I had seen, his dick was much larger than the average tater.
That thought had made me laugh so hard, I’d had to roll over to cover my guffaws.
Then my fantasies took flight, and before I knew it, my fingers were sliding over my clit as I heard his growling, low voice in my head, whispering dirty words and promising to put out the fire with his huge hose.