I deflect the sudden rush of warmth in the pit of my stomach with sarcasm. “Must’ve been disappointing to let loose your load in a toilet.”

Pierce arches a brow. “Who said I let my load loose?”

“How else would you deflate the beast?”

“I thought about unpleasant things.”

“And that works?”

“For a while.”

I turn down beach house sixty-nine’s driveway.

“You gonna come in and help me with that thing?” he asks.

I glance at his crotch, which has magically reinflated on the short drive. I poke at the head through the spandex. “You mean this thing?”

He groans and I shriek when it kicks behind the shiny, stretched fabric.

Seat belts click and doors slam as we both rush to get out of the car. I hit the lock button as he rearranges his erection with one hand and keys in the entry code with the other. Open door, step inside, close door.

The tsunami meets the hurricane as I’m slammed against the wood, Pierce’s body flush against me, teeth clashing, tongues warring. I’m writhing against the thigh between my legs while he aggressively rubs his erection against my stomach. I shove my hand in his Speedo, gripping him tightly. My panties hit the floor, the top of my dress is yanked to my waist, and my bra gets tossed somewhere over his shoulder.

Pierce lifts me up, his cock sliding along my wetness as he carries me away from the door and deposits me on the counter, beside his wallet. We’re both frantic. I pull my dress over my head. His stupid Speedo is still on but pulled down over his butt.

“What are your plans for Muriel?” he asks as he dumps the contents of his wallet on the counter. Bills flutter out.

I snatch up the condom and tear the foil open. “What’re your plans? Other than to seduce a widow.”

He grabs the latex ring by the tip and positions it over the head. I roll it down the shaft and his hips shift in my grip. “Lawson wants to buy it, and I agree it’s a good investment. You never answered my question.”

“Stop talking and get in me.” I line us up, wrap my legs around his waist, and pull him forward by digging my heels into his butt.

Pierce’s forehead rests against mine and he grips the counter, sinking all the way into me. “It’s always so good.”

I lace my hands behind his neck. “Right?”

We finish our conversations in moans and orgasms.

CHAPTER 18

FLIPPING OUT

RIAN

Pierce and I agree that Muriel’s beach house has nothing to do with the sex we’re having. I doubt he’ll get her to agree to sell him the house without a Realtor involved, but that green Speedo is rather compelling, so it’s entirely possible. As is the incredible, mind-bendingly awesome sex. The kind of sex where he doesn’t require a wall or counter as support while doing it standing up. It was amazing.

I came like a tidal wave. Violent, ceaseless.

So yeah, if he wants to play pool boy while I play little Suzy Homemaker, I’m game. It makes for interesting foreplay. And Muriel is fun to be around. It’s almost as though she believes she’s playing matchmaker with us.

Less than two weeks after we make the deal with the Franklins for the bungalow, the paperwork is finalized, the house officially belongs to Pierce and Lawson, and the money finally hits our account. It’s the benefit of a cash deal. Things happen so much faster.

The day after we get paid, Pierce’s daily message fails to come. While we’ve only seen each other a few times since the Franklin bungalow sale, we message consistently, so I have a moment of panic when he doesn’t return mine for a twenty-four-hour span.

I immediately come to the worst conclusion, certain he’s found out something about me, or my family history. It’s the problem with guilt and paranoia. All I want to do is eat a pint of ice cream and worry.

Marley and I are sitting on the couch, half watching a house-flipping show while we check emails and scour the listings. “Oh my God!” Marley slaps my arm.

“Ow! What?”

“I got an email from the Paulsons, that older couple on the beach.”

I sit up straighter. “You need to be more specific. There are a lot of older couples on the beach.”

“I visited them last week while you were baking cookies with Muriel. They’re the ones closer to the Mission Mansion. They have the place we might actually be able to afford. They’d like to meet to talk about a private sale.”

I don’t want to get my hopes up. This house is in need of some serious cosmetic surgery. “No market competition?”

“A straight sale. No commission, no messing around. This might be it, Rian. This could be our in. We could finally pull a flip.”

“This would triple profit. We might be able to manage a second one before the high season is over.”

Neither one of us says what we’re both thinking. That a flip will bring us one small step closer to our goal. We have a lot of work ahead of us. But we’ve come back from almost nothing to get here.

I haven’t seen this kind of cash flow in our account since before our parents abandoned us, and my initial instinct is to hoard it. If we’re ever going to get out of our shared duplex, we have to reinvest. It’s the laws of real estate. Still, it’s terrifying to consider parting with any of it so soon after it’s hit our account.

We’re meeting with the Paulsons tomorrow morning at eleven. We go to bed early, but nerves make my sleep restless. At one a.m. my phone buzzes with a text.

I debate checking it. Sometimes Marley texts me from her room with ideas or thoughts because she doesn’t want to forget them, or she’s too lazy to get out of bed.

I know who I want it to be. I need to be logical about this thing with Pierce. He’s been very clear about going back to Manhattan at the end of the summer, so wanting more out of this is pointless. We’re just casual, his lack of communication today reminds me of that.

It’s with this thought in mind that I pull my pillow over my head and forgo checking my messages. My alarm goes off at a stupidly early hour. We have plans to bring fresh-baked muffins with us to the Paulson meeting. Bran muffins and the elderly are always a win.

My brain is already booting up as I hit the snooze button on my phone. There’s no way I’ll go back to sleep. Message alerts clog my screen. There are new ones from Terry—the man still hasn’t given up, which is … unbelievable. There are ten from my sister—I was right about her messaging me with stuff she didn’t want to forget. But there are also texts from Pierce. Several of them. Sent just after one in the morning; the messages I ignored last night.

I fight with myself to leave it alone and not check them right away.

Instead, I go through the ones from Terry. He would still like to reschedule our date. He would also like to know if I’m still getting his messages or if I’m ignoring them.

I move onto the messages from Marley. Basically it’s a list of things we need to address with the sellers today.

My mouth goes dry as I finally click on the messages from Pierce.

Had a shit day. Just got home now. Had to go to NYC for a bullshit meeting that took all fucking day. Phone died at noon. You still awake? Wanna sext with me to make me feel better?

Is sexting not your thing? I’m drinking bourbon now. Alone. It sucks.

I’d like to sip bourbon out of your navel. I like your navel. I like you.

Im drunk as shit. I wanna cu.