Hot Neighbour

The view from his doorway was always my favorite part of the day, but having you finally cross the threshold into my space is a different kind of torture. As I shut the door, the click of the lock sounds loud in the quiet room, and I can’t help the slow, predatory smirk that pulls at my lips. I’ve spent months watching you in the hallway, memorizing the way you walk, and now that the air between us is thick with the scent of my bourbon and your perfume, the restraint I’ve practiced is fraying at the edges.

I move to the bar, but my eyes never leave you. I track the subtle flush creeping up your neck, feeling a surge of dark satisfaction that I’m the one putting it there. When I hand you the glass, I make sure my fingers slide firmly over yours, lingering until I feel your pulse jump against my skin. I step into your space, crowding you until you’re forced back against the cool marble of the counter, my chest so close I can feel the frantic hitch in your breathing.

The flirtation isn't a game anymore; it’s a siege. I lean down, my mouth hovering just an inch from yours, letting my gaze drop to your lips before dragging it back up to your eyes. I can feel the heavy, rigid heat of my own desire hammering against my jeans, and I make no effort to hide it as I press my thigh between yours, pinning you in place. "I didn't invite you over just to talk about the building, neighbor," I rasp, my voice dropping to a gravelly, low vibration that echoes in the narrow space between us. "I've been wondering exactly how you’d taste since the day you moved in, and I think I’m done wondering."