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Ally regrets putting college off a year. The summer is only just beginning, but there’s nothing to do. Her closest friends are all tied up in boyfriends and family vacations, which means she’s left to sit at home, wishing for something to happen.
She watches a lot of television, but she finds herself watching the neighbor more often. The guy who lives next door—Darrel—isn’t hard on the eyes, after all, and the window in the den gives a perfect view into his dining room.
If anyone is having a more boring summer than her, it’s that guy.
He comes and goes like clockwork. Well, she doesn’t know what time he leaves for work because it’s before she’s ever awake, but he comes home around six. If she’s lucky, he takes off his shirt to work out, which includes pull-ups in the doorway. Watching the strain of the muscles in his arms and back is better than a variety show, at least. If she’s less lucky, he’s out of sight—doing house or yard work. Then he eats dinner alone. Never with friends. Never with a girlfriend. The lights go out promptly at ten. He used to work weekends, but lately he’s been around for those, too—except for his weekly trip to the grocery store on Saturdays. Once, her family ran into him on their way to church while he was mowing his lawn. Her mom invited him along, and Ally couldn’t help but snort when he looked so startled at the idea. She still has no clue how her dad manages to sucker him into the occasional dinner.
Her parents love how polite he is, but Ally thinks he simply lacks a personality.
But yeah, even if she’s barely seen him crack a smile, he is cute.
That’s why she jumps off the couch when her mom says, “I’m going to pop over to Darrel’s to drop off a casserole. Hopefully, he’s home. I don’t know how he gets by without someone to look after him.”
Ally bites her tongue rather than point out that Darrel is a grown man and should be able to take care of himself.
“Oh, I can take it over,” Ally offers instead. “I wanted to stretch my legs anyway. Just let me throw some clothes on.”
Her mom gives her a knowing look. “Sure, go ahead. You’ve been cooped up all week. The casserole’s in the fridge—and don’t forget to say ‘hi’ to Darrel for us.”
Ally runs to her room, tears off her lounge clothes, and hunts for something that looks okay. She grabs a cute skirt she keeps at the bottom of her drawers and a top that won’t look like she’s trying too hard. She doesn’t bother to put on a bra.
She hurries through the kitchen, grabs the casserole from where her mom left it out on the counter, and slips out the side door that goes through the garage. There’s a fence dividing the two yards that she has to go around, but within a minute, she’s ringing Darrel’s doorbell with her elbow, her hands full. She waits, shifting from one foot to the other. The casserole in her hands feels heavier with every passing second. It doesn’t help matters that she’d like to get inside before her dad notices she’s gone next door in her shortest skirt.
Finally, the door opens. Darrel Curtis stands in front of her, looking every inch like the burly football player blocking someone’s path. He’s wearing a worn pair of shorts and a t-shirt that clings to his chest. He’s still got a hard look on his handsome face.
She smiles at him despite his stony glare. “Mom sent me over with this,” she says. “She worries you’re not eating right.”
“Oh, thanks,” Darry says, reaching for the dish.
She takes a step back. “I’d better take it in myself.”
He looks at her for a moment, face impassive and unchanging, and she thinks he’s not going to go for it. Then, he nods and makes room for her to pass. She breathes out a sigh of relief.
She follows him through the house. It looks nice enough, if a bit sparsely furnished. The walls are freshly painted, but the furniture looks old and worn. Her mom would say the place looks “cozy.”
The kitchen is spacious. It almost looks cheery with a little floral curtain framing the window. It’s the sort of thing her grandmother would put up. She wonders who chose it for him, because she has a hunch Darrel didn’t. Her dad told her he's single—not a divorcé, not waiting on a family—so the unusual feminine touch in Darrel’s otherwise utilitarian décor is curious.
“What is it?” Darrel asks, nodding at the dish in her hands.
“Mom’s famous sausage and carrot casserole.” She sets it down heavily on the counter. “Don’t look so worried—it’s better than it sounds.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“Your face sure did.”
Darry looks like he might argue with her, offended she would think that he holds any prejudice against her mom’s cooking—and she almost hopes he does. It’s sure to be more interesting than his normal, bland responses.
He doesn’t take the bait, though. Instead, he says, “Thanks for bringing it over. Tell her thanks for me, would ya?”
“You bet.”
If he hopes she’ll show herself out, he’s got another thing coming. She looks around the kitchen. There’s not much to notice, but there are a few pictures and news clippings on the fridge. One photograph is of Darry and two other boys, who look a bit younger. She touches the edge. “Who’s this?”
“My brothers.”
“They got names?”
“Sodapop and Ponyboy.”
“I meant their real names.”
“I told you their real names.”
“You’re kidding me,” she says. He glares at her then. She had thought his normal expression was much like a glare, but she can tell the difference when he means it now. “Sorry, I thought you were pulling my leg. You have to admit they have unique names compared to yours. Yours is so normal.”
“Normal,” he repeats, and there’s bitterness behind it she doesn’t fully understand. “That’s me alright.”
She skims through one of the news clippings. One of those embarrassing college announcements. There’s no date on it, so she can’t guess if Ponyboy is younger or older than Darrel.
She asks, “Do your brothers live nearby?”
“No, not anymore.”
“So you don’t get to see ‘em very often?”
There must be bad blood between the brothers and Darrel. The look he gives her is hostile and, in her opinion, unnecessary. He answers with a curt, “No.”
“Gosh, you can just say you don’t wanna talk about ‘em.”
The conversation is curdling, so she picks up the casserole again, holding it beneath her chest so the edge pushes up her scant breasts.
“Where do you want this, anyway? In the fridge?”
She can tell by the way he quickly looks away that he’s noticed she’s not wearing a bra. He says, eyes locked on the blank wall to the left of the sink, “Yeah, that’s fine by me.”
Darrel’s fridge is half-empty, so Ally finds a spot for it easily. As she lets the door close, she wonders if this guy is worth the hassle. But then she eyes his wide shoulders and defined arms again.
Decided, she steps into Darrel’s personal space, lets her hand drift to his chest, and says, “You know, I’ve been thinking…”
Instead of finishing the sentence, she leans up—he’s taller than she’s used to—and kisses him on the mouth.
That gets his attention. Her lips barely brush his before he jolts, arms shooting out to push her away. He keeps his hands on her shoulders, holding her at arm’s length like he’s afraid she’ll move back in if he lets go.
“What are you doing?”
“What does it look like?” she huffs.
“Look,” he starts, and Jesus, he sounds like her dad. “You’re too young—and don’t you have a boyfriend? What would he think about this?”
She tries to move, but she can’t budge his grip. His arms are like steel bars. He doesn’t even have to strain to hold her in place. It occurs to her that he could snap her like a toothpick if he wanted. A thrill goes through her body, beginning in her back and sinking between her legs. This guy’s basically a stranger, and he could do anything to her—she wouldn’t be able to stop him.
“You listen. I’m nearly nineteen, so don’t tell me I don’t know my own mind,” she says. She’s proud that her tone is mostly level, tinged with the slightest edge of panic. “And anyway, I dumped Tommy ages ago. Now, do you have any other excuses?”
He stares at her, unimpressed, and she’s certain she’s about to find herself politely walked out to the front stoop, never to be invited back inside his house. She wants so badly to be treated like an adult—because she is an adult now—but the way he looks at her makes her feel small and insignificant.
Then, he shakes his head, and she could swear there’s a hint of a smile on his lips. “Glory, you remind me of someone.”
“Old girlfriend?” she asks, curious despite herself.
“No,” he says, and laughs outright.
The sound of his laugh catches her off guard. She finds herself fascinated by the way it changes his features. He looks younger. She had assumed his age fell somewhere between her parents and herself—maybe in his thirties—but it’s clear when he smiles that he’s actually much younger.
He seems to realize he’s still holding her and drops his arms. They fall limply to his sides. She shudders, wishing he hadn’t stopped.
“So, not an old girlfriend, but someone you liked,” she surmises. “Does that mean I can win you over? I’ve been real lonely lately, and I think you could help me out.”
“You’re a nice girl and all…”
“Is there something wrong with me?” she asks, trying hard not to let her hurt show. “There must be if you’re turning me down, right?”
Ally can see his expression soften. “It’s not like that. There’s nothing wrong with you.”
The back of her neck prickles with frustration. She wonders if he isn’t hung up on some girl after all, no matter what he says. “Then why don’t you want me?”
He says her name like it’s a sentence, but she has no idea what he’s trying to convey. She doesn’t have much time to wonder about it, because his hand comes up to her cheek, so large that she can feel his fingers curl under her ear.
“It’s been a real long time,” he answers. But she knows from how he’s touching her, from the care he puts into the words, he’s not going to say “no” now.
“Do I look like I care?” she says, meaning to be reassuring.
It’s a relief when he leans down to kiss her. There’s still tangible hesitation as he presses his mouth against hers. She pulls him in, hands clamped on his shoulders, trying to prove her eagerness. But privately, she’s also hoping to get him riled up. Very few guys change their minds after their dick gets hard.
Not that she’s had many guys. Tommy, at least, always whined when she left him hanging.
She can’t imagine Darrel whining about anything. He barely says a handful of words at the best of times, like he’s hoarding each one, unwilling to share any part of himself. It’s a funny thought, though.
“What’s so funny?”
She realizes she had giggled, even as they kissed. “Nothing,” she answers. “I was just thinking.”
The look he gives her is suspicious, so she picks at the hem of his t-shirt with two fingers. “Want to take this off?”
He pulls the shirt over his head just like that. Because he’s taller than her, it leaves her looking directly at the expanse of his chest. There’s a patch of dark hair across his chest that she hadn’t noticed while watching him from next door. She can’t help but stare now; Tommy didn’t look anything like this.
Darrel raises an eyebrow at her, like he knows she likes what she sees but will let it go unremarked upon. She trails her nails across his stomach up until she hits the underside of his pec. The muscle jumps under her touch, and she drops her hand, confidence disintegrating.
She doesn’t have to worry for long, because Darrel kisses her again. He places his hands on her waist—well above the hip, as if they’re at a school dance. Just as she wonders if he’s ever going to loosen up, his palms start to drift. One palm skates up her belly, slips under her shirt, and cups her left breast. She knows she’s flatter than most guys prefer, but she tries not to feel self-conscious about how small it feels compared to his hand. He massages her breast for a while, then switches to the other.
There’s something almost mechanical about how he’s touching and kissing her. He’s not inept in the way of her first high school fumblings, but she can’t quite put her finger on why his manner strikes her as odd. He’s not disinterested—she can feel that he’s getting hard already. But he’s a bit clumsy about touching her, like he hasn’t done this recently.
“This okay?” he asks, mouth so close she can feel his lips move.
She doesn’t know why he’s asking, except maybe he’s still thinking about getting cold feet on her when they finally made some progress.
There’s a visible outline straining the front of his shorts that wasn’t there earlier. The creases in the fabric disguise it—but he looks big. Her fingers itch with the urge to press against the cotton, to test the shape of him and find out exactly how big.
“You don’t need to ask,” she interrupts, mouth dry. She doesn’t want to hear more about how young she is or whatever.
Darry sizes her up, testing her resolve while he makes her wait out his assessment. She would probably take it more seriously if he didn’t have a boner.
“C’mon,” she says. “I’m not asking to be your girlfriend. Take it out already.”
“You’re pretty sure of yourself.”
She tilts her chin up in defiance. “I can take anything you can dish out.”
He almost looks embarrassed for a moment before his face turns stoic and placid again. Then, she feels herself spun in place, registering the hands on her shoulder and hip only after it happens.
“Is that so?” he asks, voice low and not quite mean.
She catches herself without thinking, palms flat against the fridge, which she’s now facing.
The next time he kisses her, it isn’t soft. He tilts her head back, and surges against her as if, now that there are no excuses left to hold him back, a force inside of him is taking over as undeniably strong as the swell in the wake of a dam breaking. He sucks on her lip, leaving it all the more swollen by introducing his teeth at the end in a hard nip.
“Jesus, Darrel,” she says, a little surprised. She knew he was a big man—and she’s already felt his strength when he held her in place—but his body feels so huge against her back.
“Darry,” he says, breath hot on her ear.
“What?”
“Call me Darry. Not Darrel.”
She nods, but she’s not thinking about what he’s saying. All of her focus is on how his hands slip up the outside of her thigh, under her skirt, to feel the wet patch on the gusset of her panties before tracing the elastic edge tucked into her innermost thigh. She gasps as one of his thick fingers dips under the band.
“Let me get these off,” she says, because it’s driving her crazy.
However, it’s easier said than done. She tugs at her panties with one hand, but only manages to get one side over her hip. Darrel finally helps, pulling them down, but they get caught on her shoe.
He wastes no time getting his hands back on her. His chest is pressed against her back—she wishes she had thought to take her shirt off—and his blunt fingers stroke her skin, teasing without trying for more. She squirms and tries to grind down.
Luckily, his patience seems to fray. With his other hand, he grips her thigh, encouraging her to splay her legs open further. The hand that was playing with her stops, instead slipping one insistent finger inside of her. She’s so wet that it slides in easily. She might be flustered, except she can feel him intake a sharp breath—and how his dick twitches against her ass.
She’s a little shocked he switched from so reticent to so eager in such a short time—not that she’s complaining. He works another finger inside, pushing in deep, even as he lets go of her thigh with his other hand to fumble his shorts down.
“Darrel—”
“Darry,” he corrects her, probably to remind her that he’s insufferable.
She rolls her eyes. Then she feels his naked dick prodding at her thigh, heavy and hot. She glances down to try to get a look, but it’s difficult with her half-braced against the fridge. Jesus, what did she sign herself up for?
“You keep rushin’ me,” he observes, flipping her skirt up so her ass is bare. He sounds casual, except for the fact that he’s rubbing the head of his dick over her privates.
“Can you blame me? You move slower than molasses.”
She regrets her bravado pretty much immediately. The tip of his impossibly large dick positions against her, and her heart lurches with both fear and anticipation. Sure, it’s not the first time she’s done this, but he’s so much bigger than Tommy that there’s no way she’ll be able to take him. But even as she thinks it, it’s too late to say anything.
He slides into her so slowly that she can feel him trembling with the effort. Her first thought is—it’s not going to fit, it can’t possibly fit. But she’s pinned in place, which means she has nowhere to go and nothing to focus on except the warm hum of the fridge under her palms and the feeling of him sinking inside. After a few moments—thinking the whole time surely he has can’t go any deeper, only to have him continue further and further—she’s shivering, too.
Then, finally, she feels his hips rest flush against her ass, and he comes to a stop.
He’s breathing hard against the back of her head, nose buried in her hair. She’s not much better—she feels so full that she can hardly draw a full breath. If it wasn’t for his hands holding her hips steady, she’d fall over onto the kitchen floor. He tries to rock a little, but she’s clamped around him so tightly that it doesn’t do much of anything. She’s seized with the certainty that this isn’t going to work.
“Quit it,” he grits out.
She startles, realizing only once he’s said something that she had been clenching her inner muscles. It was entirely unconscious; now that she’s aware of it, she does it again, experimentally. She feels like every inch inside of her is filled to bursting. There are twinges of pain where she’s stretched around his dick. If she touched her belly, she could probably feel exactly how far he is inside of her.
He grips her hips, like that can stop her from doing it again. “Christ Almighty.”
“Sorry,” she says, reflexively.
They stay still for a while—the only movement is the panting of Darrel’s breath. Each puff shifts her hair, tickling her neck. She shifts her weight, trying to angle away, but it only sets off an echo of the ache in her private parts—she wants to laugh at herself, what a dumb thing to think. Her pussy. The throb verges on unbearable, so she’s relieved Darry seems to need a minute to adjust just as much as she does.
He shifts backward, and she feels it as he struggles to ease out. The grip of her pussy around his dick is so tight that it seems impossible. She has the inane thought that he won’t be able to part—they’re going to be stuck together, joined at the crotch. She bears through the dragging friction as he withdraws until they’re separated. It leaves her feeling like there’s a hollow between her legs, wet and soft and aching.
There’s an uncomfortable pressure as he presses into that spot again, nudging back inside so, so slowly. But this time, it’s easier.
He rocks into her, chest crushing against her back, and she has to brace her arms to maintain enough room to breathe. It borders on claustrophobic to be wedged between his broad body and the fridge. She should feel trapped, but instead, being aware of his size and strength lights up every single one of her nerves. Her hand knocks against the photo of Darrel and his brothers, and his hand quickly comes down over hers, guiding it a safe distance away before pinning it down. Her limited movement is constrained even further—and she gasps with how much she likes the feeling. She tries to shake his grip off, but he doesn’t even register the attempt, and her powerlessness sends a thrilled jolt of pleasure straight through her.
“Careful,” he rumbles, warning.
And Christ, that does it for her, too.
She’s never been able to climax without touching herself. She’s always needed the precise pressure of her own fingers between her thighs to get there—but today, that won’t be an option. Her right hand is still captured under his, and he’s shoving his big dick into her artlessly. And yet, it’s going to be enough. More than enough. A deep, insistent pressure builds low in her belly, growing with every thrust.
“Darry,” she says. The name feels weird in her mouth. “Darrel, don’t stop. Don’t—”
He doesn’t. He pounds into her slow and steady and so very controlled until a convulsion grips her, starting deep inside and shuddering outward until it shakes through her whole body. He doesn’t stop when she goes limp either, holding her up and fucking her through every shudder as she gasps and pushes uselessly against the hard surface in front of her.
She’s still trembling when Darrel’s control snaps. The restraint he had been clinging to vanishes, and only then is it apparent how much he’d been holding back. Now that she's looser—slick with arousal after coming—his cock drives into her, easier with every thrust. The resulting rhythm is relentless, a demanding cadence that makes her feel like an afterthought. She moans through it, reeling at how much she’s into this side of him. The chilly man who greeted her at the door is gone, replaced by a starving stranger. But at the same time, there’s something off-putting about the way he burrows his face into her shoulder, raw and desperate. She’s never been turned on and repulsed before.
Her feet slide against the smooth floor with each thrust until her knees give out. And then they’re falling.
The drop to the floor isn’t far, but it hurts. She knows from the ache in her knees that she’ll have bruises in the morning. Darrel doesn’t let an inch of space get between them. He’s still pressed up against her back when they land; no more than a beat passes before he’s shoving into her with short, hard thrusts. She puts a hand between her face and the fridge as a buffer.
“Take it easy,” she says, half-muffled. God, this guy is pent up.
“Getting close,” he warns.
“Yeah, okay,” she agrees. “Not inside me, though.”
He groans into her neck in response, a noise so deep and guttural that it shakes her to the core with want all over again. She almost considers taking back the request—but then she feels him pull out, followed by the rhythmic jerking of his palm against her lower back. Then the warm, wet splatters against her back, her thighs, her legs.
Her kneecaps are screaming by the time he sinks against her, mostly dead weight. She jostles him hard with a shoulder.
“You’re crushing me.”
Darrel grunts, but shifts so she can breathe again.
Ally is about to sit on the floor, but a sticky glob of come drips down her calf, stopping her in place. “Ugh.”
Next thing she knows, Darrel disappears and reappears with a wet towel. She doesn’t realize he’s offering it to her until he takes it upon himself to clean off the come, already becoming sticky, from her back and legs. The way he mops at her body reminds her of how her mom used to wash her brother when he was a toddler.
“Give me a minute,” she says, still not quite in control of her limbs.
Darrel doesn’t acknowledge her words, instead concentrating on removing all the evidence of what they did from her skin with confident, casual swipes. She suspects he’s dodging the obvious conversation now that they’re done. Still, he seems far more at ease cleaning her up than he was during the act itself.
Her mom was right. This guy is the kind of man who needs someone to take care of him, but he twists it around so it seems like he’s the one taking care of them; either way, whatever he’s got going on, it’s too much for her.
“I got it,” she says, taking the towel out of his hands.
Rather than watch her finish cleaning herself up, he scoops his shirt off the floor, checks to make sure the right side is facing out, and pulls it back over his head. She’s thankful for the relative privacy. She’s not easily embarrassed, but his quickly recovered composure leaves her flustered.
She finishes what Darrel started, rubbing herself clean with brisk, efficient motions. She leaves the towel on the counter, shimmies her skirt back into place, and tugs her shirt down. Not wanting to risk a conversation with Darrel, she stands on her toes to press a quick kiss to his cheek.
“This was fun,” she says. She lets her palm linger over his shoulder as she moves toward the door on shaky legs. “Until next time.”
She’s pretty sure she managed her exit pretty smoothly—no stumbling, no bungling her words. But after a second, she senses more than hears him following behind her.
When he speaks, he sounds closer than she expected: “Wait.”
She turns to find him no more than a few feet away. He scratches his neck with one hand and holds out the other palm. It takes her a second to realize he’s holding her crumpled-up panties.
“You forgot these.”
Mortified, she snatches them out of his hand, wincing internally at the dampness of the fabric. Her outfit doesn’t have pockets—and the idea of putting them on again is too gross—so she shoves them under a sleeve along her wrist, trying to make the bulge under her shirt not too obvious.
Darrel watches her with an amused expression. A flash of irritation shoots through her that it’s at her expense. Worse, it reminds her of her dad.
Her cheeks are on fire, so she walks out without another word, giving him a wave with the hand that isn’t concealing her underwear.
It’s not many steps from his porch to her own, but her knees are still wobbly. Each step makes her feel empty inside. There’s also the beginnings of soreness that’s likely to linger for a day or two. More annoying, she feels the persistent shape of his absence.
Earlier this afternoon, she had Darrel Curtis all figured out. She didn’t have the slightest bit of interest in him beyond what he looked like. Now, she shouldn’t let herself get curious about a man who’s so clearly closed off. Anything she learned today—every glimpse into his solitary life—had been despite his best efforts.
But she did notice enough she can’t help but be a little curious.
Well, it doesn’t really matter. She’ll have to go back for the casserole dish in a few days anyway. Maybe she’ll ask if she can come inside again when she does.