Running Home

Fucking doorbell. Not again. Did no one in this town respect anyone else’s privacy? Between his voyeuristic elderly neighbor, his family, and even the dang high school glee club, his doorbell rang nearly every damn morning.

Resigned to this new complete lack of solitude, in stark contrast to his prior life, he rolled out of bed. Tossing on an easy pair of sweats and an old t-shirt, he headed for the door. If they had the balls to interrupt his morning, they were stuck seeing his delightful morning self, unkept mass of hair, and potentially a lingering bit of morning wood. Ok, maybe that was going too far, especially if it was the glee club again; they might not be so gleeful anymore.

Not her fault she was picky. Her weakness was the type staring back from her screen: strikingly handsome, successful, the sort of man that could pull off a sharp tuxedo as naturally as James Bond. But, one that had a great sense of humor. And humility. And was amazing in bed.

Payson glared at Ronan, “I don’t think you can walk into an obvious trap, turn around, and hope to trap the trapper.”

Smug, he was in full badass mode. “I can.”

She rolled her eyes at him. He’d find out soon if Payson still wanted him around after she got to witness professional Ronan. After seeing he was nothing like the spies she was fascinated by in the movies. And a bit different from Ronan the handyman.

Enjoying Jen’s look of total astonishment, he went for the gold. He walked up to Payson and grabbed her by the ass, pulling her pelvis against his as he leaned in for a steamy, erotic kiss, his tongue halfway down her throat until her brain was completely wiped of everything but him. Leaving both women speechless, he turned and strutted right out the back door.