Page 27 of Right Next Door (Stone Family #3)

Nicole

I t’s been a week since my dinner and subsequent roadside orgasms with Ian, and I can still feel his phantom touch on me.

In the days since, his daily tasks have turned more sexual.

Like finding a pornography video I like then describing it to him via text, explaining why I liked it.

Or writing down answers to questions on little pieces of paper—when I feel sexiest, what part of my body I like best—and putting them in my underwear.

Three times, he’s had me drop those notes in his mailbox at the end of the night.

It is the most delicious torture. Riding the edge all day, every day.

But it’s also starting to feel like it’s not enough. Not being denied orgasms, but keeping this to ourselves. I’d like to be able to go next door to Stone Ink and talk to him as if we’re together and not only business neighbors. I want more than this cloak-and-dagger kink ride.

I’m not sure if Ian somehow understands this or not since I haven’t been brave enough to admit it to myself, let alone say it out loud, but he texted me about an hour ago, and told me to go to Sweet Cheeks at 2:15. He’d just so happen to show up at the same time for a break.

So, here we were, sitting at the same table, almost like we’re a real couple.

It’s only a few minutes over a cinnamon roll, but it’s the best part of my day because any time I spend with him is the best part.

He recounts his latest appointment, a woman who listened to a smutty romance book while getting tattooed, but she didn’t realize how high the volume was, so he learned how a blue alien found his human mate on a snowy planet.

“It was pretty good,” he says with a smile that lets loose a kaleidoscope of butterflies in my stomach. “Made me realize there’s not enough sex in Jane Austen’s books.”

And I think—no, I know—what I feel for him is not some passing fancy. It’s not an experiment I’ll be able to forget about in a few weeks or at the end of summer or whenever we decide to call it.

What I feel for him is more than anything I feel for my own husband, which is all I need to know about my relationship with Bryce. If we can even call it that anymore.

He’s been gone for about three weeks, and I’ve barely thought of him. Outside of a few texts, we haven’t spoken. Clearly, he’s not thinking about me, and yet I am not upset about that at all.

Though, if I reflect on the last few years of my marriage, I can see how the apathy had been building. How we’d slowly become less and less interested in each other until we became roommates instead of partners. Friends instead of lovers.

It never even occurred to me to want more.

Because I didn’t know the difference.

But now, I’ve become conscious of what a relationship can really be.

Fun and exciting while still supportive and respectful.

Which makes me wonder if I’m enough for Ian. So far, everything has been all one-sided. He’s given me everything, and I’ve offered nothing in return.

“What do you have on your mind?” he asks because he knows me so well.

“I was thinking…when we’re…together, it’s all about me, and I haven’t reciprocated at all. I should. I want to please you.”

He takes a deep, audible breath, moments passing before he finally answers. “You please me every day, and the fact that you are even wondering about this shows me exactly how much you do care about pleasing me.”

I fill with pride. “Yeah?”

“As for the physical side, what we’re doing is more than enough for me. Believe me, baby, if I wanted more, you’d know it. So don’t worry about reciprocating. What I want the most is to give you what you need.”

Ian is nothing if not honest, but it’s hard to believe that he would make it all about me. About my discovery. And want nothing in return. “Are you sure?”

He scowls, his silent reprimand. “Is this you doubting me? Second-guessing my directions?”

I shake my head, and he grunts before biting into the cinnamon roll.

“Have a little something,” I tell Ian, touching my chin, indicating the icing on his beard.

The beard he had buried between my legs while I was laid out on the hood of his classic car.

The white cream clinging to the gray strands of hair makes my skin heat, and I cross my legs under the table.

As if he knows, he purposefully licks his lips. It’s, like, a million degrees in here, and I glance over at Eloise behind the counter, nodding at her for a glass of water. When I turn back to Ian, he wipes a napkin over his mouth and beard. “Better?”

I clear my throat, yet my voice still cracks on the single syllable. “Yep.”

He shifts his chair and grazes my knee with his hand, not-so-accidentally from the way his mouth hooks up in the corner. Before I can spontaneously combust, Eloise arrives with the water and the pink cardboard box of all the treats Ian ordered.

“Here you go,” she chirps, grinning and bouncing her attention between us. “You two starting to take your breaks together?”

“N-no… Not…together,” I stutter out, but Ian smoothly takes over.

“I needed to get out and stare at something prettier than those ugly mugs I work with.”

“They’re your kids.” Eloise playfully knocks his shoulder, and I don’t know why tension suddenly brackets my spine. As if I don’t like my friend touching Ian. But that’s ridiculous. I can’t be jealous. I’m not a jealous person.

At least, I didn’t think I was.

He shrugs, speaking to Eloise while keeping his eyes on me. “Might be, but they’re still not as pretty as Nic.”

Eloise pops her hand on her hip, evidently finding nothing odd about that statement. In fact, she smiles bigger. “Nicole is pretty. Far too pretty for you.”

Ian nods in agreement. “Damn right.”

I drink down the cold water as Ian and Eloise finish up their conversation, and she offers to take my dirty plate. When we stand, Ian places a proprietary hand on my back, and she clocks it, still having no physical reaction.

I’d been so worried about what other people would think if word ever got out about what was going on in my marriage—let alone if they found out about Ian and me—but with Eloise’s indifference, it makes me wonder if the anxiety is all in my head.

While no one has ever come right out and said anything negative about Bryce, I always kind of had the feeling he put people off. He doesn’t have much patience and doesn’t enjoy community events like I do.

And I think my friends on Aster Street know it.

As Ian and I step out of the bakery and onto the sidewalk, I shield my eyes from the bright summer sun. It’s been a long time since I put on a swimsuit, but the humidity has me voicing my thoughts. “I wish I had a pool.”

“You ever go tubing?” When I shake my head, he says, “I used to take the kids when they were little. You want to go?”

“Tubing?”

“Yeah. Spend a couple hours floating around a river. I’ll take you.”

Floating in the water for a few hours? There is literally nothing else I want to do. “Yes, please.”

“I’ll make a reservation. You?—”

“Hello, my friends!”

Ian and I both swing our attention to Clara, smiling brightly with a bouncing ponytail, as she flaps a fan open.

“How are you two today? I’m dying in this heat.”

I step away from Ian. “We were just talking about how hot it is.”

“I need an afternoon shot of sugar, but I’m already sweating from my two-minute walk here.” She splits her attention between us. “You had the same idea, huh?”

I can’t help but read into her words. Does she suspect that Ian and I were at Sweet Cheeks together?

“Not really,” I say, rambling off an excuse. “I was here before he got here, and then he ordered stuff to go. See?” I point at the pink box like an idiot. “We weren’t there together.”

Clara nods slowly. “Sure. Okay.”

Was that sarcasm? She doesn’t believe me.

Oh god. If Clara suspects something, everyone will know by the end of the day.

“It was nothing,” I mumble, pushing past Clara, who huffs a confused sound.

I practically sprint by Stone Ink to open the door of Chapter and Verse, but not before I hear Clara ask, “Is she feeling all right?”

“I think the heat’s getting to everybody,” Ian answers smoothly.

The heat of suspicion, yes.

My stomach flips as I think of the gossip that will be spread about me and Ian. My marriage. My whole life.

I force a smile at the worker behind the counter on my way to the bathroom, where I run the cold water, dousing my hands and wrists, rubbing it on my neck and across my forehead, uncaring about getting my hair wet.

The idea of being on display again makes me nauseous, and I lean against the sink, taking deep breaths until my anxiety passes and logic sets in. Clara doesn’t know anything. She was simply being her usual friendly self. But the fear of being caught and judged lingers in the back of my mind.

It’s there as I complete reports, pay a few bills, and stress out over hitting next month’s sales goals until my phone buzzes with a text from Ian.

Ian

Are you okay?

I’m fine.

Ian

Don’t lie. What are you worried about?

People finding out.

Ian

I am not trying to downplay your fear, but Clara didn’t seem to suspect anything.

Sure, the logical part of my brain wants to agree, but the overly emotional, cat-backed-into-a-corner part of my brain wants to run and hide. Instead of answering Ian, I go in search of Mr. Darcy. Which is where Andi finds me, sitting on the floor in the corner by the poetry books, petting my cat.

“Hey, Nic.” She bends to stroke Mr. Darcy’s head. “Hello, handsome.”

He purrs, loving the attention from two people, and we both coo and smile at him for another minute before I set him down to ask Andi, “Here for anything specific?”

She shakes her head. “Just looking. We’re taking the kids to the beach for the weekend, and I thought I’d come and see if anything calls to me.”

Since Andi moved to West Chester about two years ago, we’ve gotten to know each other pretty well since she comes in every few weeks to buy a new book.

Griffin is a huge reader, but he orders all his books online to be delivered to his house, while Andi enjoys browsing in person.

She loves poetry, celebrity memoirs, and the occasional romance or women’s fiction, so I point her to the table of “Beach Reads” that features the newest summer releases in those two genres.

As she flips through them, she tells me, “It was so nice having you at the picnic. I hope you can come around more often.”

My heart starts to pound again, and I wave my hands. “Oh yeah, it was fun, but I don’t know.”

Her perfectly shaped and laminated brows inch up in a silent question that puts me on the defensive. I take a step back. “It’s just that… I mean, I have no reason to. Show up. That was a one-off.”

She opens and closes her mouth, eyes drifting toward the left, to the shared wall with Stone Ink.

And I can’t shut up. “I’m not with Ian or anything.”

She slants her gaze my way once again, a slow smile spreading across her features as if talking down a crying toddler. “That’s okay. I didn’t mean to imply you were. It was nice seeing you, that’s all.”

I feel a pang of guilt at misinterpreting her words, but with panic fogging my mind, it’s impossible to see anything clearly.

I need to escape, to find some semblance of control.

As if on cue, my phone buzzes in my pocket. I pull it out, seeing Ian’s name on the screen. The message is simple, commanding.

Ian

Go into your office and text me when you’re there.

The words send a rush of heat through me, a mix of desire and relief. This is what I need, something to ground me, to remind me who I am. I look up at Andi, forcing a smile. “I’m sorry, Andi. I have to go…deal with this email.”

She nods, her smile understanding. “Of course. I’ll see you later.”

I wave, already hurrying toward the back of the store, to the small office tucked away in the corner. I close and lock the door behind me, my heart still racing, but now it’s not merely panic—it’s anticipation.

Here.

Ian

Get yourself off.

I set my phone down on the desk to move the hem of my dress, pulling it up, revealing my thighs, my hips, and panties with the note I wrote myself this morning. I remove it, reading, “I am mistress of myself. I am strong. I make my own decisions.”

Closing my eyes, I remind myself of all those things. No one can make me feel bad about my choices because they are mine. No one else’s. No one’s business but my own.

I am mistress of myself.

I slip my hand inside my underwear, my fingers finding warmth and wetness, the ever-present need as my mind fills with Ian, his touch, his voice, his orders.

I can hear him in my ear, whispering, guiding, controlling.

I can feel his hands on my waist and thighs, his mouth on my throat and between my legs, his body hard against mine, leading me to the filthiest kind of heaven I’ve ever known.

I stroke my clit, my fingers moving in quick, desperate circles. Pleasure builds, sharp and intense, a coil tightening deep inside me. I’m right there on the edge, dancing on the precipice. So close, so close…

My phone buzzes, and I glance at it, my breath hitching at the message.

Ian

Give me an orgasm.

His command sends me over, fireworks exploding behind my eyes, a wave of heat and light and sensation. I cry out, my fingers pressed tight against my fluttering inner muscles as I ride the waves of the orgasm before slumping into my chair.

As my pulse slows, I can finally parse out my emotions. The panic is gone, replaced by a warm, languid calm. This is what I needed—my release, his control, our connection.

I clean myself up and straighten my dress before typing out a message to Ian.

Thank you, sir. Just what I needed.

I hit send, and I can imagine his smile, his satisfaction, his pride.

And I am happy to give that to him because he gives the same to me.

While I am the one making the decisions for myself, he’s the one who showed me I can. He’s given me the confidence to be mistress of myself.