B.I.L.F: Beard I'd Like To… Read online

  B.I.L.F

  Beard I’d Like To…

  Frankie Love

  Contents

  Copyright

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Epilogue

  PREVIEW

  Also by Frankie Love

  About the Author

  Copyright

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  Edited by

  Teresa Banschbach

  ICanEdit4U

  Copyright © and 2018 by Frankie Love

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Chapter One

  Dane

  I run a hand over my beard as I wait at the red light. Damn, there’s a hell of a lot more traffic here now than there used to be.

  Sitting in my pick-up truck, the memories of this town create a nostalgic punch to the gut. I’m back in my hometown and it’s strange how different everything feels now that I’m thirty. I haven’t lived here since I was eighteen. I bought my first truck and drove up into the mountains to become a forest ranger. I left this place and never looked back.

  My mom always thought I would return home after I’d had my fun but I never did. That eager new forest ranger became a seasoned forest ranger, and soon it wasn’t just a job anymore; it was a part of my identity. Something I wore outwardly just as plainly as the beard on my face.

  I was never really into the kind of life people lead when they put down roots in a cul-de-sac. I wanted something different and I found it.

  But, damn, it gets lonely sometimes.

  At the light, a red Corvette pulls up beside me and stops with a lurch. The woman driving looks at me with eyes that scream desperate, and her fake tits and practically orange skin tell me she is not the kind of woman I like. She unabashedly licks her lips and I smirk, having no interest in her.

  She revs her engine, looking me right in the eye. I shake my head, telling her no thanks. Her car gives a well-oiled purr, yes, but mine has the yowl of a wild beast. I sure as hell won’t waste that on her.

  This is the very same truck, in fact, I bought with my hard-earned money when I was eighteen, and it has the caked-on mud and low hanging branch scratches anyone would expect from a mountain man’s only vehicle. It’s not that I can’t afford a new one, not by any stretch, but if it ain’t broke why the hell would I fix it?

  The light changes and she takes off like a shot. Instantly, the car I recognize as Sheriff Bailey’s dusty old motor lights up and squeals after her. Maybe the Sherriff will be more interested in that cougar than I am.

  I pull away at a reasonable speed, make a couple of turns, and crunch onto the driveway of the beautiful suburban house I know so well.

  It always kind of makes me nervous to be back here, and I can’t put my finger on why. If I had to guess, it would probably be all the people, all the houses, all the extra height on every building compared to the modest cabins up in the mountains that I’m now used to. While every home here is big and bigger, they’re all flat, redundant. Each home painted red, blue, or gray and it makes me miss my own place, where shades of green color my plot of land.

  The moment I let myself in, I’m bowled over by a shaggy white wolf of a dog. I swear to God he was the size of a sack of flour when I last visited. Bandit was a puppy when I saw him last, and now he’s basically a Shetland pony. I laugh and push him back onto his four paws before rubbing him on the head. Mom has been obsessed with this breed of dog for forever, and I’m so glad she finally has one to keep her company.

  “Mom?” I call.

  “In here, Dane,” a surprisingly happy voice replies from the kitchen beyond. Mom is good at showing her family off--as I walk down the hallway toward the sound of her voice, I pass dozens of framed photos of me growing up, her siblings’ kids, and their kids. Seeing this collage of familial bliss always makes me wonder if I’m missing something by being a bachelor.

  It makes me nostalgic for a future I’m not sure I’ll ever have. Mom’s pretty desperate for me to land a wife and have a few kids -- as many as possible -- but I guess I’m just too picky. I dated a lot in my twenties, but once I hit thirty a few months ago I pretty much just accepted that I might never be satisfied. Maybe I need a dog like Bandit to keep me company.

  “Mom, you gotta get off your feet,” I chastise when I round the corner to the kitchen, Bandit trotting at my heels. “I was there when the doctors told you that, remember?”

  She tuts and waves her hand at me dismissively. “And you were there when I said I could still do some things. I broke my leg, I’m not sick.”

  “I know, I know,” I say, but I nod at the huge metal crutch she’s having to lean on to get her mug of tea washed up, getting the spray of water from the faucet all over the counter.

  Taking control, I lead her to her comfy armchair in the living room. When I’m done cleaning up the spill, I boil another pot of tea. Hot drinks are comforting to her; growing up the house almost always smelled like spicy Assam or Nilgiri leaves.

  While the fresh batch of tea brews, I open my mouth to ask what she was thinking for dinner, but she interrupts me from the other room.

  “You know, you don’t have to stay here long. I’m fine without you, darling.”

  I let out a sigh loud enough that she can hear it, knowing it’ll make her smile. “I’m staying for a couple of weeks, just like the doctor said. Remember?”

  “I remember, I remember,” she says. “But if there’s anyone you want to get home to, I won’t be offended. I’m capable, you know.”

  She is capable. She raised me alone, worked two jobs, always made sure I never wanted for anything, but this isn’t a case of inner strength. This is a case of physically being able to get up and down the damn stairs.

  “There’s no one I want to get home to, Mom,” I say, the real meaning of her words dawning on me. “I’m still not seeing anyone. I told you that.”

  “That’s alright, darling,” she says, surprising me -- there doesn’t seem to be any trace of dishonesty in her words. Usually, when I tell her I’m still single she wrinkles her nose and gets sour for a couple of minutes. The length of the silence has extended by several seconds with every year I age.

  “It is?” I can’t help but respond, bringing her the pot of tea and one of her favorite mugs. It has a pair of cute Alaskan Malamutes playing on it. Bandit’s tail thumps at her feet when I hand him his biscuit.

  “There are plenty of eligible women out there, after all. There’s no rush.”

  No rush? Who is this woman? I’m tempted to ask her if she hit her head in that car crash as well as her leg.

  “What’s going on, Mom?”

  She looks at me with wide eyes that say ‘Who, me?’ but I’m not fooled for a second. She sighs and looks away. “Alright, I found someone. But before you say anything, Dane, she is perfect for you. And I know I’ve said that once or twice before--”

  “Eight times.”

  “--but this time I truly mean it. She’s pretty, she’s single.” She raises her eyebrows at me and I blow out a b
reath.

  “They were all pretty and they were all single,” I say. “Except for…” We both say, “Tamara Lewis,” at the same time, and then laugh. She blows on her tea.

  “What a disaster,” she admits. “You know her husband still hasn’t left her.”

  I shrug, not caring anything about this suburban gossip, but I don’t want to say anything rude and hurt my mother’s feelings, especially when she’s feeling down about not being able to move around much.

  “So,” I say, “tell me about this girl.” I regret the words the moment they come out of my mouth.

  But Mom’s smile is so wide when she hears me say this that I need to let her continue. It’s alright. I can talk about women with her every so often if it makes her happy. It’s no skin off my nose.

  “Well, she lives right next door,” she says, and I wait for more but there isn’t any.

  “Okay then,” I say finally. “I’m going to prep dinner, so you sit tight, and Bandit will watch you while I’m in the kitchen, alright?”

  “Nonsense, I can at least help you,” she says, leaning forward to get out of her chair, but she can’t help but grimace at the pain in her leg and I shake my head at her.

  “Just sit still for once, Mom,” I tell her. “Watch some television.” I make my way back to the kitchen to figure out what she has in her cupboards and fridge that would be easy enough for me to make. I’m not exactly a chef, but these next couple of weeks shouldn’t be a struggle.

  I grab a couple of red onions and slice off the tops and bottoms, then peel them, deciding to make up some kind of recipe as I go along. I hear Bandit bark softly from the other room to alert my mom to someone outside, and I glance out of the window.

  A woman, a little younger than me, I’d guess, with her red hair up in a loose bun and a pair of sunglasses perched on the top of her head is carrying groceries out from her car. She mouths something when a couple of melons tumble from her hands and onto the driveway. I frown at her through the window for a few moments, wondering what it is I’m watching, and then I wipe my hands on my jeans and I duck out the front door.

  She looks up, blowing hair from her face, melons in her arms, and her cheeks flush instantly as she straightens herself up.

  “Uh, can I help you?” I ask her, glancing left and right. I could make some lewd joke about her melons but refrain, not wanting to scare her away. What kind of bizarre act of fate has led a woman as beautiful as this right to this house? She stares at me for a few more seconds, and then clears her throat.

  “Are you Helen’s son?” she asks.

  “Daphne, darling!” my mom cries from behind me, up from her armchair and leaning on her crutch. “Do come in, are you alright?”

  “Hi, Helen!” the woman says brightly. “They, uh, they had melons on sale, and we were talking about them the other day. I just picked up a couple for you, and…” She trails off, her gaze sliding back over to me as if she really wasn’t expecting to run into me here. I can’t help but smile at how sexy this woman looks even when flustered.

  I move to take the melons from her -- a fucking ridiculous number of melons, I don’t know what she was thinking -- and notice her skin reddens further when our hands touch.

  “Come in, come in! We just made a pot of tea.” My mother is jostled in the doorway a little by Bandit’s thumping tail.

  “Oh, I need to get my groceries into the house, and finish up a little work,” she says, shaking her head lightly. I can’t help but feel a little disappointed. She is wearing an outfit she has clearly thrown together to go to the store in, a loose sweater, hanging off one shoulder and tight floral leggings, hugging her in all the right places.

  I try not to think about what’s underneath her top… mainly her melons… and keep my eyes firmly on hers.

  “Well come for dinner then? In a couple of hours?” my mom encourages. I want to change the subject and get her back inside, just in case Daphne feels pressured, but the redheaded beauty’s face lights up instead.

  “Sure, Helen, that would be really nice,” she says, and then raises her eyebrows and looks me right in the eye. “And I know just what I’ll bring for dessert.”

  Chapter Two

  Daphne

  I know just what I’ll bring for dessert.

  I shut the door to my cute new suburban house and resist the urge to lower myself to sit on the floor. What a cringe-worthy line! Gah. I’d never have my characters talk that way.

  I blow out a breath instead and glance in the mirror. Ugh -- my hair is all sticking out and piled into a quick bun. I run a finger through a fallen strand and then let my long hair down, shaking it out around my shoulders.

  It’s just my luck! I just stood face to face with the sexiest man I’ve seen in a long, long time, and I look like I’ve been out running errands all day.

  That’s Helen’s son? She did tell me I’d like him, that he was handsome, but jeez! I had totally just brushed her off, thinking every sweet, older lady thinks their kids are amazing and perfect. It just so happens my lovely next-door neighbor, the one I’ve bonded with a little since moving in, is completely correct.

  I finish putting away my groceries and I feel a tingling at the base of my neck. It’s a feeling I haven’t had in quite a while. Excitement, anticipation… creativity. The feeling of the fog lifting from my mind.

  That novel I’ve been struggling with for weeks. The one with the looming deadline. I think I have an idea.

  I slide into my computer chair, open my laptop and feel the sunlight streaming through the window hit the side of my face, warming me up. I love writing here, in this brand-new house -- the first I was ever able to afford. When I first moved in I felt inspiration left and right, but recently I have just felt utterly stuck.

  I’m not exactly surrounded by romance in my life, and I think that’s why I’m having so much trouble right now. No inspiration; no new ideas. Everything I’m writing feels so dull and been there, done that.

  But my run-in with the dashing Dane from next door has given me a great idea.

  I click on the working title I chose. ‘Love at Sunset’. With determination, I highlight and backspace and tap out my new title.

  BILF: Beard I’d Like to Fondle

  I chew my lip and suppress a smile, highlighting and deleting huge chunks of my work in progress and feeling a surge of inspiration deepen through my body as ideas rush through my head. So fast I can barely keep up with my fingers on the keyboard.

  I call my hero Zane… blushing at the intentional choice to choose a name that rhymes with Dane. Only I will get the reference, and that makes it even more delicious. Then I begin rewriting my latest sex scene while squirming in my office chair.

  ‘... I could see the setting sun through the open bedroom window, it was painted in oranges and reds -- and I moaned as Zane’s beard brushed over my inner thighs creating a masterpiece of our own. My skin was his canvas. His tongue was the brush…’

  I bite down hard on my lower lip and lean back to reread my last paragraph. My fingers hover over the mouse, and then I highlight the word ‘skin’, and replace it with ‘pussy’.

  I rarely ever use words like that in my steamy romances, but I feel like this scene calls for some more vivid language.

  My cheeks are pink, and I’ve lost almost an hour typing nonstop. My eyes trail over the section I just wrote again. His thick beard tickled her inner thighs. My imagination just won’t let go of that thought. I shiver and squeeze my legs together, thinking about the beard I just met outside my house. Thinking about the way it might feel brushing against my inner thighs.

  Before I know what’s happening I have pushed my fingertips past the waistband of my leggings and over the thin fabric of my panties, noticing how wet I am already. I run my fingers over my lower lip. Then I reach further, sliding my fingers up and down until I feel my core begin to tense, and suddenly I remember I’m going to see the man I’m thinking about in just under an hour, and I promised that I’d bring
dessert!

  But I can’t stop thinking about him. Not yet. I push my panties aside and easily slide my finger inside myself, imagining how skillful Dane’s tongue would be. I could see in his eyes, even in the short time we met, that he is a man who knows what he’s doing. Who knows what he wants. Who knows what I need.

  My back arches as I climax, a pulsing clenching explosion of delirious ecstasy that feels almost never-ending. It’s been forever since I came like that… and I’ve never been turned on so much by a scene I wrote myself.

  I catch my breath and hop in the shower--needing to cool off. After I’m all cleaned up, I head to the kitchen and tie my apron around my waist, realizing there isn’t much time to spare. But I figure I can whip up a batch of pretty good brownies in just over twenty minutes and then they’ll be piping hot and smelling delicious by the time I go next door.

  I run my hand through my long hair, trying desperately not to cover my cheeks in flour and cocoa powder, and I mix the brownies up just the way my mom taught me before she passed away. I smile at the thought of Helen next door, and how much she reminds me of my own mom. Tough and strong but with a really sweet side too.

  I lick brownie mix from my thumb as I slide the pan into the oven, and then go to the bathroom to get my face and hair as ready as I can in the short time I have. My thoughts move back to Dane as I blow dry my hair.

  I don’t want a relationship right now, but to be honest, I could really use a great hookup. I spray perfume on my neck as I think about him leaning in close. The idea of his rough beard against my skin gets me excited all over again.