Total pages in book: 142
Estimated words: 132031 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 660(@200wpm)___ 528(@250wpm)___ 440(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 132031 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 660(@200wpm)___ 528(@250wpm)___ 440(@300wpm)
He’d at least hoped to be greeted with some inkling of interest. What a big disappointment.
Dev pushed open the door and left it wide open, strolling inside. He used all the swagger he had as a way of defining his invitation.
He should have hired Millie to clean his house.
He’d just done his best James Dean swagger to entice the guy into a shithole.
Sex with his fist became the only real option for the night.
Dev dumped the shit in his hands on the entry table. Admittedly, it fell to the floor because of the mound of detritus that had already been piled there. Then he beelined for the counter since he could smell the bowls of leftover cereal from his girls’ breakfast last weekend. The sink was full. The trash overflowed. Dev shoved the bowls in the refrigerator. The only place in the kitchen that didn’t have a lot of food.
“I’m finding I might not have judged the neighborhood properly,” the pretty boy said from the doorway. His rich voice sounded cultured, educated. An enticing drawl, the origin unidentifiable. “I’m Cash. Is there a gym in the building? A treadmill somewhere?”
Oh he remembered the pretty boy’s name. Up until his father’s shit fit today, his mind had gravitated to the image of his new neighbor. The artistic side of Dev’s brain cataloged the different parts of Cash’s body in technicolor. The curve of his jaw, the sweep of his thick auburn infused chestnut-colored hair, the beefy bicep outlined like a mountain on his upper arm. The way his strong hands might fist and flex into the sheets as Dev rammed him into the mattress.
What the guy had in spades were those fantastic lips. Full and pouty. Lots of promise of wickedness to come. Thankfully, he hadn’t overly romanticized all the things a perfect pout like that could do to a man.
Dev rolled his eyes. Of course he had.
If his cock could find its way into that mouth, he planned to fuck the shit out of it.
“Yeah, I remember your name. I’m Dev. They call me Devilman for short. No gym. The landlord’s a cheap motherfucker.”
“I thought you were the landlord,” Cash said, confusion in his tone.
Dev reached for the sides to the trash bag.
“I am,” he said and chuckled as he stood to his full height, tying the trash bag as he rose.
He wasn’t quite as tall as Cash whose chest expanded with each breath he took.
“You should know, the leasin’ company was the one who insisted the tenants be able to put their trash outside their doors and I'd take it out every day at seven. I’m not gonna be very good at that. Fair warnin’.”
Those perfect lips spread into a wide, toothy, alluring grin. “Got it. Not the best location, no gym, and no trash service. I knew it sounded too good for such cheap rent.”
Dev’s brows snapped together into a hard, pronounced V. The trash bag dropped from his hands, landing at his feet. “You mean I could’ve charged more?”
Cash laughed his answer. The genuine sound drew Dev in, easing any lingering burdens of the day. “You inviting me in or am I to shut the door on my way out?”
“I’m not sure anymore,” Dev answered honestly and grabbed a new trash bag from the box still on the counter. “I’ll admit I’m a pig when it comes to cleanin’ house, but I have a bag of really good smoke and Veracruz Café on speed dial. I’m certain after the day I’ve had, I’ll be shit company, but I’m not opposed to sharin’.”
“If I stay, would you try to recruit me into helping you clean the place up?” The question, given with humor, made Dev laugh for the first time that day. He didn’t use words like charming or flirting, but if he did, that might be happening. His dick was real proud of his progress.
He needed someone to help him escape for however long he got.
The way Dev’s life was going, this wouldn’t only be a hookup but something far more complicated. The idea dimmed some of the intense sexual attraction that had been riding his ass since he’d first laid eyes on his sexy new tenant.
“Nope. I’ll have someone from my club come clean it up in the mornin’.” Dev pushed the empty trash bag into the bin.
“Club meaning motorcycle?” Cash asked, leaning against the doorjamb, seemingly undecided if he planned to stay.
The question about a motorcycle club sounded rather specific, causing Dev to peer up at him more closely. Something familiar came from a dark place in the back of his mind. He couldn’t quite make out the memory.
Cash held his direct stare, unabashed.
Still, the word club could reference so many things. What if Dev belonged to a boat club…or a golf club…or a real murders club? This fucker didn’t know him. So why the automatic motorcycle question? Just because he rode one. Lots of shitheads rode sleds, didn’t make them club brothers.