Ellie West has her life all mapped out, but after disappointing news, she's forced to take in the mysterious Seth Carter as a roommate.
Can the arrangement work?
Sure.
As long as she can accept his past, embrace his demons and maintain a firm gri...
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Seth
When I pull into our driveway in my 69' Ford Mustang (yes, dreams really do come true), I turn off the rumbling engine and head inside. We have a single-family home; nothing too extravagant, but something comfortable thanks to Ellies's salary and my booming little business. There are two bedrooms, two baths, and a large living area connected to the open kitchen. Stainless steel appliances, cherry hardwoods, and hundreds of books accent the space. There's also a very important kitchen island since neither of us was willing to part with that architectural gem.
As I open the front door and step into the house, the first thing I notice is Ellie's home early.
I'm not complaining. In fact, my heart does that familiar little drop to my stomach, same way it always does when I catch sight of her. Call me sappy, but I fucking love my girl.
Sex And The City plays on the television and because I've seen every damn episode at this point, I know exactly which one it is.
We all do crazy things for the people we love. For me, it's watch and re-watch episodes of this chick shit. Well, that, and move across the country. But I don't regret it. Not a single bit. New York held nothing for me. This place, this home, this life with Ellie – it holds everything.
Her toned, tan legs are stretched in the shape of a triangle, giving me one hell of a view. She's bent forward doing yoga in front of the television wearing a fitted white camisole and grey cotton shorts. I love those shorts. More importantly, I love the way her ass cheeks poke out from underneath to tease me.
My dick springs to life, painfully slamming against my jeans. It's been five days since I've been inside her since we spent the last week staying with Marsha and her fiancé, Bill, at their NYC loft.
I'm two seconds away from striding over to her and peeling those shorts down her legs when I hear a little sniffle come from her. It's followed by another and... dammit. My dick goes slack. As much as I want to feel my girl pulse around me as I send her to her inevitable orgasm, I'm not the kind of guy who'll screw his wife when she's crying.
I'm not alarmed, however, since this has become a regular occurrence. She's the strongest woman I know, handling so much life has thrown her way and never blaming anyone for it. Her tears are rarely present and she holds enough strength for the both us of. But lately she's been spewing tears over everything. And I'm talking everything–puppy commercials, pop songs, burnt dinner. Hell, a bug splattered on the windshield last week and she mourned the life of that dragonfly for hours.
I'm not sure what's gotten in to her, but I'm here for her regardless. God knows she's put up with more from me in the past.
