Chapter 3
“I’m Guilford Kendricks. My friends call me Guil.”
“Lane Wilson.” She shivered and offered him one raisin-hand in greeting, the skin clammy. “And right now, you’re the only friend I have, so whatever you want to call me, I’ll probably answer. Thanks.” Her lips trembled with cold and it was entirely inappropriate of him to notice how full and perfect they were, the bottom lip curving into a sweet, kissable pout.
“Not at all. Here. They’ll be big on you, but at least they’re dry.” He handed her the bag. “Towel, comb, and other stuff, too. I was a Boy Scout in a previous life.”
She stared at him, bag clutched loosely to her chest. “Um…”
“Don’t worry,” he said, unzipping the inner lining. “The tent is pretty big. I’ll leave you to your privacy. Just come in when you’re changed.”
Lane dropped her flashlight onto the tent’s plastic floor and was digging through the bag like a starving woman before he’d even zipped down the separator. He pulled out a spare camp stool and set it up, then lounged on his sleeping bag. There was very little that was “roughing it” about his campsite. He was a fan of wilderness and being alone with the vastness of nature, but he spent ten months of the year on a bunk in the middle of the ocean on an oil rig; Guil wasn’t about to give up one moment of creature comfort.
Against the wall, like some sort of sexual torture device, Lane’s flashlight cast her shadow as she stripped. He still didn’t really know what her face looked like, aside from those luscious lips and wide eyes, but her body was certainly something to write home about. Long legs and softly rounded hips shimmied out of her hiking pants, vengefully kicking the sopping fabric to one side. She pulled up a pair of sweat pants and swore as they fell around her ankles. She bent over, giving him a tempting silhouette of sweet, rounded ass, then jerked the sweats into place and tied them firmly.
For mid-April, it was still quite chilly at night, a fact he appreciated as she contorted her torso, yanking off the dripping sweater and shirt, revealing upright breasts, her nipples so taut from the cold that he could almost taste them through the tent’s thin nylon walls. Guil stifled a groan and rolled onto his belly, a sudden erection pressing uncomfortably against the air mattress. Another problem with working on an oil rig: he couldn’t actually remember the last time he’d been with a woman.Home Inspection by Lynn Townsend
“The professor’s back,” Dominick said. He made a show of brushing sawdust off his sleeves. “Bro, you gotta get him out of here.”
Eric sighed. As the foreman, it was his job to tell the client to take a flying fuck through a rolling doughnut…politely. “Ayup,” Eric said. “Take the crew and go kill it for twenty minutes. Here, get me one of those crack brownies at the 7-11.” He dug a tattered fifty out of his cargo pants, unearthing a handful of dirty quarters, a smashed cigarette butt, and his Zippo. “I’ll have a chat with our over-eager homeowner.” He fished his smokes out of his vest and stuck one in the corner of his mouth. He offered the Grant to his lead.
Dom smacked him in the shoulder with one ham-sized fist. “Thought you quit?” Dom pocketed the bill smoothly.
“Fuck you,” Eric snapped, “and the horse ya rode in on.”
Laughing, Dom strode away, whistling for the crew. “Snacks on the boss, ya apes! Last one in the van buys the beer!” Eric’s crew scrambled out of the site like their pants were on fire and their asses were catching. Eric shook his head as a skinny roofer with the unlikely name of Butch galloped down the skeleton staircase, swearing a blue streak.
While the crew fought and shoved and bickered over the prime seats, Eric strolled across the construction site, preparing the windy argument he reserved for clients who didn’t listen. It boiled down to “we can’t work while you’re here, jackass,” but it tended to sound nice, polite, and legal.
The client, a dean from one of the local colleges, was standing on what would eventually be his front porch, hands stuffed uncouthly in his sports jacket pockets, gazing out into the empty lot of pasture grasses next door. In another six months, there would be another McMansion built, but for the moment, it was empty save the inevitable cruft of not-yet-discarded construction supplies and crumpled fast food wrappers. He turned as Eric approached, a wide, white smile painting his handsome features.
As always, Eric had to stop, swallow, and draw a deep breath. There was something about Professor Richardson with his impeccable suits with the loose tie and the folded silk handkerchief that just stole all his air. Eric’s belly twisted with a brief road-flare of unrequited lust. Cold shower, he promised himself. Just get through the conversation.