Sinful Intentions Read online

  Contents

  Title

  Copyright kd

  Dedication

  Sinful Intentions

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Optional Epilogue

  A gift from Devon

  Other books by Devon Hartford

  Sinful Intentions

  a Hot Coming of Age

  Love Story

  for

  Her and Him

  Devon Hartford

  COPYRIGHT NOTICE

  Copyright © 2020 Devon Hartford

  All rights reserved, worldwide. No part of this ebook may be reproduced, copied, or transmitted in any medium, whether electronic, internet, or otherwise, without the expressed permission of the author.

  This is a work of fiction. All characters, events, locations, and names occurring in this book are a product of the author’s imagination, or are the property of their respective owners and are used fictitiously. Any resemblances to actual events, locations, or persons (living or dead), is entirely coincidental and not intended by the author. All trademarks and trade names are used in a fictitious manner and are in no way endorsed by or an endorsement of their respective owners.

  Please support the arts by purchasing a copy of this ebook from an authorized online reseller in your country.

  KD 1.0.3

  DEDICATION

  To J.

  Because she told me this little romance was hotter than all my others put together. Who knew. I sure didn’t.

  Thanks, J!

  Sinful Intentions

  The making of an alpha male…

  She isn’t the innocent one.

  He is.

  When beautiful Brooke catches her virginal 18 year old neighbor Mike spying on her sunbathing one summer afternoon, things go from hot to wet before he can whip out his V-card and hand it over.

  Before the day ends, Brooke will teach Mike things about his body he never thought possible.

  But Mike is full of surprises. He’ll teach Brooke things about hers she thought she already knew.

  She’ll also teach him to be the man he never thought he could, because Brooke is a troublemaking hellion. Everywhere she goes, she courts disaster like a drunken bridesmaid at your brother’s wedding.

  Lucky for Mike, a lifetime of MMA training, and a whole lot of heart, will get them both through hell and back.

  * * * Sinful Intentions is a steamy, breezy 30K novella that starts out like it’s written for him, but you’ll realize it’s also written very much for her, delivering feels and heat in equal measure.

  Ladies, and you gents who like a steamy love story, you’ll find all the romance tropes you expect in your most beloved book boyfriends: an intelligent, witty, and protective alpha male bad boy hero willing to throw caution to the wind and risk his life to keep his lady safe from all the world’s hurts.

  Mike will give Brooke the love and protection and sinful affection she so desperately craves but won’t admit to anyone… except Mike, the only man she’ll ever need.

  It’ll take him a hot minute to find his alpha male mojo, but don’t worry, he’ll grab that bull by the horns long before the HEA.

  Chapter 1

  On the day I turned eighteen, my hot neighbor Brooke Hillstrom caught me jerking off while I was watching her sunbathing topless by her backyard pool. I also won $500 million dollars in MegaLotto.

  The money came later.

  I came first.

  I’d been spying on Brooke for years. I was surprised it took her this long to notice. Then again, women never noticed me. It sucked for my sex life, which didn’t exist, but was ideal when it came to spying. In modern parlance, they call it stalking. I never liked that word. It’s too grim, too dark. Too serial killer. Spying sounds patriotic. It’s something you do for your country. Everyone likes a qualified spy, ask James Bond.

  Brooke’s house was next door to my parents’ house. I always watched her laying out from my upstairs bedroom window, my drapes open only a few inches, leaving my room a gloomy cocoon. Spying on Brooke required privacy for obvious reasons. I always did it in the afternoons before our parents came home. On a broiling hot July day like today, I kept the window open a crack to let in fresh air.

  From where I stood, the view was incredible.

  Brooke had a body that wouldn’t quit. Her big boobs worked seven days a week, and her ass worked eight. I’d never seen her pussy because she always wore the thinnest thong, but I knew every inch of her ass better than my own dick.

  At the moment, she was lying on a lounger, flat on her stomach with her bikini top untied, her tan skin glistening, her ass in the air and her big breasts pressing out from around her ribcage. She was stacked and they were real. You could tell. Unlike fake breasts, which floated like trapped balloons screaming for escape, Brooke’s had a seductive weight to them you just wanted to cup lovingly. They moved when she did, changing shape depending on her angle.

  When she rolled over onto her back cat-slow, they did exactly that.

  Her nipples were the perfect size and eraser hard.

  She was turned on.

  I’d been studying her body so long, I knew.

  The damp spot on her thong was proof.

  Who was she thinking about?

  Definitely not me.

  When I’d started at Franklin High as a freshman a few years ago, Brooke had been a senior. Three years older than me. She was the hottest babe on campus and the most popular. Every guy drooled over her Not-Safe-For-School skimpy outfits, the students and the faculty.

  Everybody said three teachers got fired during Brooke’s four years because they couldn’t stop flirting with her. I didn’t doubt it.

  As for me, she never talked to me or my geeky friends at school or at home. I was convinced she didn’t know I existed.

  Over the years, Brooke had plenty of boyfriends. More since graduating from Franklin and starting community college at Greenville. You could tell she went there from the slowly multiplying parking stickers on the back bumper of her white Mazda Miata convertible. I knew this not from stalking, not even spying. Casual observance was enough.

  In the past year, I’d seen countless boyfriends of hers coming and going from the revolving front door of her house. That’s a joke. They have normal doors. But she did sell tickets. Another joke.

  The truth is, the men did come and go with surprising regularity. That’s not supposed to be innuendo but it probably should. Not surprisingly, her men were always jocks and jerks. Never nerds like me.

  When your last name is Hunt and your parents are dumb enough to name you Michael, the life of a nerdy outcast is guaranteed. For obvious reasons, I went by Michael for the longest time. Never shortened it to Mike. It made no difference. They said Mike anyway, because sooner or later some clever kid always figures out he can shorten it, and say it with your last name run together, and it’s technically not swearing, no matter what the teacher says. The first time it happened was third grade. That year, I heard kids say my full name more than you will ever hear yours spoken aloud in your entire life. And that was just third grade when most kids had no idea what it meant, but there was always some precocious ring leader ready to egg them on.

  Trust me, once that geni
e was out of the bottle, kids of any age will say my name over and over until they run the wheels off, like somehow, the genie who gave them this magical gift in the first place will give them two more wishes if they keep saying my name just one more time.

  Consequently, middle school was murder.

  Did I get in a lot of fights?

  Hell yeah I did. More than you can count.

  Or say my name ten times fast.

  I tried to have a sense of humor about it.

  How many of those fights did I win?

  You win some, you lose some.

  Eventually, after I started getting suspended for inflicting one too many bloody noses (and getting plenty of my own), Dad cracked down and told me if I didn’t stop trying to kick their asses, he’d kick mine. So I gave up on going by Michael and just went with Mike. The kids were going to call me that anyway. I also tried to laugh it off more or ignore them outright. Why fight an uphill battle when your hill is higher than Mount Olympus and Zeus himself is waiting at the top? Namely my dad. Sometimes I think he named me Mike to toughen me up. It worked. But I was still nerdy Mike with the lame name. I swear, my name is a curse.

  Back to Brooke.

  I hated her boyfriends with a passion. Not because they were dicks to me or her. I had no idea how they treated her, nor had I ever met any of them face to face. Only saw them from my bedroom window or while mowing my front yard while they were plowing hers. In case you missed it, that was innuendo. I hated her boyfriends purely because they were dicking her. Eventually I realized I didn’t hate them.

  I was just jealous.

  And oddly territorial. Brooke was my neighbor. She should’ve been my girlfriend. Not someone else’s.

  Mine.

  In the modern age, that was completely fucked up logic. I knew better. But my feelings didn’t. Neither did my dick. It and my heart were both obsessed with Brooke Hillstrom and there was nothing my head could do about it.

  Except jerk off to her sunbathing, summer after summer and year after year, wishing she knew I existed.

  That would change one second from now.

  A sudden stiff breeze blew hot through my open bedroom window, billowing the drapes like summer ghosts and shining bright sunlight into my bedroom.

  “Mike? Is that you?” Down on the lounger, Brooke was shading her eyes and staring right at me with my erect dick in my hand. Not that she could see it. It was strategically positioned below her line of sight. I wasn’t an idiot. Just a spy. Not a stalker. A spy.

  Du-duh, DUH-DUUH!

  That’s the classic 007 theme when the horn section comes in hot and brassy.

  Fuck yeah it is. James Bond is a badass.

  “I see you, Mike!” Brooke shouted.

  James Bond I was not. I dropped below the window frame and yanked my shorts up, my heart pounding almost as hard as I wanted to pound the Bond Bombshell (see how I did that there? Left out the L in blond?) lounging next door.

  I don’t know if it was the excitement of realizing that Brooke actually knew my name, or that I’d been caught, or both, but I came instantaneously and shot a thick load into my boxers, my dick straining harder than it ever had, my balls as tight as thrumming drums.

  “Mike!” Now she was shouting angrily. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?! Are you stalking me?!”

  No, I was spying. Du-duh, DUH-DUUH! And I was still coming hard, my boxers now glued to my dick with hot cum as I cowered against the wall beneath my window.

  “Mike! I know it’s you! You dirty little pervert!”

  With my boxers now soaked, she was right on all three counts.

  “Say something!”

  Every time she said my name, my dick jerked again. Hearing my name in her mouth was almost as good as having my dick in it. Not that I would know. I’d never even kissed a girl. Blame my name.

  “Mike! I’m telling your dad about this!”

  Everyone on our block knew my dad was an asshole, which was funny because he was named Mike too. I was his junior, as in Mike Jr., a fact I kept well hidden from the kids at school. If they knew, it would only make the name-calling worse.

  Anyway, nobody liked my dad. He was a control freak, he was a big motherfucker, and everybody was afraid of him, especially me. Dad was always ragging on people to clean up their yards or keep their kids’ bikes off the sidewalk or not to let their dogs piss on our lawn, God help you if you let your dog shit on it. Or my favorite, not to park in front of our house. Dad thought it cluttered up “our” piece of sidewalk. A normal person would’ve let these things slide.

  Not Dad.

  The only reason the neighbors had never hung him from the nearest tree late one murderous midnight was because he was head of the neighborhood watch, and with good reason.

  One time, some burglars had broken into the Acevedo’s house down the street when they were in Mexico City visiting family for three weeks. Dad just happened to be home sick from work that day. He saw the strange car parked in the Acevedo’s driveway that didn’t belong. Instead of calling 911 like a sane person, he went over holding Mom’s Mary Kay makeup kit under one arm and knocked on the door with a smile.

  According to Dad, when they answered, he pretended he was selling makeup and started grilling them with questions. When they figured out he was onto them, they attacked him. Two men and a woman, all three strung out on meth. One guy even had a knife, which he pulled on Dad. Big mistake. Dad disarmed him and kicked both dudes’ asses, chased the woman on foot, and handcuffed the three of them together around a tree in the Acevedo’s yard.

  Where’d he get three sets of cuffs?

  Like I mentioned, he was head of neighborhood watch. What good would one pair of handcuffs be if there was a neighborhood riot? That question, not the answer, the question itself, encapsulates his mindset to a T. Scary part is, he had posed that exact question to me one night after I’d asked him why he’d ordered a dozen pairs of handcuffs online instead of just one.

  The reason I know the Acevedo story is true is because I came home from school that day and saw our street crammed with cop cars, gawking neighbors, and the three bruised burglars cuffed to the tree in the Acevedo’s front yard. After that, Dad became a hero to everyone on our street except me. Them kissing his ass over that caused him to back off on bitching about other people’s yards, but he never backed off about people dropping dog shit on ours. Nor did he stop harassing me for the most inane reasons you can think of.

  Perfecting my misery was his life’s passion.

  “Do you hear me, Mike?!” Brooke shouted outside. “I’m telling your dad there’s a creepy peeping pervert living in our neighborhood and it’s you, Mike! How does that sound, you skeevy stalker?!” She was pissed. “I should go over there and kick your bitch ass!” She could try all she wanted, but that would never happen for reasons I’ll explain in a moment. “Mike! Say something, you little bitch!”

  I considered starting with the Lord’s Prayer, because my dad was going to murder me when he found out. Unlike Brooke, he wouldn’t have any problems kicking my ass, and he could do it with both feet tied behind his back. No joke. You’d be surprised how quick he is on his knees when you’re down on the mat.

  Dad wrestled his way through college on a scholarship and started training MMA when that became everyone’s favorite fighting style, long before I was born. Yes, he forced me to study MMA from when I was little until I couldn’t stand it anymore. The old ground-and-pound was his power trip, not mine. It was also the reason Brooke would never be able to kick my ass, not unless she had my dad do it for her.

  “Ugh! Asshole!” Brooke hissed.

  The distant sound of a slider door slamming shut made me jump. I waited another full minute sitting in my own sex mess before peering over my window sill. Brooke was nowhere to be seen.

  At that point, there was nothing to do but clean up and count my remaining minutes. What on my bucket list could I tick off in the next two hours before Dad got home?

&nb
sp; Not sex with Brooke.

  Yes, that unlikely item was carved at the top of my bucket list with a stone chisel, but it was never gonna happen. Not after this.

  Hold up.

  What if I went and talked to her?

  Could I convince her not to counter-sign the death warrant my dick had already signed for me?

  I had to try.

  Chapter 2

  “I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” said the deep-voiced doorbell attached to Brooke’s house, its animated lips moving like a hallucination. It was not a Ring video doorbell. It was an actual magical automaton, lips and all. Okay, it wasn’t. My sex-crazed mind was spinning figments, like this one where I go to Brooke’s house and things end well.

  Undeterred because my dick was driving, I rang the normal doorbell and waited, standing there barefoot in fresh boxers, shorts, and a T-shirt. I had cleaned up and changed before coming here to hopefully come again. Also a figment.

  “Damn right,” the doorbell chuckled.

  It was hot as hell today, same as every July afternoon. No need for shoes. Hadn’t even bothered with a house key or locking my front door, a cardinal sin in Dad’s book. Those facts had never registered because my rational mind (the one that knew better) was too busy haranguing my dick, telling it this misguided attempt to explain myself to Brooke would last less than seven seconds before she broke my nose slamming her door in my face.

  It didn’t help I was nervous as hell and shaking harder than a jackhammer. My chances of speaking to Brooke like a normal person were nearly nil.

  What was I going to say?

  Would it make any difference?

  Or, would talking to her ruin my happy fantasy and replace it with angry reality?

  Knowing I should dash back home, pack a bag, and catch the first boxcar to nowhere, I did the opposite and steeled myself as I reached out to press the doorbell again. My cottony tongue turned over in my mouth like a tumbleweed.