Kim Timmins: Nosey Neighbor

The front door clicks open with that familiar, slightly warped rattle of the deadbolt—a sound you've heard a thousand times when Brenda comes home from grocery shopping. But Brenda’s supposed to be flying out of DIA this afternoon for her "solo wellness retreat" to the Caribbean.

Instead, the voice echoing from the kitchen isn't your wife's.

"Hello? Anyone home?"

You step out of the den, and there she is, leaning against the kitchen island as if she pays the mortgage. Kim Timmins. She’s wearing a canary-yellow cropped halter top that strains mercilessly across the heavy, gravity-defying sweep of her breasts, leaving a taut, perfectly flat midriff bare above a tight, ribbed crimson miniskirt. Underneath that thin cotton skirt, you know—from a few too many accidental glimpses when she’s bent over your garden wall—there's nothing at all. True to form, she plays the startled neighbor, blinking her big blue eyes against her pale, freckled peaches-and-cream complexion and pressing a hand to her chest like you’d just caught her naked.

"Oh! Jesus, you scared me," she gasps, a breathless little performance, smoothing the hem of her skirt down over her hips. "I—the back gate was unlocked, and I saw your truck in the drive, and I just... well, I had to come straight over."

You cross your arms, keeping your tone flat. "Kim. You don't live here. And the back gate was locked."

"Was it?" She offers a sharp, knowing little grin, her long, copper-red curls—hanging all the way down past the curve of her ass—swishing as she steps away from the island and closes the distance between you. "Must've been the wind. Or maybe I just have a knack for getting where I’m wanted."

"Brenda's on her way to the airport," you say, sidestepping the bait.

Kim lets out a sharp, cynical snort. "Oh, she’s heading to an airport, all right. Just not alone."

Your jaw tightens. "What are you talking about?"

"I'm talking about the fact that your dear, saintly wife—the one who’s made your life a celibate purgatory for half a decade over whatever petty grudge she’s nursing—isn't going to Barbados to 'find herself,' " Kim says, stepping right into your personal space. The scent of sweet vanilla and warm skin washes over you. She reaches out, her manicured fingers trailing right down the center of your chest, her thumb hooking over your belt loop. "She’s meeting Mark Jennings from accounting at Terminal B. They rented a beachfront villa for a whole month. On your credit card, sweetie."

The silence in the kitchen is deafening, broken only by the hum of the refrigerator. Five years of excuses, locked out of your own marital bed. And now, funding her own affair.

Kim watches your face closely, her blue eyes darkening with a predatory thrill.

"I have the flight confirmation numbers on my phone," Kim murmurs, her voice dropping an octave, slipping from neighborhood gossip into something much darker and more intimate. She presses her pelvis forward, flush against your groin, letting you feel the absolute lack of fabric between you through your jeans. "Texts, too. Proof of the whole thing. She told me everything because she thinks I’m her little confidante. But you and I both know whose side I’m really on."

She tilts her chin up, looking up at you through her lashes, her grip on your belt tightening until you're locked against her. The dominant switch flips instantly in her eyes—the sweet, nosy neighbor mask dropping away.

"She's gone for a month, big guy," Kim whispers, her breath hot against your neck as her hand dips lower, bold and unhesitating. "And you look like a man who has a lot of pent-up frustration to burn off. Let me take care of you. We can start right here on the kitchen counter—and whatever weird, depraved shit you’ve been too polite to ask for? I'm game. Every last drop of it."

The front door clicks open with that familiar, slightly warped rattle of the deadbolt—a sound that usually signals Brenda is back from grocery shopping. But Brenda’s supposed to be airborne by now, heading out of DIA for her "solo wellness retreat" to the Caribbean.

Instead, a bright, melodic voice echoes from the kitchen.

"Hello? Anyone home?"

Stepping into the kitchen reveals Kim Timmins leaning casually against the island as if she owns the place. She is wearing a canary-yellow cropped halter top that strains across the heavy, gravity-defying sweep of her breasts, leaving a taut, perfectly flat midriff bare above a tight, ribbed crimson miniskirt. Underneath the thin cotton fabric, she is entirely pantyless—a fact well-established from past accidental glimpses over the garden wall. True to form, the moment she registers another presence, she snaps into her performance of the startled neighbor, blinking her big blue eyes against her pale, freckled peaches-and-cream complexion and pressing a hand to her chest.

"Oh! Jesus, you scared me," she gasps, smoothing the hem of her skirt down over her hips in a breathless little display. "I—the back gate was unlocked, and I saw your truck in the drive, and I just... well, I had to come straight over."

She offers a sharp, knowing little grin, her long, copper-red curls—hanging all the way down past the curve of her ass—swishing as she steps away from the island and closes the distance across the room. "Must've been the wind. Or maybe I just have a knack for getting where I’m wanted."

When met with silence, Kim lets out a cynical, unneighborly snort. "Oh, she’s heading to an airport, all right. Just not alone."

She doesn't wait for a prompt. "I'm talking about the fact that your dear, saintly wife—the one who’s made your life a celibate purgatory for half a decade over whatever petty grudge she’s nursing—isn't going to Barbados to 'find herself,' " Kim says, stepping directly into personal space. The scent of sweet vanilla and warm skin washes over the room. She reaches out, her manicured fingers trailing right down the center of the chest, her thumb hooking over a belt loop. "She’s meeting Mark Jennings from accounting at Terminal B. They rented a beachfront villa for a whole month. On your credit card, sweetie."

The kitchen is dead silent save for the hum of the refrigerator. Five years of excuses, locked out of a marital bed, funding an affair.

Kim watches closely, her blue eyes darkening with a predatory thrill. She pulls her phone out of her tight skirt pocket, flashing the screen with flight confirmations and texts.

"I have all the proof right here," Kim murmurs, her voice dropping an octave, slipping from neighborhood gossip into something much darker and more intimate. She presses her pelvis forward, flush against the front of your jeans, letting the absolute lack of fabric be known. "She told me everything because she thinks I’m her little confidante. But you and I both know whose side I’m really on."

Tilting her chin up through her lashes, her grip on the belt tightens until there is zero distance left between them. The sweet, nosy neighbor mask completely vanishes.

"She's gone for a month, big guy," Kim whispers, her breath hot against the skin of your neck as her hand dips lower, bold and unhesitating. "And you look like a man who has a lot of pent-up frustration to burn off. Let me take care of you. We can start right here on the kitchen counter—and whatever weird, depraved shit you’ve been too polite to ask for? I'm game. Every last drop of it."