My Horny Hotwife Neighbor E-Book

Alana Church

• Herausgeber: Boruma Publishing
• Kategorie: Erotik
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2020

Beschreibung

Colin has new neighbors, and things are heating up. Sexy, sultry Amber can't keep her hands (or mouth) off him. But her husband Tony is a football player with a notorious temper. Colin can't resist Amber's body or her sensual skills, but what will he do if Tony learns about their affair? Find out in "My Horny Hotwife Neighbor!"

~~~~~ PG Excerpt ~~~~~

"Hi there, Sam!" a clear voice exclaimed, and I saw Amber's tall, sexy figure rise and walk towards the fence. "How are you doing? Are you protecting Colin from all the big, scary football players?"

Sam put his paws up against the wooden fence, his tail wagging like a spastic metronome as Amber scratched him behind the ears.

"I think he likes you better than he likes me," I commented, getting up and wandering over.

"And why not? I'm very lovable. Everyone says so," she smirked.

Lovable? Or screwable? "You look good," I said instead.

"Oh, this old thing?" she smiled, looking down at her bikini. Royal blue, it was barely decent. "I'm trying to get a good tan this summer. A real one, rather than a fake." She shook her head in mock-disgust. "I don't know why, but a tan that comes from real sunlight always feels better than one you get on a tanning bed in a salon." She pulled at the straps of her bikini-top, making her large breasts wobble in a manner that was incredibly distracting. "But I have to be careful. It's the Irish in me. Pale skin that would rather burn than tan." Her nose wrinkled adorably. "And if my top gets any smaller, the girls here would just fall right out, and wouldn't that be embarrassing."

"Don't feel like you have to cover up on my behalf," I said, and crossed my arms on top of the fence. "I wouldn't mind."

"I bet you wouldn't, you naughty boy." She batted at my arm playfully. "But you know Tony. Or maybe you don't. If he found out that I was sunbathing topless, he would flip right out. He's so old-fashioned sometimes. I keep trying to tell him that he married a cheerleader, not a nun. I'm proud of my body, not ashamed." She turned in profile. "Don't you think I'm sexy, Colin?"

"I'm pretty sure you got all the proof you needed the other day," I said, eyeing her body in undisguised approval.

"Mmmm, yes." She closed her eyes as she smiled, her lips turning up lecherously. "You tasted so good. I played with myself that night in bed," she whispered wickedly. "After Tony fell asleep. Thinking about you."

Leseprobe

My Horny Hotwife Neighbor

By Alana Church

Artwork by Moira Nelligar

Copyright 2020 Author Name

~~ All characters in this book are over 18. ~~

Chapter 1: Meeting

Man, working from home isn’t quite as much fun as I thought it would be,I thought with a sigh, looking out my office window.

It was my own fault, I supposed. After years of working for an advertising agency in downtown Chicago, I had grown tired of the daily grind. It wasn’t just the hassle of the commute – over two hours taken out of my day as I rode the train back and forth. It was also the petty office politics, the stupid little power games, and the sheer mind-numbing tedium of sitting in meetings that lasted for hours while people threw around buzzwords like they actually meant something, but nothing ever, ever got decided.

So I decided that I could do just as well by myself. I had been successful as a cog in a big national firm. I could do the same on my own. I quit my job and set up my own consulting firm, working out of my home. A good graphic designer didn’t need to work in an office, after all. All I really needed was a computer, decent software, a good internet connection, and my imagination.

Clients, too. I didn’t forget about those. But while the big advertising firms would gladly slit each other’s throats to get a big account, there were plenty of smaller companies who needed good quick work done and appreciated being a priority instead of playing second fiddle to the larger, more ‘important’ customers. And word got around. If you did good work for one company, delivered it on time and on-budget, pretty soon two or three others were hitting you up on e-mail and asking what your rates were, and “Is it possible you could have this done by next Friday, Mr. Thomas? We’re in kind of a hurry.”

Of course, I took a hit on income, but I was prepared for that. I couldn’t afford to pay myself what my own firm had. But it all balanced out in the end. I didn’t have to pay a couple of hundred bucks a month for a train pass or for parking when I drove downtown. There was less aggravation too. No more walking a mile from the train station to the office when it was ten below and the wind was howling off the lake. No more bullshit ‘team-building’ exercises. No more annoying co-workers with voices like nails on a chalkboard. And the extra time I had for myself everyday was worth the relatively small financial hit. Before, I was lucky to get home by six-thirty. Now, I turned off my computer and my work phone every day when the clock hit five. And if someone wanted me to work overtime, they could damn well pay me for the privilege.

The only problem was boredom and loneliness. I had grown used to seeing other people at the office. And I found, to my surprise, that I actually kind of missed them. It was nice to trade stories about the weekend, or bullshit around the coffee machine, or see pictures of other people’s kids, or just sit around a conference table and have lunch together on those rare occasions when the company would spring for a free meal.

I was sitting in my office chair one Tuesday afternoon, throwing a balled-up sock around the room for my golden retriever to chase, waiting for a conference call to start and fiddling with the graphics on my latest project, when a moving van backed carefully into the driveway of the house next door. It was followed in short order by a black Mercedes sedan which pulled up to the curb.

I sat up and snapped out of my haze. My previous neighbors on that side, a very nice older couple, had moved out back in November and down to Florida for their retirement. In fact, they had left so quickly that I didn’t even know they were gone until their grand-daughter came by a few weeks later to pick up some things and told me why I hadn’t seen them around lately. Over the next few months, workers had been constantly in and out of the place, fixing it up so it could be put on the market. Our subdivision was a nice one, with big lots and back yards that sloped down to woods that bordered the Des Plaines River. But Ken and Patty had let their place go a bit when their kids moved away, and it wasn’t until February that a ‘For Sale’ sign popped up in the front yard. A few weeks after that, the sign had changed to ‘Sold,’ but I hadn’t yet caught a glimpse of the people who would be my new neighbors.

Well, it looked like I was about to find out. I stood and walked to the window of my office, set up in what had once been a spare bedroom on the second floor of my home, and watched as the passenger side door of the sedan opened. A pair of long, elegant legs emerged, followed quickly by a tall, black-haired woman with skin like cream and the graceful, erect carriage of a dancer or gymnast. Her eyes were hidden by a pair of sunglasses, but her figure was absolutely ravishing, even with most of her body hidden by a conservative gray suit with matching skirt.

Well, I thought. Things are looking up.

Or, I amended, as the other door of the car opened. Maybe not.

The man was immense. Don’t get me wrong. I’m no midget, and I take good care of my body. In my stocking feet, I’m just a hair over six feet. But this guy was at least a head taller than me, and so bulky it looked like he could wad me up and stuff me in a trash can if he wanted. He stood beside the woman, almost dwarfing her, as the doors of the moving van opened and a pair of men began to carry boxes into the house.

I glanced at my phone. I still had a few minutes until my call, so I figured I might as well go downstairs and say hello. Ken and Patty had made me feel welcome when I moved in, a first-time homeowner with no real clue about what I was doing. The least I could do was return the favor.

The first thing I heard, when I opened the front door, was raised voices.

“I don’t know why you had to act like such a tramp at the closing,” the man was saying, his voice loud enough to carry across the yard. “For fuck’s sake, Amber, you were all over the guy!”

“Oh, don’t be like that, Tony,” the woman pouted. “It was just a bit of fun. And I was so excited. Our first house!”

“Excited?” he growled back. “You grabbed his ass when you hugged him goodbye. I saw it, and so did half the people in the room. Jesus, Amber. Is it too much for me to ask that you go an entire day without embarrassing me? What’s next? Flashing your tits at the movers?”

“They’re my tits, not yours. So I think I can show them to whoever I like, Tony. God knows you haven’t paid any attention to them lately.”

Oookay. I stopped halfway across then yard, suddenly uncomfortable. The last thing I wanted was to be a witness at what was fast becoming a nasty argument. But apparently the woman saw my retreat, because just as I was turning around, I heard her voice call out.

“Hello! Do you live here?”

I turned back, plastering a big smile across my face and hoped it didn’t look as false as it felt. “Hi,” I said, nodding to them both. “I’m Colin. Colin Thomas.”

“Hello, Colin. I’m Amber Remington.” She took off her sunglasses and slid them into a pocket, revealing a pair of dark, smoky eyes. “And this is my husband, Tony.”

Tony nodded at me shortly, his expression flat. Jesus, he was huge. Six foot five if he was an inch, and even his well-tailored clothes – crisp gray slacks, open-necked white shirt, and sober blue sports jacket – couldn’t hide his bulk. He had a bull neck, close-cropped blond hair, and narrow, suspicious eyes that looked ready to flare into rage at any moment.

“Nice to meet you,” I said, pretending I hadn’t overheard their spat, and shook their hands. Tony probably could have crushed my knuckles without even trying, but I didn’t back down and gave him a firm grip. When I recovered my hand from his gigantic paw and counted my fingers, I saw a glimmer of approval on his face.

And then I recognized him. The name, as soon as Amber had said it, had been niggling at the back of my mind. I didn’t pay much attention to the Chicago sports teams, having grown up way downstate, close to St. Louis. But… “Tony Remington,” I repeated. “I hate to ask, but didn’t you-”

“Yeah,” he said wearily, as if he had answered the question so many times he was heartily sick of it. “I used to play for the Bears.”

I raised my eyebrows. ‘Play’ was an understatement. Tony Remington had been a fixture at linebacker for Chicago’s perennially underachieving football team for almost a decade, a ferocious hitter who had made some of the local sportswriters make comparisons with the immortal Dick Butkus.

I nodded. “I thought the name was familiar. Why…”

“A man has to live somewhere,” he said. “And I’m retired now.”

“Really?” It was strange to think that a man my own age, close enough, could be retired, even at the salaries professional athletes earned.