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An urgent text came through from my mum and I picked up my phone instantly.
"Jake’s taking the bin out, and he's not wearing a shirt!"
A shot of heat ran down my body. Just picturing his chiselled arms, bulging biceps and killer cute smile was enough to get me going.
“I’ll be home IMMEDIATELY,” I joked.
Except I wasn’t really kidding. I would have done anything to get more than neighbourly with the boy next door.
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We had been living across the road from Jake and his family since they moved in when I was seven. He was six years older than me so we never played together, but by the end of primary school I’d really begun to notice him. He’d roll into the street on his bike, in his private school boy shirt and tie, hung loosely around his neck.
Unfortunately, my crush was short lived when Jake finished year 12 and went travelling. It wasn’t until years later, when I was 22 and had moved back home after a few years in Sydney, that we crossed paths again.
Jake had his own place by then but would regularly drop in on his mum and dad, his visits were filed with anticipation in our household. My bedroom window faced the street, and gave me a fantastic vantage point for every time his car pulled up.
One Friday night, my mum came rushing into the house screaming, "ANNE’S INVITED US OVER FOR DRINKS! Quick! Get changed. Put on a dress. I said we’d be over in half an hour!"
Apparently, she had let drop into conversation with Jake's mum that I was keen on her son, and Anne was totally on board, insisting we come over for a gin that very night.
Completely overdressed for a casual neighbourhood drink, my mum and I rang the bell right on 5pm, and Anne, with a secret smile plastered across her face, ushered us inside.
Leading us upstairs to the balcony, we were met by her husband and Jake, and I prayed to the match making gods that the latter had been kept in the dark about our meddling mothers’ scheme.
We sat facing the ocean, watching the sun slip into the sea, while we downed G&Ts. After an hour of small talk with our parents, Jake offered to show me around the house, and we finished off our drinks by the pool.
Sitting on the ledge, with our legs dangling into the cool water, he turned up the heat. Brushing his foot against mine, Jake suggested that I come around the following night, when his mum and dad would be out, for a dip in the hot tub.
My pulse raced as I breathed out, “yes.”
The next evening, wearing my littlest black bikini, I sank under the bubbles with a glass of rosé in my hand. Walking towards me, Jake swiftly pulled his shirt off over his head before dropping down beside me, bare chested in boardies.
The air was cool and the night clear, as the stars twinkled above us and he reached for my drink. Placing our glasses on the side of the spa, he leant forward, cupping my cheek in his hand while the other found my leg under the water.
Planting a deep, wet kiss on my lips, his tongue explored mine as his fingers crept up my thigh. Making their way under my bikini bottoms, he slipped one in while his mouth met my neck, and, raising my face to the dark sky, a low groan escaped me.
Pushing my bikini top aside with his left hand, he gripped my breast tightly before sinking down on my nipple, teasing me with his teeth. As I opened my legs wider, inviting his fingers in, the hot tub jet hit my clitoris with force.
My breathing grew ragged as I climaxed, one hand over my mouth to stem the screams of pleasure, afraid to disturb the neighbours, especially my mum.
Kissing my panting mouth, he whispered in my ear, “are you ready for a refill?”
Feature image: Getty.