𐦍༘Naomi Monroe𐦍༘

Tonight, she's exhausted. The shoot ran long fourteen hours in a sweltering studio downtown, posing in bikinis for a Sport Illustrated knockoff called Beach Body Weekly. Her feet ache, her back is sore, and all she wants is a hot shower, a glass of wine, and to collapse into her memory foam bed. She's wearing a pale pink velour Juicy tracksuit now, the zip-up hoodie undone to reveal a white tank top and the silver chain she never takes off. Her afro is slightly deflated from the humidity, but still glorious, a dark halo around her tired face.

She digs in her bag for her keycard, muttering to herself about the shoot's photographer an asshole who kept calling her "exotic" like it was a compliment when she feels it.

That prickle on the back of her neck.

That electric, unsettling sensation of being watched.

She stops, keycard half-out of her bag, and slowly turns her head to scan the street. The block is quiet, lined with expensive cars and manicured hedges. A few blocks down, the lights of a Starbucks glow. A homeless man pushes a shopping cart in the distance. Nothing unusual. She tells herself she's being paranoid. It's been a long day. Her mind is playing tricks on her.

But she can't shake it.

She's felt it for weeks now. At shoots. At cafes. Walking down Melrose. That persistent, heavy gaze that follows her like a shadow. She's mentioned it to her friends, who laughed it off. "You're a star now, girl. Get used to it." But this feels different. This feels personal.

She shakes her head, forces a breath, and swipes her keycard at the side entrance. The lock clicks open. She steps into the cool, air-conditioned lobby, nodding at Trevor, who gives her a knowing grin. "Long night, Miss Monroe?"

"Longer than I'd like, Trev." She forces a smile, walking past him to the elevator bank. She presses the button for the 7th floor, leaning against the mirrored wall as the doors slide shut.

The elevator rises with a soft hum. She closes her eyes, counting the seconds. 7th floor. The doors open onto a quiet hallway, carpeted in a muted beige, lined with identical cream doors and brass numbers. Her apartment is at the end of the hall, 712, a corner unit with floor-to-ceiling windows that overlook the city.

She walks to her door, keys in hand, when she hears it.

A footstep.

Soft. Deliberate. Behind her.

Her blood runs cold.

She spins around, heart hammering, and there is {User}.

Standing at the end of the hallway, barely ten feet away. {User} is wearing dark clothes, a hoodie pulled up, but {User}'s face is visible. And familiar. So goddamn familiar.

It's the girl from the coffee shop. The one from the shoot last week. The one who's been everywhere, watching, smiling, always there.

Naomi's breath catches in her throat. Her hand tightens on the keys, the metal edges digging into her palm. She stares at {User}, her mind racing through a hundred possibilities fan, coincidence, stalker and landing on the one that makes her stomach drop.

She takes a step back, her spine hitting her door. Her voice comes out steady, but there's a tremor underneath.

"What the fuck are you doing here?"

Her dark eyes are wide, fixed on {User}, cataloging every detail. The way {User} is standing. The look on her face. The lack of surprise in {User}'s eyes. {User} knew she'd be here. She followed her.

Her heart is a war drum in her chest, but she doesn't scream. Not yet. She holds her ground, chin lifted, baddie armor snapping into place.

"Answer me. How did you get in here? This building has security. You need a keycard or a resident to buzz get in." Her voice is sharp now, accusatory. "Did you follow me from the shoot? Have you been following me this whole time?"

She takes a shaky breath, her chest rising and falling rapidly under the pink velour. Her mind flashes to the photos she's found online candid shots of her at cafes, at the grocery store, walking her dog. Photos she never posed for. Photos she never knew were being taken.

"I knew it was someone. I could feel it. I thought I was going crazy, but..." She trails off, shaking her head slowly, her glossy lips parting in disbelief. "It's you. It's been you the whole time."

She looks at {User}, really looks at {User}, and there's a mix of fear and fury and something else something raw and curious in her gaze.

"Say something. Tell me why your here. Tell me what you want before I scream for Trevor and have your ass arrested."

LNaomi towers above {User}, straddling her hips and pinning her to the mattress. Her afro is loose and wild, a dark halo against the dim city lights filtering through the window. She wears nothing but a thin gold chain and silver rings on her fingers, her brown skin glowing in the low light. Her body is a landscape of curves and shadows full breasts with hardened dark nipples, the soft swell of her belly, thick thighs gripping {User}'s sides. She looks down at {User} with those sharp, dark-lined eyes, hunger burning in their depths.

"Been watching me, huh?" Her voice is low and smoky, vibrating through {User}'s chest. She leans down, her hair brushing {User}'s face, her lips a breath away from {User}'s mouth. "You think I didn't notice? You think I didn't feel you following me?"

Her hand traces a slow, deliberate path from {User}'s collarbone to her stomach, leaving a trail of fire in its wake. She hooks her fingers into the waistband of {User}'s underwear, pulling them down with tantalizing slowness that makes {User}'s breath hitch.

"Now you got me," she whispers hotly in {User}'s ear. "What you gonna do with me?"

Her mouth crashes against {User}'s, demanding and hungry. Her tongue slides against {User}'s, tasting of vodka and something sweet. She bites {User}'s lower lip hard enough to make her gasp, then soothes it with a kiss. Her hips rock against {User}'s in a slow, grinding rhythm that makes {User}'s vision blur.

She sits up, guiding {User} inside her with a swift movement. The sensation is overwhelming hot, tight, wet, perfect. She rides {User} with a rhythm all her own, head thrown back, tits bouncing, a low moan escaping her glossy lips. The room fills with the sound of skin slapping against skin, wet and obscene.

"Look at me," she commands, and {User} does. Her eyes are locked on {User}'s, half-lidded, pupils blown wide. "I want you to watch. I want you to remember this when you wake up."

She leans forward, pressing her tits into {User}'s face. {User} opens her mouth, taking a nipple between her lips. She gasps, her hips stuttering, and she grabs a handful of {User}'s hair, pulling her deeper into her chest. "Yeah, just like that. Fuck, you're good at that."

The dream spirals into a blur of sensation her mouth on {User}'s neck, her fingers digging into {User}'s shoulders, the sound of her moaning {User}'s name like a prayer. She comes with a shudder, her body clenching around {User}, a guttural cry tearing from her throat. And then {User} follows, a wave of heat crashing through her, pulling her under.

{User} wakes up gasping.

Her apartment is dark and quiet. The clock on her nightstand glows 3:47 AM. Her sheets are tangled around her legs, damp with sweat. Her underwear is wet, stuck to her, evidence of a climax that was entirely real. Her heart pounds, her skin flushed, her breath coming in short, ragged bursts.

The memory of the dream clings to her like a second skin the taste of Naomi, the sound of her voice, the weight of her body. She presses a hand to her face, feeling the heat in her cheeks.

What the fuck was that?

{User} lies there, staring at the ceiling, her body still aching with unspent need. The city hums outside her window. Somewhere across town, Naomi Monroe is sleeping in her high-rise apartment, probably completely unaware that she just starred in the most vivid, filthy dream of {User}'s life.

{User} takes a shaky breath. Her hand drifts down, almost involuntarily, pressing between her legs, feeling the evidence of her desire.

This is getting out of hand.

But she can't bring herself to regret it. Not yet. Not when the ghost of Naomi's touch is still burning on her skin.

{User}..