by Sam Mariano
“Oh. Okay. Yeah, I didn’t even want that,” she says, playfully nudging my shoulder.
Oh, my God, that smell again.
“Did you change shampoos?” I ask her.
Her eyebrows rise in surprise. She just showered so she’s not wearing any make-up, but I like her natural look. “Yeah. I can’t believe you noticed that,” she remarks, casually. “My sister and I went and got our hair done when I visited for Thanksgiving and I got this new shampoo to try. Like it?”
“Not really.”
“Oh. Sorry? Next time you’re going to break into my apartment, give me a little extra notice and I’ll make sure to use a different kind.”
“No.” It’s out before I can stop it, and I’m shaking my head, looking over at her. God, she’s close. “No, keep using this one.”
Shooting me a funny look, she asks, “The one you don’t like?”
I nod, wishing she would’ve brought more whiskey. I need more whiskey. The arousal isn’t going away. She smells like Mia, she’d definitely look enough like her from behind, and right now my cock is trying to convince me I could make an exception to my “don’t fuck the neighbors” rule.
“Okay,” she says slowly, her blue eyes narrow on me. “Are you all right?”
I hand her my glass. “More whiskey.”
My cock surges to life again when she obeys without question.
Jesus Christ, I need to leave this apartment. That is not Mia, and regardless of what my libido is trying to tell me right now, it’s not okay to use the nice neighbor girl as a surrogate just because she smells like her and obediently fetches me a drink when I tell her to.
Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck.
Like an angel, she brings the whole bottle. She gives me a cute little smirk as she takes her seat beside me again. “I didn’t know how many more times you’d make me get up otherwise.”
Her goddamn wet hair is a curse. The scent hits me again. She smells fucking amazing. I want to grab her and pull her into my lap. I’m desperately trying to remember why I shouldn’t do that. I need to change the subject.
That’s what I need to do. Somehow instead I find myself looking over at her, my gaze hooded. I let my gaze linger on her plump lips then travel down to the outline of those perfect round breasts beneath her night shirt. The fabric is pooled between her legs and I’m tortured with the knowledge that if I slipped my hand underneath, there’d be no fabric to stop my fingers from exploring her pussy.
“Is this how your break-in fantasy goes?” I murmur, smirking at her.
She bites down on her lower lip, I think just to fucking torment me. Smiling, her voice soft, she says, “No. You’d have to wait until I went to bed. Lights off. Then you break in, creep through the dark living room into my bedroom….” Her words trail off and she lets her gaze move over my body with the same slow, thoroughness I just showed her. “I’m curled up on the bed with my back to you. You can see every curve of my body basked in moonlight. You know it’s crazy, reckless, but you want to touch me. Have to touch me. So you climb up on the bed. I’m startled awake. You’d have to cover my mouth to keep me from screaming, of course.”
“Of course,” I murmur in quiet agreement.
“I’d be a little scared…I’d probably squirm. I almost never wear panties to bed, so I guess I’m not all that prepared for a fight.”
“Jesus.”
She bites down on her lip to rein in her smile, but her gaze drops to my lips. “So I’m squirming against your body and my sleep shirt’s riding up around my waist. I’m no weakling, but I’m no match for your strength. You pin me down but I keep squirming against you, getting you all excited. Whoops. Guess I’m at your mercy now. Whatever will you do with me?”
My poor cock throbs. This is fucking agony.
Trailing her fingers lightly down my arm, she leans a little closer, talks a little quieter. She leans close to my ear so she can practically whisper, and also so I can feel her perfect tits on my shoulder. Christ. “Would you threaten me?” she asks, tempting me on purpose. “Tell me to keep my mouth shut? Or maybe you’d prefer my mouth open?” Her lips never touch my skin, but I can feel her breath on my neck as she continues. “Would you put your arm across my neck and look down into my eyes while you unfastened your pants? Would you guide my hand down to stroke you, to make me feel how hard you are?” Her hand skates across my thigh when she asks this, but it doesn’t move in to feel how hard I actually am, here in this real-life moment. “What do you think you’d see in my eyes? It’s dark, the only light the moonlight spilling in through the window. I bet you can still get a good look at me, though. Do you rip the sleep shirt off over my head and throw me face-down on the bed? Do you spread my legs, run your hands over my bare ass?” Now she uses her index finger to lightly trace my fingers. “Do you push one of these inside me? Am I wet for you, Vince?”
My heart beats in my fucking throat as I visualize every word she’s saying. As I imagine pushing a finger inside her hot cunt, the sounds she’d make as I did.
I want more whiskey, but it’s only going to compel me to make worse decisions. I’m so fucking aroused right now, it takes every goddamn scrap of will power I have not to yank her in my lap. I know she’s not wearing panties. I know if I unzipped my pants and yanked her in my lap, I could spread her open, plant my cock inside her, and fuck the shit out of her right here, right now.
Leaning back, she plucks the whiskey bottle from my hand, unscrews the cap, and pours some into her glass. Her voice at a completely normal decibel now, like she’s not even turned on at all, she says, “If I had a break-in fantasy, it would probably be something like that.” With a little wink, she holds out the whiskey glass.
I take it.
Then she retrieves the dossier and begins to flip through it like she didn’t just turn me on to the point of pain and leave me hanging.
I guess I should be glad she’s fucking distracted, but damn if I’m not a little insulted.
Grimacing at the bastard’s fake record, she says, “Ooh, armed robbery. No, thank you, Mr. Virginia. Not that I’m firmly against armed robbers, but a lot can go wrong in that scenario. Some poor clerk could lose his life so you can steal $40 out of a cash register? Go big or go home. This guy can just go home.”
Now she’s moved on to the printed out reddit comments. She reads them casually to herself, then sighs and runs her fingers across the paper. “Look at this. He’s clearly intelligent. Why is he wasting his time with stupid shit like this? He should be a Marine. A sexy, smart Marine. Muscles and intelligence. These comments are kind of naughty. That’s okay, I don’t want to be going to bed back-to-back six nights a week anyway; he better fuck me good and give me a cuddle at least most nights.”
I don’t know why this aggravates me, but I pluck the papers right out of her hand and toss them on the floor. “You’re not fucking the Marine.”
“You said he’s not a Marine.”
“Whatever he is,” I mutter, taking a sip of my whiskey. Clearing my throat, I shake my head. “You don’t need to fuck a criminal.”
“Well, Mr. Straight and Narrow may not want to hold me down and act out a break-in fantasy with me,” she says lightly, wiggling her eyebrows, her damn blue eyes twinkling at me. “I need a guy with a little edge.”
This woman has me so fucked up right now, I don’t know which way’s up. One minute she’s intentionally turning me on and talking about being wet for me, and literally the next minute she’s talking about what kind of guy she should fuck next like I’m her girlfriend.
I haven’t encountered a tease in a while. Teasing me doesn’t usually work. I don’t give a single fuck, so you’re not going to make me chase you with your bullshit games. If you’re not up for exactly what I’m up for, exactly when I’m up for it, I move on to a girl who is.
It doesn’t hit me the same way now. I don’t know why. Maybe it’s because Carly seems to have such a pleasant nature. Maybe it’s because I’m pretty confident if I pushed
her back on this couch and planted myself between her bare legs right now, she would let me fuck her. Maybe she’s teasing, but I have a strong feeling she’d back her shit up if I wanted her to.
Maybe it’s just because in this isolated moment I really want to push her back on this couch and fuck her. Because I want her breathless with pleasure, moaning my name as I shove my cock inside her over and over until she comes for me.
I don’t know.
Whatever the reason, it’s no good.
Planting the whiskey bottle on the end table beside the couch, I push forward and stand up. I’m still visibly aroused, but she’s watching my face, not my crotch. She looks a little worried, like maybe she did something wrong.
“Anyway, now you have proof the guy’s a tool. Don’t talk to the Marine anymore.”
She watches me for a moment, then nods. “All right.”
I allow myself a last once-over since so much more of her body is on display than usual. Her legs shift and I nearly catch a glimpse between her legs as the fabric moves. My gaze darts to her face, but she looks completely innocent, like she doesn’t even realize she just nearly flashed me.
Wariness moves through me. There’s so much about this girl that feels familiar, but on a whole new person. I told myself I’ve been trying to find someone like Mia to fill the hole she left, but looking at this girl with the coconut hair, chipped fingernail polish and propensity for trying to get murdered, the only thing I want to do is run away.
I’ve been here before.
I know how it ends.
With her breaking my heart.
With me in pieces.
Chapter Five
Vince
Since I wordlessly fled Carly’s apartment the other night, I haven’t seen her. I’ve worked longer shifts these few days so I worried I might run into her on my way in or out of my apartment, but I’ve managed to avoid her.
And I am avoiding her. I mean, usually she shows up on my doorstep so it’s not like I seek her out anyway, but I feel like it’s going to be weird when I see her again and I don’t wanna deal with it. This is exactly why I don’t fuck pretty neighbors. I didn’t even fuck this one and I still might have to deal with the weirdness. Damn sure got the short end of that deal.
I’ve been home for about an hour Saturday night when the knocking starts.
I don’t even bother to greet her, I just lean an arm against my doorframe and lift an expectant eyebrow.
She grins at me, as bright and cheerful as always. “Hey, neighbor. What are you up to tonight?”
“Research.”
She schools her pretty features into a covert expression. “For your criminal mastermind degree? Awesome. Need help? I could be your sidekick. I’m really good at doing research. Do you know why pound cake is called pound cake? Someone asked me once, so I do. Wanna know why?”
“Nope.”
“But it’ll back-up my research assistant credentials,” she says, like I’m being unreasonable.
“It’s an unpaid position,” I inform her.
“Can I wear a lab coat? I think I’d look really hot in a lab coat. High heels. Red lipstick. Maybe nothing underneath.”
Motherfucker.
She flashes me a grin and a casual wink, then moves on. “Anyway, I ordered a pizza that’s way too big for me to consume by myself, so I thought I’d see if maybe you could help a girl out?”
“I’m always helping you out,” I tell her.
“I know,” she says, swaying forward and playfully touching my arm. Her gesture is obviously flirty, and I have no idea whether or not to take it seriously. She doesn’t make me decide though, she just moves right along. “You’re like my own personal Superman. I get in a bind, there you are to save me. Too bad we didn’t know each other for Halloween. I could’ve been your Lois Lane.”
“I’m not looking for a Lois Lane,” I state. “And trust me, I’m the furthest thing from Superman.”
“Maybe you’re red kryptonite Clark. Did you ever watch Smallville? It’s this old Superman show I used to watch with Laurel, and oh, my god, I had such a crush on red kryptonite Clark. I guess the red kryptonite was a bad influence, it made him get all moody and sexy and he broke laws and went all bad boy—but with super powers. Laurel was like ‘he’s such a jerk’ and I was like ‘If I could give a fictional man my phone number, I swear to God.’ Regular Superman is a bit too good for me, but you’re a secret criminal, so you’re perfectly balanced. Save my kitten from a tree during the day, pick my lock and break into my bedroom after dark—swoon.”
This girl is fucking crazy.
Grinning, she nods toward her apartment. “Anyway, your place or mine? Where are we plotting?”
“Neither. I wasn’t joking; I really have stuff to do tonight.”
“Research stuff?” she questions.
“Yes.”
“I’m really good at researching. Can I help?”
“No. You’ve distracted me enough; I need to get back to my own shit.”
“What kind of shit? I’m really bored. I still haven’t found a job so I have a lot of time on my hands. You’d be doing me a favor.”
“Nothing you can help with.”
“Well, then why don’t you take an hour off and come eat pizza with me? It’s free food and good company; just say yes.”
I need to tell her no. I need to make her leave—and I should be mean to her so she doesn’t come back.
Thing is, I just don’t want to.
That’s why I should, though.
“Why?” I ask.
Cocking her head to the side as if confused, she asks, “Why what?”
“Why do you want me to come over?”
Blinking a couple of times, she drawls, “Because pizza. We covered this already.”
Looking down at the dirty, splintered threshold, I decide to offer up a little more forthright honesty than I typically offer girls these days. I’m not sure why it’s different with her. I’m not sure why I feel like I owe this girl—who I’ve never so much as kissed—any kind of explanation when I’ve given far less consideration to girls I’ve actually fucked.
“I don’t know what you’re looking to get out of this,” I tell her. “But I don’t have anything to offer you.”
I expect a cheeky comeback but she just watches me, waiting to see if I’ll go on. Kinda makes me feel like I should.
“I don’t date,” I explain. “If that’s what you’re looking for, you’re wasting your time. It’s nothing personal. You’re fun, you’re obviously attractive, you’re nice, you make damn good cookies—I just don’t want to date anybody. I’m in sort of a weird place in life. I know that sounds like a bullshit, fuckboy explanation but I actually mean it. I won’t even let a girl come over to my apartment. That’s literally too much for me. The idea of someone spending the night in my bed makes me legitimately nauseous.”
“Because you enjoy your random hook-ups too much to part with them?” she asks lightly.
“No, I hate those. I just… get lonely sometimes.”
Her casual smile slips. I immediately regret saying it. I didn’t mean to. Jesus. That was—I don’t know how that made its way out. Now I really want her to leave.
Taking a step back, preparing to flee her company again, I tell her, “Thanks for the invite, but—”
“Wait. Don’t…” She trails off, but takes a step closer, not letting me close the door on her. Her seamless playfulness seems to have taken a hit in light of my stupid fucking share, and she seems to be debating what to say. I hate this. This is exactly why I avoid shit like this. Vulnerability is the absolute worst thing in the fucking world, and even a sliver of it is too much. I don’t know what possessed me to tell this girl I get lonely. Jesus Christ.
After thinking for a second, she takes another step closer. Because I want to flee her more than anything, I take a step back. Her eyes narrow, but there’s a hint of amusement coming back.
“Don’t run from me,” she says
, simply. “Maybe you wouldn’t get lonely if you let yourself have a friend. That’s all I’m looking for. Nothing scary. No commitment. Just a friend.”
“Do you talk about your break-in fantasies with all your friends?” I ask her pointedly.
“All the hot ones, obviously. You should hear the naughty conversations Gus and I have.” She shakes her head. “They’d make you blush.”
Cracking a reluctant smile, I roll my eyes. “I somehow doubt you’re capable of making me blush.”
Her blue eyes widen like that’s an absurd claim. “I wouldn’t be so sure.” Nodding her head, she turns her back to me and heads toward her apartment. “Lock up, Superman. Come have pizza with me.”
---
Three hours, two episodes of Smallville, and almost a whole pizza later, I’m sitting on the floor in front of Carly’s couch while she relaxes on her belly above me.
“This show isn’t good,” I inform her.
“Shush, you. This show is wonderful. At least, my 16-year-old self believed it was when I watched it with Laurel. On the basis of every other opinion I held at that tender age, it’s completely infallible.”
“You talk about her a lot. You guys are close, I take it?”
She twists her index and middle fingers together. “Super tight. The only thing I hate about Connecticut is how far away from her it is. I’ve never lived so far away that I’ve had to go weeks without seeing her before. It’s weird.”
“How old is she?”
“She just turned 19 a month ago.”
“How old are you?” I ask.
“I’ll be 23 in May.”
Just a little younger than me. I nod my head. “Where’d you live before?”
“Chicago, born and raised. That’s where Laurel goes to school now.”
I turn to look back at her. “No shit. That’s where I’m from.”
She smiles and nudges me in the shoulder. “Look at that. We could’ve met already. When did you move away?”
“Few years ago.”
“Is that where your family is?” she asks casually.
