Beneath the Secrets Page 3

  Noticing my appreciative glance, Jorgie stands next to me. “Stay for dinner, and I’ll show you were Hawke hides the keys.” Her voice is barely a whisper, like she's afraid Hawke will hear her all the way in Iraq.

  My eyes rocket to hers. “You’re that desperate for me to stay for dinner?”

  A vast grin stretches across her face as she nods her head.

  “Deal,” I say, thrusting my hand out in offering.

  I balk as bile forms in the back of my throat when Jorgie spits on her hand and wraps it around mine before I have the chance to protest her disgusting and childish prank.

  “You’ve always said ‘a deal means nothing unless it’s been sealed with a spit shake or a pinkie promise.’”

  “I haven’t said that since I was ten, and if I knew I had a choice, I would’ve chosen the pinkie promise,” I reply, running my spit-sticky hand down my jean-covered thigh.

  Jorgie’s giggles resonate over the heavy downpour of rain as she makes her way into the three-bedroom weatherboard house with me following closely behind. She has a smug grin etched on her face, clearly looking victorious. Little does she know I would have agreed to date Ava exclusively for a month if it meant getting behind the wheel of Hawke’s baby again. Hell, I may have even agreed to marry her. Oh, who am I kidding? That would never happen.

  “Have I got enough time to shower before Ava arrives?” I peer down at my grease-stained jeans. It isn’t that I’m trying to impress Ava, but I don’t want her looking at me as an unemployed grease monkey. Even if that's what I technically am right now.

  Jorgie’s eyes flick to the large grandfather clock in her small but well-decorated living room. “Oh, yeah, plenty of time. Ava won’t be here for at least an hour.”

  My brows scrunch from the evasiveness in her tone. Spotting my expression, the biggest grin stretches across Jorgie’s face.

  “I’ll be out in ten,” I advise, snubbing the gleam in her eyes that displays she’s in the process of planning a mischievous scheme.

  I’ve only been in the shower for a matter of minutes, crooning to an old classic, “Footloose” by Kenny Loggins, when a door creaking open resonates into the room. I twist the volume dial down on the water-clogged radio shower and prick my ears.

  “Jorgie?”

  I hear a breathless snicker before, “I have to pop down the street. I’ll be back in a few minutes; I forgot the ribs… and the chicken for dinner.”

  I roll my eyes, unsurprised by Jorgie’s forgetfulness. She has a memory like a sieve, full of holes.

  “I’ve thrown your dirty clothes into the wash, so grab some clean ones out of Hawke’s closet.”

  “Alright,” I reply as I massage Jorgie’s strawberry-scented shampoo into my scalp.

  “I’m going to smell like strawberry fucking shortcake,” I mumble under my breath.

  My brow arches when Jorgie’s chuckle bellows through the now closed bathroom door. My shoulders lift into a shrug. Maybe she heard my quiet declaration?

  Once the smell of sweat and grease has been replaced with strawberries and soap, I turn off the shower and step out of the bath, being extra attentive not to slip ass-over-tit on the glossy tiles since the bathmat I put down before climbing into the shower has been removed. My teeth grit when I notice the towel rack I replenished with a large fluffy towel is also void of any water-drying apparatus.

  “Jorgie!” I yell. “Bring me a goddamn towel.”

  The last time she pulled this prank, she at least left the bathmat, which adequately covered me as I made the ten-second walk from the main bathroom to the master suite on the other side of the house. My naked dash had me strolling straight past Jorgie’s co-workers, who were getting ready to leave for a colleague's bachelorette party.

  When they spotted me sauntering by, totally saturated and practically naked, they assumed Jorgie hired me for pre-party entertainment. The spark in Jorgie's eyes dampened when she learned two valuable lessons that night. One, I'm not ashamed of my body, and two, her co-workers are a bunch of deviant housewives whose husbands lack in the art of seduction. Within ten minutes, I walked out of the living area two hundred dollars richer, and one point higher on mine and Jorgie's record-breaking prank tally.

  After running my hands over my body to remove the excess droplets of water, I crank open the bathroom door. The house is eerily quiet; the only sound I hear is the grandfather clock’s pendulum swinging. I strut down the hall, not bothering to cover my junk. My hips are jutted, my cock is swinging, and the biggest, leering grin is stretched across my face. If Jorgie wants to pull this type of prank, she can suffer the consequences of her actions.

  I take a detour into the square-shaped kitchen at the end of the hall, expecting to find a grinning Jorgie. My steps are eager as the excitement of watching her prank backfire in her face gains momentum with every stride I take. My eagerness is dampened and my smirk fades when I discover the kitchen is empty. Maybe she did need to go the grocery store?

  Deciding to make good use of my detour, I help myself to a bottle of beer. Thankfully, beer is the one thing that remains unchanged in this house when Hawke is deployed. Strawberry-scented bath products, hand-knitted teapot covers, and hideous floral cushions emerge from the attic within days of his deployment. When Hawke returns home, he'll spend a minimum of two weeks returning his house to its pre-Jorgie days, as there's no way a man like Hawke would be caught dead with strawberry shortcake-scented hair.

  Pivoting on my heels, the condensation-covered bottle of beer slips from my wet grasp and plummets onto the floor. I grimace when it clangs against the linoleum floor but remarkably stays in one piece. Following the natural flow of the old weatherboard house, the thankfully still-capped bottle rolls away from me, only coming to a stop when it hits a black high heel-wearing foot.

  My brow arches and my heart rate kicks up a gear. It isn’t just the height of the heel that makes me aware these shoes aren’t being worn by a pregnant Jorgie, it's the fact they're holding up one of the most stellar pairs of luscious, caramel-colored legs I’ve ever seen in my life that's the biggest giveaway.

  Women’s legs are my weakness. The longer they are, the better. This black pump shoe-wearing female has one of the longest, smoothest, and sexiest pairs of legs I’ve ever laid my eyes on. That might have something to do with the fact only mere inches of her thighs are covered by a super small scrap of white material called a pair of teeny, tiny mini shorts.

  Prying my eyes away from the dick-twitching skin of her inner thighs, I continue with my perusal. I chew on my lip when my eyes run over the itty-bitty curve of a seductive set of hips and an even more generous swell of a pair of curvy breasts barely contained in a super thin skin-colored sweater. My head angles to the side, and my eyes widen when they finalize their journey at the captivating beauty’s hypnotic face.

  “Ava?” I ask in disbelief.

  For the love of god, someone please tell me this stunner isn’t the geeky wannabe dentist, Ava. One rake of my eyes over her beguiling body and gorgeous face has my dick turning to stone. I could barely suppress the urge to have her beneath me when she had braces on her teeth and a big mess of black ringlet curls on the top of her head. Now, I don’t stand a fucking chance.

  “Hey, Hugo,” she greets me, confirming my suspicion.

  Even rattled with nerves, her voice is a soft, husky purr that makes my cock even harder. When her perfectly straight pearly white teeth become exposed in a dimple-baring smile, my cock jumps.

  Holy shit, call an ambulance. We have a man down.

  Three

  Ava

  My eyes don’t know where to look. I try to pry them away from the core-clenching visual displayed in front of me, but no matter how much my brain signals for my eyes to shift their focus to something less stimulating, they refuse to budge.

  Every inch of Hugo’s glistening, panty-drenching body is on display, and by every inch, I mean every goddamn rock-hard inch. Other than an Air Force squadron tattoo on the
lower half of his left arm, the remainder of his skin is untouched, wet, and completely exposed to my overeager eyes.

  Ripples of muscles, throbbing veins, and a small trail of hair that flows down the middle of his stomach to join the trimmed patch of dark hair displayed above his… I gulp as the temperature in the room turns roasting.

  My focus from his impressively sized erect cock diverts to his face when, “Ava,” sounds from his apprehensive voice.

  He tilts his head to the side as his eyes bulge. He appears utterly surprised to see me. Did Jorgie not tell him I was coming? On numerous occasions the past few months, I informed Jorgie my childish crush on Hugo matured and moved on, but no matter how confident my declaration was, she continued to plead for us to get together. Last week, I succumbed to her hormonal pleas.

  “Hey, Hugo.” I internally battle not to squirm from his avid gaze.

  I’ve grown up a lot since my eyes last absorbed the hunk of a man in front of me, but his piercing blue eyes and well-carved face still sets my pulse racing. Hugo was my very first childhood crush, but since he was the epitome of every girl’s walking fantasy, my high school crush never amounted to anything more than awkward glances, drunken kisses, and the occasional embarrassing attempts at flirting with the corny one-liners I picked up from the Cosmo magazines I sneakily read while my mother purchased groceries at our local supermarket. No matter how often I batted my eyelashes or pursed my lips in that duck face pose only the Kardashians can make look sexy, Hugo only ever saw me as a friend… unless he was drunk.

  But from the thickness of his cock standing tall and proud, and the rugged smirk etched on his mouth, I'd say he has noticed a few changes I’ve made the past few years. It’s a pity his craved attention is years too late.

  Releasing shallow breaths to cool my overheated body, I bob down to gather the bottle of beer resting at my feet. The slickness of sweat misting my body thickens when my quick movements in my ridiculously high stilettos cause me to tumble. My eyes bulge when I land on my knees and come face to face with Hugo’s crotch. One inch closer and I would have lost an eye.

  Great position, Ava. Two minutes in his presence and you’re already on your knees in a begging pose. Can anyone say “Loser?”

  Swallowing the meteor lodged in my throat, I lift my mortified eyes to Hugo. A confident smirk is carved on his ruggedly handsome face, his eyes blazing with mischief. My breathing deepens to a ragged gasp when I catch sight of his cock twitching in the corner of my eye. His penis is beautiful. Thick, long, heavily veined, and cut. Perfect!

  Suddenly, like the sun peering out from a dark cloud, lucidity forms in Hugo’s gleaming eyes.

  “Shit, sorry,” he mumbles as his eyes bounce around the kitchen, looking for something he can use to cover himself.

  When his avid gaze comes up empty, he lowers his hands down in front of his crotch, only just concealing the salivating view from my sight. With both of his hands occupied vainly maintaining his dignity, I scramble off the floor.

  Blowing a wayward strand of wavy hair from the front of my eye, I attempt to hand the froth-topped bottle of beer to Hugo. A snarl curls on my lips when he doesn’t attempt to remove the bottle from my clasp.

  He bites on his bottom lip as his eyes lock with mine. “Unless you want another visual of my,” he coughs, clearing his throat, “cock, I can’t accept it.”

  The brash grin on his mouth lifts higher when I hesitate for only the slightest second before placing the beer on the kitchen countertop at my side. I can’t help it. I’ve never been quick-witted, and my brain is barely functioning after absorbing the awe-inspiring visual in front of me.

  Just as quickly as the temperature in the room rose, awkward tension invades the air between us. We stand across from each other, staring but not speaking. It's the quietest we’ve ever been in each other’s presence. During high school, Hugo and I were as opposite as they came in the popularity rankings, but I still classed him as a friend.

  The gaucheness plaguing our small gathering gets a moment of reprieve when a car honking wails through the kitchen, closely followed by Jorgie’s soft voice. “Hugo, come and help me with the bags.”

  I shift my eyes to glance out the kitchen window. Jorgie is waddling away from the driver’s side door of her beat-up old Honda to the trunk. She's huddled under a lopsided yellow umbrella that's miserably failing at keeping her dry from the downpour of rain.

  Drifting my eyes back to Hugo, I say. “I’ll go and help Jorgie?” My tone makes my statement come out more as a question than a confirmation.

  “Alright.” His voice is tempting. “You do that, and I’ll go and get dressed.”

  I hunch my shoulders. “If you want to; you know, whatever suits you,” I reply, trying to pretend I’m not affected by his nakedness.

  His heavy, hooded gaze rakes my body before it lifts to settle on my eyes. “Seeing naked men a regular occurrence for you now, Ava?”

  I purse my lips and return his stare. “I am a doctor.”

  Sheesh! Here comes the stupid one-liners. I'm a dentist. The only thing I'm stripping naked is a tooth cavity, not hot-blooded men.

  Lifting my hand, I shelter my face from the smile that morphs onto Hugo’s face.

  “Well, in that case.” He grabs the beer off the counter with one hand and uses his spare hand to crack it open, leaving himself exposed.

  My pupils enlarge to the size of saucers as my saliva glands work overtime, but I somehow manage to maintain his eye contact. Although, the internal battle not to drop my eyes is the hardest fight I’ve ever endured. My chin quivers when our combat merges onto a dangerous battlefield riddled with landmines when the contents of his beer fizz over the neck of the bottle.

  When he lifts the beer to his mouth, droplets of the overflowing liquid dribble down the side of his hand, dripping onto his smooth pectoral muscle. My eyes follow every slither the envious droplets make down the impressive ridges of his torso, bumped abs in his stomach, and formidable V muscle before it's absorbed by the dark patch of hair above his…

  “Oh my god, Hugo! Go and put on some clothes,” squeals Jorgie.

  I jump from her thunderous roar bouncing around the kitchen before diverting my eyes to the window.

  “You’re so disgusting! We eat in here! Your nephew is going to eat in here!”

  My shoulders shake when gagging noises escape Jorgie’s mouth, closely followed by the profound rumble of Hugo’s laughter. This type of jeering is nothing new for Jorgie and Hugo. They have one of the longest running prank tallies in the history of sibling rivalry.

  Their mom, Edie, said it started before Jorgie even escaped the womb. When Edie was heavily pregnant with Jorgie, any time Hugo would climb onto her lap, begging for attention, Jorgie would kick up a storm. Mrs. Marshall said the aim of Jorgie’s monstrous size foot was always firmly rapt on Hugo.

  My eyes return front and center when bare feet stomping on the wooden floorboards in the living room resonates through my ears. A grin tugs on my mouth when I spot Jorgie's narrowed gaze planted on a retreating Hugo. Unlike mine, her eyes are shooting daggers at the back of his head. I'm happily implanting the visual of his naked derriere into my memory for future use. Hugo has always had a spectacular backside, but just like every other muscle in his body, it seems to have improved with age.

  Jorgie's gaze swings to peer at me. Her brows are scrunched, and her beige skin is whiter than normal. "That gets you all hot and bothered?” She hooks her thumb over her shoulder.

  “Used to,” I correct. My tone is confident even though my stomach is riddled with the fluttering of butterflies mid-flight.

  Jorgie rolls her eyes before digging her hand into the drenched paper bag. She has never understood my crush on Hugo, and in all honesty, it would be a little weird if she did. I playfully bump her with my hip before assisting in unpacking the groceries. My brows furrow when I notice the bag is full of non-perishable food supplies most people generally have stacked in their pantries on
a regular basis. My suspicion piques when I notice the glass canister of cracked pepper is half empty.

  “Jorgie…” My tone is low and crammed with suspicion.

  “What?” She moves to the fridge to pull out the pre-prepared marinated chicken and ribs.

  I pace closer to her. “You didn’t really go to the grocery store, did you?”

  Her right shoulder lifts into a shrug, but she remains quiet. She may be conniving and sneaky in her endeavors to force Hugo and me together, but she can't lie straight in bed. Even when she tells a little fib to get herself out of trouble, her deceitfulness only lasts a matter of minutes before the truth blurts out of her mouth.

  “Oh fine,” she huffs. “I didn’t go to the store. There, are you happy?” Overdramatically, she throws her arms into the air.

  See, proof she can’t lie.

  She puts the chicken in the oven before pivoting around to face me. I guess my first clue she didn't forget the most vital ingredients for dinner was that the oven was sitting on a pre-warming setting, but in all honesty, even with the room being heated by the 390-degree setting, it wasn't the oven creating the sweat-forming hotness in the room. That honor solely belonged to Hugo.

  “Didn’t you learn after your last shower prank that Hugo doesn’t fluster over his nakedness being on display?” My pulse quickens when I refer to his naked body.

  Jorgie’s face pales. “But you missed out on all the fun that night.”

  “So you thought you’d try again?”

  She smiles and nods her head.

  “Jorgie, I told you.”

  “I know, I know,” she interjects. “You no longer have a crush on Hugo.”

  My heart ceases beating when a rumbling, smug tone sounds through my ears. “You had a crush on me?”

  My mortified eyes glare at Jorgie before I shift them to Hugo. Although his body is covered with a lot more clothing than it was, I’m still imagining him naked.

  "Yeah, had, but that was years ago," I respond, acting like it's no big deal. "That was way before I knew who you did…umm, what you did… umm, who you really are."