Double Penetration

Chapter – 0002

GRACE

One more glass of wine later, I’m officially tipsy and emboldened. And, okay, curiosity is getting the better of me. I could just go online and look up who bought the house, but I kind of do want to see Mr. Dick Balsac with my own eyes.

My own slightly inebriated eyes.

I slip my shoes back on, hoisting the box up and carrying it outside. My day shift security detail, Brooks and Davis as they insist I call them instead of their first names Janice and Alice, reach out and steady the box as it threatens to slip from my grasp the second I set foot outside of my gated driveway.

“I’m walking this next door,” I protest, my heel catching on the sidewalk. In retrospect, maybe I should have changed out of my work attire—suit and heels—to lug a box of blow-up dolls around. Or maybe I shouldn’t have had that second glass of wine. Probably the latter.

“Would you like some help, ma’am?” Brooks asks.

I peer around the large box as I walk. “Hey, do you remember that time when my father insisted that I have a security detail and I agreed, but only on the condition that my detail not interfere with my life in any way, shape, or form? That’s a fond memory I have.”

I swear I can hear Brooks and Davis rolling their eyes behind me right now. They’re just being polite by asking. It’s against protocol for them to carry a box even if I wanted them to, since it would interfere with their job of protecting me. I’d be just fine without protection, though. My father’s approval rating is the highest of any president in the last ten years; the economy is good and there are no active threats to my life—that I know of, anyway. But my parents are overprotective, to say the least.

And honestly, Brooks and Davis are not bad at all as far as security details go. They are humorless, of course. I think that’s a job requirement. Contrary to popular belief, we are allowed to decline protection, although my father would probably have an actual heart attack if I did. I only relented to having a security detail if they were female (how impossible would it be to have a relatively normal existence with a team of brutes in suits following me around?) and if they were not reporting my every move to my father.

Follow me around… Fine. But I draw the line at them helping me with routine, everyday tasks.

You know, like hauling a giant box of inflatable sex dolls and lube to my neighbor’s house.

I stand outside the gate with the box, Books and Davis a safe distance behind me, as a male voice answers. “Yo.”

Yo. Definitely not a retiree. “I’m your neighbor. I have something… well… um… of a personal nature that was mistakenly delivered to my house.”

He laughs. “Of a personal nature?” he asks, obviously mocking the formality of my words.

I immediately bristle. I mean, yeah, I’ve gotten called stuck-up a lot and Perfect Presidential Daughter, but really, I’m doing this guy a favor. I could have just inflated his dolls and thrown them over the stone wall that separates our properties. On second thought, I definitely should have delivered the contents of the box that way.

The gate opens and I stand there for a second, looking at his house. I’ve not seen beyond the gates of any of the houses in my neighborhood; I’ve never even met any of my neighbors. His driveway is short and cobblestone, just like mine; and his house is similar to mine except it’s at least twice as large. It’s fucking huge. Decorative trees line the edge of the wall between our properties and I make a mental note to landscape better. I’m more than halfway up the driveway when he steps out of the house.

Buck naked and carrying a set of strategically-placed bongo drums.

I blink twice, stopping short as my neighbor casually walks toward me in bare feet. Carrying bongos.

Naked. Totally and completely naked, the bongos strategically covering the goods. He’s definitely not a retiree. Nope. Not at all. He’s young and fit and…

Massive, I realize as he approaches me. My gaze reluctantly moves from the bongos upward, lingering for just a moment too long on his very muscular, very ripped chest and abs. I blame the wine for my lingering eyes. A tattoo covers one of his pecs, moving up to his shoulder and down part of his arm.

His arms are just as huge as the rest of him—sculpted biceps and forearms and… good Lord, this guy looks like he should be felling trees or something. My eyes don’t stay on his arms, though—they go right back to the bongos. And the fact that those bongos are covering his… bongos.

“My package?” he asks.

“What?! I’m not looking at your package,” I protest. My voice seems to come out at least an octave higher than it is. I practically squeak like a mouse.

The edges of his mouth pull up in a slow smirk. “I was asking if you wanted to hand over my package. It looks heavy.”

Heat rushes to my face. Oh God, I can feel my cheeks turning scarlet already. I clear my throat. “Yeah. Obviously. That’s what I was talking about, too.” I force nonchalance into my voice. Eyes up, Grace. Make eye contact and do not look down, even if this is the closest you’ve been to an almost naked man in two years. “The package. Your package. Not your… package.” I glance down at the bongos again. What the hell is wrong with me?

“I can take a picture if you’d like,” he says, grinning. “Of my package, I mean. If you’d like to revisit it on your own… in a more private setting.”

My cheeks warm. “Why would I want that?”

He shrugs. “Just a neighborly offer.”

The box. I shove it at him. “Here are your inflatable personal romance dolls, Mr. Balsac.”