Dirty Neighbor (The Dirty Suburbs) by Cassie-Ann L. Miller Page A

of me tightening and pulsing around his wet fingers.
     
    My body arches off of the bed and my legs start to shake. “Shit, Sammie. You’re about to come all over my face,” he groans as he reaches over the side of the bed and pulls another condom from his pocket, “but I want to feel your pussy around me when you…” His voice trails off.
     
    I whimper as he sheathes himself and sits on the bed next to me. He grins down at me and pats his lap. I’m almost too boneless to move so he helps me position myself over his lap and I move down his cock. Inch by inch, my walls close in around him.
     
    He tilts his face up to look at me in the dim room. His lips meet mine and his hands tangle in my hair as he pumps up into me. His short fingernails drag down my back as his tongue explores my mouth. I may be on top of him, but he’s still controlling the pace and the tempo.
     
    He starts to go faster. And harder. I’m whimpering, arms laced around his neck, clinging to him. I whisper his name again and again, inching closer to the edge each time his pelvis connects with mine.
     
    And we fuck.
     
    We fuck like we're mad – mad at each other, mad for each other. Mad at the eight years of time that came between us and this moment. Mad at the distance that stood in our way.
     
    We fuck like we hate each other. Like we’re trying to break each other. And maybe we are. Maybe we need to be broken. Maybe that’s the only way to get closure.
     
    I feel something sharp and urgent brewing inside of me. I cry out harshly as it begins to overwhelm me. Keeland’s grip tightens around me as he goes rigid and buries his face against my breast.
     
    Our frantic cries echo through the room as we come together, bodies damp and shuddering and wrapped up in one another.
     
     

Chapter 23

     
     
    I tinker with the radio as Isla pulls out of the service station where she just filled up the gas tank of her old clunker.
     
    “Explain to me again why I had to brave rush hour traffic to come pick you up. Your next-door neighbor teaches an art class right across the hall from your math tutorial.” Irritation wrinkles her forehead as she tries to merge onto Clifford Boulevard. A silver Honda eventually slows to let her ease in.
     
    Because I came all over his cock last night and now I’m too ashamed to face him.
     
    “Because Keeland and I aren’t friends,” I say defensively, folding my arms beneath my breasts.
     
    Isla’s eyes dart over to me for a split second. “Jeeze — calm down, girl. I know you don’t like him but don’t you think it’s just a wee bit immature that you can’t at least be civil with him? I mean, that whole prom mess was – what? – eight years ago?”
     
    I flinch at her harsh words, but I don’t fight back. Guilt squeezes on my vocal chords. Isla’s probably right about me acting immature but she’s all wrong about my newest reason for avoiding Keeland.
     
    Last night was a temporary lapse in judgment. My tall, muscle-bound, tattooed neighbor showed up at my front door, soaking wet with a boner the size of a freakin’ corn on the cob. I can’t be held accountable for my actions.
     
    But I can say that it will never happen again.
     
    “Sammie — are you even listening to me?” Isla asks, snapping her fingers in my face.
     
    “What?” I ask, blinking out of my thoughts.
     
    “I asked if we can meet up to discuss some of my accounting stuff next week. I don’t think the numbers are adding up and I’m worried about my cash flow. I could use your opinion.” She shoves her hand into the takeout bag sitting on top of the hand brakes and pulls out a celery stick. Isla’s idea of fast food is raw vegetables, bland meats and boring, low-calorie dips from Herbivore, the health food to-go restaurant next to her yoga studio.
     
    “Sure,” I say with a one-shouldered shrug and a half-smile. From the outside, it seems that the Prasanna Light Oneness Studio is thriving – Isla’s yoga