The Plumber: BWWM Romance Series (The Handyman Series Book 2) Read online

  The Plumber

  BWWM Romance Series

  Jamila Jasper

  Jamila Jasper Romance

  Contents

  Complete Series

  1. The Plumber

  2. FREE SAMPLE: The Gardener

  Afterword

  More Jamila Jasper Romance

  Patreon

  Social Media

  Acknowledgments

  Complete Series

  The Pool Boy

  The Plumber

  The Gardener

  The Fireman

  The Builder

  1

  The Plumber

  I stewed all the way home thinking about what Kishawn told us. Her pool boy?! Kishawn!?

  Y’all gotta know Kishawn for a minute to really hear what I’m saying.

  Kishawn hadn’t looked at a man since she pledged herself to that asshole, Quincy. Even when he was cheating on her, she never broke a single one of her marriage vows.

  If a pool boy could get her to unwind like that… he must have had something special.

  The whole incident had me fantasizing about my own pool boy.

  I don’t know… I’m not one for blonds. I imagined him being tall, dark-haired with a gruff beard or something. Maybe he’d have green eyes.

  At home, I called my daughter, Beulah. She was studying at my Alma Mater on the East Coast, MIT. We spoke every night. Beulah kept me informed on her latest robotics project and I stayed up talking to my baby girl until midnight.

  Then she asked me a question that sent me over the edge.

  “Mama? Has daddy sent the tuition check yet? ‘Cause they’re saying there’s a hold on my account but he was supposed to send it.”

  My blood pressure skyrocketed. Of course, Gerald hadn’t sent it.

  “I’ll talk to him, honey. You get some sleep. It’s late.”

  My daughter hung up and I fixed myself to give Gerald a piece of my mind. I wasn’t a quiet girl like Shontal or a classy lady like Kishawn. I tried to keep myself put together but when I needed to go off on someone, my earrings would come off and I’d be ready to scrap.

  My ex-husband and deadbeat baby daddy Gerald was always trying it with me and with our daughter.

  I called.

  “GERALD!” I screamed into the phone.

  “Yes?” he mumbled as if I’d just woken him up.

  “Did you send the check for Beulah?”

  “Tasha, it’s midnight. What are you calling me for, girl?”

  “It’s midnight? You think I don’t know that? Get your ass up and get that check in an envelope now. Beulah has a hold on her goddamn account and you’re sleepin’ like it’s Sunday Service. GET UP!”

  “Damn woman, I’m up, I’m up,” he mumbled.

  “Why haven’t you sent the check yet?”

  “That ain’t none of your business.”

  “None of my business? Our daughter is at MIT! Think about her future for five minutes!”

  Gerald lost his temper with me.

  “See that’s why you still single you stupid bitch! You stay calling my phone, yelling at me at all hours of the night for no reason! The divorce said it all. I got hoes! I got hoes lining up at the door but you an ol’ dried up, crusty ass, lonely bitch!”

  Silence followed. My hands shook. I couldn’t muster up a response.

  “Good night, Gerald,” I said quietly, hanging up the phone.

  I could fight with him like that again, I was too old for that. When we were younger we both had so much energy… for fighting… for fucking.

  Now, I was just tired. I wanted everything to be simple and all I wanted was to take care of my daughter.

  I rolled over in bed and hugged my pillow. Screw Gerald. He always had to get so mean when he was upset. He knew just how to cut me so it hurt.

  As long as he paid that damn tuition…

  In the morning I woke up to a loud, gushing sound. In my sleepy daze, I thought I was near a waterfall. Then I sat up with a start. No waterfall, just my three bedroom house, and a loud gushing sound.

  I raced down the stairs to my kitchen. Water sprayed up from the sink like a frigid geyser.

  “AIEE!!” I screamed.

  My kitchen floor was already covered with water and wires ran right through the growing flood. Crap. Just what I needed after forking over my share of the tuition.

  I was cash poor and now, I would have to call a plumber. I rushed upstairs and called work to let them know I wouldn’t be coming in. I ran a successful café downtown called Crumb Cake and the baristas could handle brunch rush without me.

  After I called them, I rang my usual plumber, Bob Earl.

  “Bob? I have an emergency! My pipe is spraying water into the air! My entire house is flooded and—“

  “Ms. Woodstock, calm down and speak in a slow voice. What seems to be the problem?”

  I got calm and explained everything to Bob.

  “Sorry,” he replied, “I can’t come in today—“

  “What?!”

  “Calm down,” he said, “I’ll send my nephew. He’s very competent and just moved down from Oregon. He could use the work.”

  “Are you sure he can handle this?”

  “Yes. He’ll be over in twenty minutes. Stay calm.”

  I remained glued to my window like a kid waiting for Santa on Christmas Eve. My eyes snapped into focus when a camo pickup truck that could only belong to a plumber pulled into my driveway.

  I rushed downstairs, standing on the last step as he knocked.

  “YOU CAN COME IN!” I screamed.

  “It’s locked!”

  Right. I forgot. I rushed back upstairs and tip-toed through the water that had made its way into my living room. I opened the door to find a man standing before me far too fine to be a plumber.

  I folded my arms.

  “Are you Bob’s nephew?”

  “Yeah, Brock Carlton. Nice to meet you.”

  He stuck his hand out and I eyed his palm skeptically before reaching for his hand and shaking it.

  “Right… and you’re a plumber?”

  “Sure am and it looks like you’ve got a burst pipe.”

  “Yeah, come on in.”

  He wandered into the kitchen with his rubber boots and marched straight up to the sink. He pressed his thumb down and closed off the source of the leak.

  Ripping off a piece of duct tape from his tool belt, he covered the leak with a temporary silver band-aid.

  “Now,” he said, “Any clue how this happened?”

  “No,” I replied, “I woke up and there was water everywhere.”

  “This should be an easy fix.”

  “Really?”

  “Yup.”

  He crouched down and opened my cabinet to take a look at the guts in my sink.

  I stood awkwardly with my arms folded as he got to work.

  “Are you sure you can fix this?”

  He glanced at me over his shoulder.

  “Do you always micromanage this much?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Maybe it would be best if you wait in the living room.”

  This man did not just shoo me away in my own damn house, I thought.

  But the water soaking into my feet was reason enough for me to flee. I returned to the living room and watched him work from a distance.

  How the hell could this be Bob Earl’s nephew? They were nothing alike. Bob was 5’4” with a mullet and a beer gut and an old man’s ass that hung out of his trousers while he worked on my pipes.

  Brock was no old man and he wasn’t short either. He
had the physique of a bodybuilder clearly visible through his thin white work tank. His ass stayed firm in his work pants and I mean firm.

  “You still watching?” He called after twenty minutes.

  “No!” I lied, “only checking if you need anything.”

  “Only peace and quiet.”

  Message received. I hung back but continued to watch him work. He had a short and trimmed chocolate brown beard and pale ivory skin. His muscles bulged out of his tank and his back flexed as he wrenched my pipes free.

  “Do you ever clean these?” He yelled.

  I shrugged, “I call Bob when I need him.”

  “You need to stop throwing shit down there.”

  “Excuse me? Do you pay my mortgage lil’ boy?”

  He screwed something back on then stood to his feet towering over me.

  “Who are you calling a lil’ boy?”

  Sweat pooled on his brow and he wiped it off on my good kitchen towels. I grit my teeth and folded my arms, prepared to deal with this cocky little plumber.

  “Listen, are you finished?” I sassed, “‘cause I don’t have all day to listen to your attitude.”

  “Your attitude ain’t anything sweet either.”

  “Excuse me? You’re up in my home providing a service to me. I can get as mouthy as I want to.”

  “You talk to everybody like that?”

  “Only men who get too big for their britches.”

  He grinned.

  “You think you’re all that, huh?”

  “No, I don’t think I’m all that. I know I’m all that.”

  “You’ve got sass. I like that.”

  “Sass?”

  “Uh huh. Sass and good looks, two things I like in a woman.”

  My mouth hung open. Was this young man daring to flirt with me? Kishawn’s experience was fresh in my mind but it couldn’t have happened anything like this. She’d been swept off her feet not taunted by a childish man.

  “Are you flirting with me?”

  “Why? You gotta problem with that? You look hot, I flirted. What’s the issue?”

  “That’s how you treat all women?”

  “Only women I like the looks of,” he replied with a wink.

  I snorted.

  “You young men are getting too bold these days.”

  “You gotta problem with that?”

  “Yes, actually. I don’t need flirting. I need someone to help me clean up all this damn water.”

  “I’ll do it. No problem.”

  I raised a single eyebrow.

  “Will this cost me extra?”

  “No, ma’am.”

  “Ma’am? I’m not that old,” I teased.

  He grinned and then got to work. I sat in the living room, flipping through Good Housekeeping and pretending that I wasn’t watching him. He mopped up my floor and scrubbed it clean until his body glistened with sweat that soaked through his tank.

  Noticing that Brock was close to finishing, I sauntered over to the kitchen.

  “Looks like you’re almost finished.”

  “Yes ma’am,” he replied, winking.

  “You’re all sweaty!” I exclaimed, “Are you sure you can go back out there all hot and sticky? Why don’t you cool off here for a while.”

  “You got a pool?” He asked, chuckling and toweling off his forehead.

  “No pool but I have a cold shower upstairs if you want to jump in.”

  I put my hands on my hips, assuming the confident position I had been known for in my college days when I was far more of a man-eater. Oh, I don’t mean I slept with a lot of men, but I’ve always been a flirt.

  He raised a single eyebrow, trying to determine my motive.

  I returned his glance with a coy smirk and waved him off.

  “Go shower. You worked hard this morning and I ain’t a good tipper. It’s the least I could do.”

  He walked upstairs and I heard his feet padding against the wood followed by the familiar screech from my shower head. I closed my eyes and braced myself against the countertops as I imagined the water running rivulets all over his fine ass body from that sharp jawline all the way down to that sculpted torso and buttocks.

  I busied myself with anything but thinking of Brock. I cleaned my countertops, put some dishes in the dishwasher and after that, I heard a voice behind me.

  “Mrs. Woodstock?”

  I whipped my head around and my mouth hung open. Brock stood before me with the tiniest towel wrapped around his waist. Okay, the towel wasn’t tiny but he was so small that it might as well have been a wash rag.

  “Brock!” I gasped, “What are you doing here? Like that?!”

  He grinned.

  “Sorry, Mrs. Woodstock. You’re outta shampoo.”

  “So you come down here dressed like that?”

  “Only meant to ask you where it was, not cause a disturbance.”

  He raised his palms in mock defeat and without his hand to prop it up, the towel dropped from his waist.

  I screamed. I couldn’t help it. I had never seen a dick that big. Sorry to be crass but that’s the first thing that popped into my head when I saw it.

  Have you ever seen a man’s package and thought he was too big to fit inside you? Well, the last guy I saw who made me think that was about half his size.

  I didn’t think it was possible for him to fit such a thing inside a pair of pants, far less inside me.

  My hands rushed to my mouth.

  “What is that?!” I squealed as if it could be anything but a giant semi-hard cock.

  “Never seen one of these before?” He teased as he stepped over the towel and moved closer to me.

  “Brock!” I gasped as he drew closer to me, “What the hell are you doing?”

  “What? I see the way you just looked at this thing. It’s real and you can get up close and personal.”

  “Brock!” I gasped, “This is really inappropriate.”

  “What?” He asked, a cocky smirk plastered across his face, “My towel fell. It was an accident.”

  My hands fell from my mouth as he drew closer to me, his mammoth cock hanging between his legs like a thick German bratwurst.

  “Touch it,” he demanded.

  “I-I can’t.”

  “Why not? Boyfriend?”

  “No…”

  “Then go ahead. Make your dreams come true.”

  My mouth watered as I reached out, mesmerized by the fleshy organ growing thicker and longer before my eyes. Oh God, he wanted me. He wanted to put that monstrous thing inside me.

  “I can’t.”

  “Go ahead,” he urged, “do it.”

  I reached for the thick ropey cock and wrapped my hand around it, jerking back instantly.

  “No…”

  “Touch it again.”

  He was only inches away from me this time. His chest heaved with each slow, breath. He was like a lion licking his chops before pouncing on an unsuspecting gazelle.

  I gripped his hardness again and gripped tight.

  “Good,” he muttered, “Now I’m going to kiss you.”

  His lips rushed against mine and I shuddered as an electric surge charged through me. He grabbed my waist and forced me closer to him. My chest heaved as my heart rate quickened. The scent of my lemongrass soap upstairs mingled with his masculine musk to create a new scent of raw power and lust.

  Brock pulled away from me, his bottle green eyes alight with desire.

  I couldn’t stand another instant not kissing him. I wrapped my arms around his neck and pressed my lips against his. He grabbed me tight and hoisted me off my feet. His hardness rose and pressed against my clothed thighs. He pressed me up against a wall and kept kissing me but he made no moves to take my shirt off.

  I reached for the edge of my shirt to pull it off when he dropped me on the ground. I landed on my feet, safe but confused.