The Pool Boy: Boys of Summer, #1 Read online

He laughs. “Why’s that?”

  “It just…” I swallow, and my pulse begins to quicken. My muscles clench, and my cock throbs just a little bit. “Check it again?”

  He sighs. “Let me call up the work order… Yeah, no, that’s it. Nine-thousand-and-eight Canyon Grove Ave.”

  No fucking way. Slowly, I walk to the foot of my driveway and look right. There, at the foot of the long, winding driveway next to ours, is the white mailbox with nine-thousand-and-eight stenciled on it. Nine-thousand-and-eight Canyon Grove Ave.

  My next door neighbor.

  …Layla.

  “Everything cool?”

  “Crystal,” I growl and hang up, and I look up the drive to her house. And slowly, I grin.

  I grab my cleaning shit from the back of the Jeep and then head back down my driveway. I U-turn into hers and walk up to the front door. I’ve only been over here once, when Layla and Jeremy threw a “hey we’re new here” garden party like four years ago. I spent the whole night just fucking staring at her, my cock throbbing hard. I think I stole a few beers, and I definitely remember walking into the guest bathroom to find Jeremy with his hand under one of the catering staff’s skirt. The dipshit tried to palm me a hundred bucks and called me “little buddy.” Wanting her aside, I thought about just telling Layla, but then she basically moved to New York four days later.

  And now here I am—four years later, and still wanting her just as bad as I did back then. Just like then, my cock throbs in my shorts, and my pulse quickens as I step up to her front porch. I ring the bell, and I wait with my blood roaring in my ears. A million fantasies I’ve had of her run wild through my head, until I take a breath and force myself to chill out before she answers the door to a raging hard on.

  But Layla doesn’t come when I ring the bell a second time either. Or a third, or a fourth or fifth. I frown and jog down the porch steps and further up the driveway. I peer into her garage and spot her little white 1969 Porsche 911 convertible. Shit, she drove that thing when she lived here before, and I always thought it made her so fucking cool.

  But it also means she’s home. I try the doorbell again, and even pound on the door, before I just say fuck it. I prowl around to the side of the house and walk up the bluestone garden path to the gate. I open it with a low creak and duck under the blooming roses and hydrangeas. It’s always been a great house, but the new renovations are fucking nice. And the landscaped, totally private backyard pool area is incredible.

  I close the gate and push past some palm fronds. I can see sunlight shimmering off the pool as I head through the garden, and finally, I push aside one last palm frond, and my entire body stiffens.

  Oh fuck.

  My cock goes from hard to fucking throbbing. My pulse thunders in my ears like an engine, and my jaw clenches. I groan, and pure lust and an unbridled desire to take and claim explode through me.

  Because I just found Layla.

  She’s lying out by the pool in a pool chair in big black sunglasses and a tiny green bikini. Her skin is tanned and glistening with sunblock, and her soft, pink pouty lips are parted just enough to make them even sexier.

  But all that pales when I realize that her hand is buried in her bikini between her legs, rubbing.

  My cock lurches, and hot, sticky precum leaks into my boxers. I groan, and I start moving without being able to do a damn thing to stop myself even if I wanted to.

  And I don’t.

  Because I just stumbled upon Layla Hughes rubbing her little pussy right in front of me. And I’m pretty sure nothing in this world could stop me now.

  Chapter Three

  Layla

  “Mason!”

  I gasp his name out, and a shiver teases up my spine as I do. Heat blooms inside of me when my eyes lock with his, and I know my face is burning red.

  Get ahold of yourself. Get it together.

  I take a shaky breath and force a smile to my face.

  “Mason,” I smile awkwardly. “I-I didn’t hear you.”

  Slowly, he grins, and gives me this smug, cocky look. It’s a look that says he knows.

  “Welcome back, Mrs. Hughes,” he purrs.

  I feel the throb deep inside of me, but I try and push forward.

  “I… um, I was getting some sun and listening to music. I thought I felt this mosquito or something on me!” I laugh, but I know it sounds so forced, and I cringe. Right, like there’d be any freaking confusing my hand rubbing under my bikini bottoms as “a mosquito.”

  Mason just keeps smirking at me, and I blush when I realize he’s shirtless. My teeth rake over my bottom lip, and my core tightens. Good lord, he’s fucking gorgeous, and pure freaking muscle. He brings a hand up to shove his fingers through his dark hair, and his bicep ripples. His perfect abs clench, and Goddamn does that do things to my hormones.

  “So, uh, why…?” I frown, still blushing bright red. “Did you want… you want to use the pool?”

  He’s shirtless. God, why is he shirtless and why does him being shirtless make me lose the ability to speak words?

  Mason chuckles, and I suddenly realize he’s holding a bucket of tools and plastic spray bottles, and something that looks like a weird vacuum cleaner with a big thick hose draped over his shoulder. My mind connects the dots, and my jaw drops.

  “Hang on, are you with the pool company?”

  “Yep.” He grins and put the stuff down at his feet before he nods his chin at me. “Sure am.”

  “Oh! I… didn’t know that?”

  Last I heard, Mason was some sort of coding genius at Stanford. I’m in no way knocking cleaning pools, but it just sort of doesn’t check out, with his parents being as rich as they are and him going to a top ivy league college.

  “You know how it goes, Mrs. Hughes.” He shrugs with that absolutely panty-melting grin. Or, bikini melting. For a second, I think of those poor Stanford girls who don’t have a chance of saying no to eyes and a smile and a body like that. My eyes drop before I can stop them, down below the waist of his frayed cut-off khaki shorts, and I blush. It’s not just the eyes and the smile that I bet those Stanford coeds are tripping over, it’s also that monster that Mason is packing between his legs that I know about as of last night.

  In a flash, bewilderingly, I see pure green envy. I think of those bouncy young college girls all over Mason, and I hate it. My mind spins trying to even process what that is, and I quickly drag myself back.

  “It’s Miss,” I blurt out.

  Mason arches a brow. “What?”

  “Hughes. It’s Ms. Hughes. I was never actually a Mrs., even when I was married. I kept Hughes, my maiden name.” I frown, confused why the fuck I’m even telling Mason this. “I got divorced,” I blurt out again. Jesus Christ, could I stop vomiting words please?

  Mason’s jaw ticks, and I shiver when I see this fierce fire blaze in his crystal blue eyes.

  “I heard. Congratulations.”

  I giggle. “Thank you. Most people say, ‘oh I’m so sorry’ or some shit like that.”

  “Then most people never met your douchebag of an ex-husband.”

  I grin, and I have to say, the fierceness in his voice and the way he scowls is a little thrilling.

  “Sorry, I didn’t mean to just puke all of that up,” I mumble. “So, you’re back for the summer?”

  He shrugs. “Something like that. Needed a job to get my parents off my ass and to get the hell out of the house sometimes.”

  “So, cleaning pools? That actually sounds fun, and hey, it beats a stuffy office and a suit, right?”

  “Exactly.” He grins. “That and it’s making my parents lose their fucking minds.”

  I smile and roll my eyes. “Mason, I didn’t peg you for the troublemaker type.”

  “Guilty,” he growls.

  I shiver. Yeah, me too—of lusting after him like a horny teenager. My eyes slide over his bronzed muscles again, and I swallow. Stop it, I tell myself again. He’s like twelve.

  I roll my eyes at myself. No,
he’s like twenty-one. Perfectly legal. Perfectly yummy. Perfectly completely inappropriate, utterly off-limits, and scandalously tempting. My face burns, and I quickly yank my eyes away from him. Yeah, I need to get my shit together, and I need to get it together now. Before I make an ass of myself, or before friendly banter with Mason Dunn turns into flirting.

  …God, why did I see what I saw last night?

  “Well, look, I won’t get in your way—”

  “You’re not in my way.”

  He purrs the words out lowly, and when I look at him, his eyes are sliding over me, shamelessly. I blush, feeling his gaze slip over my skin, from my breasts all the way down to my feet, and then inching back up my legs to center on my bottoms. I bite at my lower lip, and heat pools between my legs.

  “Feel free to stay, Miss Hughes. Won’t bother me.” There’s a little smirk at the end that hints at just how “not bothered” Mason would be about me laying out in a bikini while he works. It’s actually a tempting though, until I remember that I’m not actually insane.

  “Uh, well, I actually need to go inside and make a call anyways,” I blurt out, trying to sound casual. “Sooo, yeah. Do what you gotta do!”

  Do what you gotta do? What the fuck is wrong with me?

  “Suit yourself,” he shrugs. “You know where to find me. Shouldn’t take too long.”

  “Oh, take your time!” I smile.

  His eyes drag over me and burn right into mine. I feel myself gasp as my heart races.

  “I plan on it,” he growls quietly.

  Oooookay, I need to walk away. Right now. Without another word, I turn, and I walk as quickly as I can back into the house. I close the door to the kitchen and sink against it, my heart racing and my mind spinning. I swallow, and I move through the house into my office, also at the back of the house. I tell myself not to, but I don’t listen to me at all as I walk over to the windows and crank the blinds open just a little bit.

  From here, I can see out through the leaves of a palm tree into the backyard. I watch as Mason unpacks his stuff and starts messing with the filter on the side of the pool. He stands and fires up the vacuum-looking thing, and drops the sucker part down into the pool attached to a pole. I shiver, and I watch his muscles coil under the hot sun as he pushes it back and forth across the bottom of the pool. His muscles ripple with every thrust of those big arms, and I groan.

  Fuck, he’s perfect. The aching, dull throb in my pussy from before comes back even stronger, and I moan quietly when my thighs squeeze together. My eyes drink in the sight of Mason prowling around the pool like a sexy as fuck jungle cat or something, and my body reacts with a mind of its own. My nipples pucker to hard points under my top, and my pussy floods my bottoms with slick desire. Before I can stop myself, I’m pushing my fingers down under the spandex again, and I don’t stop until they slide wetly over my eager pussy.

  I gasp, panting as my finger rolls over my aching clit. I stand there in the dark, like a creep, shameless touching myself while I watch the twenty-one-year-old utter stud from next door. I moan, and I imagine that it’s him touching me—that it’s his hands sliding between my thighs to stroke my eager pussy. I whimper, and my eyes close as the pleasure floods through me. I grip the windowsill and lean against it, grinding my hand against my pussy. I rock my hips, and my arousal grows bigger and hotter as my body starts to clench tight.

  I open my eyes, and suddenly, I jolt.

  Wait, where the hell is he? I frown and peer out into the backyard, but I can’t spot Mason anywhere. His pool cleaning stuff is still lying there, but the object of my fantasy himself seems to be—

  “Hey, Miss Hughes?”

  I almost have a freaking heart attack when I hear his voice from inside the house, right outside my office door. In a millisecond, I’m yanking my hand out of my bikini just as he walks right in—still shirtless, still hot as sin. His eyes slide over me like they did outside, but in here, alone in a small room with him, it somehow feels even sexier, or naughtier. More illicit.

  Mason smirks. “Interrupting anything?”

  “Nope!”

  Too fast. Way too fast, I groan to myself.

  “Um, I was just…” I look up and swallow. “That book,” I lie, pointing to the bookshelf above the windows. “I was just trying to reach it.”

  He smiles a crooked, roguish smile. “Excel for Dummies?”

  Fuck.

  “Yep!” I smile, guilt all over my face, not to mention my nipples hard as freaking diamonds under my top.

  “I got it.” He slips right past me, and I stifle a gasp as the warm, muscled skin of his arm brushes mine. He easily plucks the book down, but he holds it in his hands for a second and looks down into my eyes.

  “I came in to see if I could use your bathroom.”

  I smile weakly and shiver. “Oh, yeah, yeah of course.”

  “Thanks,” he growls.

  I frown. “Wait, shit. The contractors still need to finish installing the toilet in the downstairs one. You know what, you can just use mine. It’s upstairs.”

  “Thanks, Miss Hughes.”

  I smile, shivering in heat. “You can just call me Layla, you know.”

  “Layla.”

  My name fucking pours off his tongue, like liquid silk. My body throbs, and my pulse thumps in my chest. He holds the book out to me, and when I take it, our hands brush. For a second, I realize it’s that hand—the one that was just touching my pussy, and I blush deeply. He pulls his hand back and looks at me intensely one last time before he turns.

  “Upstairs?”

  “Uh-huh,” I mumble. He walks out of the study, leaving me panting, gasping, tripping over myself, and horribly wanting him.

  Chapter Four

  Mason

  By the time my back sinks against her bathroom door, I’m so fucking hard it almost hurts. I groan and yank my shorts and boxers down in a haze of lust, and my thick cock springs free to slap my abs. I hiss in pleasure and wrap my hand around my thickness, and I stroke slowly. My eyes close, and I drop my head back against the door, and I think about her.

  Layla.

  I’ve lusted after this woman for years. I’ve craved her and been obsessed with the desire to sink my fat cock into her and watch her moan so good for me. Hearing that she was moving back here, alone, started a fucking fire inside of me. And today, seeing her in that skimpy little bikini looking fucking incredible has just been gasoline on that fire. And there’s no holding back now. It was this or pulling my cock out right there in her backyard and pumping my cum into her pool.

  …That or storming inside, pinning her to the wall, and making her mine. Which I came so, so fucking close to doing not two minutes ago. I told myself to calm the fuck down when I walked into her office like that. But then, our fingers touched when I handed her the book, and I felt it. No, not something cheesy like “the spark” or whatever.

  No, I felt wetness.

  My one hand still strokes my thick cock slowly, and I bring the other one—the one that touched her hand—up to my face. I inhale, and I growl.

  Oh fuck yes.

  I open my lips, and I suck my finger inside. It’s faint, but fuck me, it’s there—the sweet, sweet taste of Layla Hughes’ pussy.

  Someone was touching themselves. Someone was a bad, bad girl.

  I growl, and I start to jerk my cock faster, and harder. My eyes drop though, and suddenly, I hiss. There, hanging on a towel rack next to her glass-walled shower, are two pairs of tiny, skimpy, lacy little thong panties. They’re her brand, “Layla Rose,” too. My cock throbs at the sight of them, and I move before I can stop myself. I pluck the black pair off the rack, and I groan as I wrap them tight around my bulging, throbbing cock.

  I hiss in pleasure when I start to stroke again. The lacy panties tease over my swollen crown, and my balls ache for release. I grunt, and I pump my cock, pretending I’m pushing her panties to the side to plunge into her hot little pussy. The pressure builds, and my muscles clench. Pleasure
thunders through me, and I snarl as I jerk myself off.

  I know I should stop. I know I’m close to blowing my cum all over her fucking panties. But I can’t stop, and I won’t. I let myself go, and I gasp as I feel myself start to explode. I look down at the lewd sight of Layla’s tiny little lacy panties wrapped tight around my fat, throbbing cock, and I lose it. I grunt, my balls tighten, and I start to fucking come.

  I groan, and suddenly rope after thick, sticky rope of hot white cum blasts into the gusset of her little panties. I hiss, and I just keep pumping more and more cum out, until her panties are fucking soaked through with me.

  I sink against the wall, and I breathe slowly. I glance down, and I smirk at the fucking mess I’ve made of her panties. I know I should feel ashamed, maybe. Or at least concerned about the fact that her panties obviously look like someone’s come all over them. But I don’t care, and I find myself grinning and tossing them right into the laundry hamper.

  Good. Let her find them, marked by me, just like she’ll be marked by me too. Because I know one thing after seeing her today. Years ago, I was too young for her, or at least too young for her to allow herself to see me like that. But there’s no excuses now. And now, Layla’s going to be mine.

  I’ve lusted after her, and fantasized about her for way, way too long. And I’m done not having the real thing.

  I tuck my still hard cock back into my shorts, and I sigh. I glance over and spot the other pair of panties hanging there—these ones light blue and transparent, and I grab them and stuff them into my pocket. I glance out the window, and my brow arches.

  Interesting.

  There was a wall here before she remodeled. Now, the big expanse of glass in the fancy new bathroom look right across the yards directly into my bedroom. Totally clean shot, and totally unobstructed. My blinds are even still open from last night, and I suddenly smirk when I remember what I was doing in bed last night.

  Well shit. I wonder if she’s ever spied on me. I wonder if she spied last night. My lips curl into a hungry smile.