By all logical sense, of which I had a plenty, I wasn’t overweight. I was barely over. I sat at a solid one thirty-five, which to some, seemed like a stupid reason to hate one’s own body shape. But when you grew up with a mom who fed you weight loss granola bars and constantly poked at your baby fat to make a point, body issues were a very real part of your day by the time you hit that pesky, self-conscious age of fifteen. By sixteen, I had wanted to kill myself. Some days, literally. Unlike my sister who went on to open her own gym and spent her days telling cake lovers everywhere they should worship at the temple that was their own bodies and be more socially acceptable, I liked my body wrapped nice and tight beneath layers. Layers gave me an excuse to hide the pudge I could see drooping off me every time I looked in the mirror.
It was strange that I would get the inferiority complex about my image, while Lana, who was older by six years, had to live six whole years more with that woman than I did. Growing up, she had gotten the worst of our mother’s abuse. Everything from her face, to her voice, to the way she walked and chewed her food was criticized and my mom was not known for holding back the punches. While she had never lashed out physically, the taunts, jabs, and cruel remarks were so much worse. From the years between fifteen and seventeen, I had no mirrors in my room. When I did happen to catch a glimpse of my reflection, I could never meet my own eyes. I was twenty by the time I had the courage to stick my head out from behind books and my hair. I only had to leave the country and put thousands of miles between me and my mom to do it. So to say I had a slight problem with Sexy, Next Door’s request was an understatement.
But I read on, mind already made up that I would ignore the request.
Call me tonight at seven. Block your number.
P/S, if you’re with someone, ignore this.
Sincerely,
The Voyeur Next Door.
There was a series of ten numbers written at the bottom and they stared up at me with a mocking sort of slant. The cheerleaders had stopped their whooping and hollering to giggle and pondering just how sexy his voice would sound telling me to touch myself. Yet my rational brain couldn’t help wondering how he planned on making this fantasy a reality with all his conditions. I may not have had sex in a while, but even I knew people had to get damn close to make magic happen.
Didn’t matter, I told myself with haughty indignation. I wasn’t going to do it. I wasn’t going to expose myself to some stranger who could possibly take one look at me and flinch. Last night had been a onetime thing. The way I saw it, we both came and it was good times all around. Why ruin that by adding to it?
Setting aside the letter, I grabbed my purse and went off to do the one thing I’d been dutifully putting off for the last two weeks—grocery shopping, or as I liked to call it, foraging for sustenance in the heart of a warzone.
I hated the whole process. I hated wheeling that rickety cart up and down overflowing aisles, bypassing idiot shoppers and their hell spawns only to stand at the only register open out of thirty for two hours. There were days I preferred gnawing on my own arm rather than endure that bullshit.
Nevertheless, I liked my arms. They helped me do things, like masturbate to my next door neighbor, so grocery shopping it was.
For a miserably hot Wednesday afternoon, everyone and their mother was at Mike’s One-Stop Shop. I barely found a cart, and when I did, I had to snatch it away from a woman in hot, pink spandex pants and a tank top that read: Future Trophy Wife. She snarled something at me in Spanish that I was pretty sure wasn’t a blessing. But in my defense, I had my hand on the thing first. Wasn’t there a universal code for that? Like finders keepers?
She called me a puta bitch and threatened to mess me up when I came out, to which I asked, why wait? I took advantage of her temporary surprise and hurried away, because for all my big talk, she had claws and about six inches of stiletto over me.
Cart in tow, I threw myself into the fray. Mothers with their irate, screaming children seemed to be the main theme of the place. I didn’t even bother risking my life going through the snack aisle. It seemed to be the main hunting grounds, like the zombie apocalypse gone horribly wrong.
At the dairy section, I slowed. My gaze lingered on the eggs and I thought of Earl, which inadvertently, made me think of Gabriel. I felt no remorse for drowning him in my iced tea. He deserved it as far I was concerned, but it did make me feel bad because I knew Earl had his heart set on me being there and, unlike his grandson, I actually liked him. He reminded me of the grandfather I never had. Plus he was actually a decent guy. How many people went out of their way to hire a complete stranger? He didn’t have to, but he did and I was grateful to him for his kindness. It was just too bad his grandson was such a dick.
I grabbed a carton and flipped open the top to check for breaks. It was a habit I learned the hard way back in university after a heated debate with the store clerk about whether or not the eggs had been broken before, or after I bought them. Neither one of us could prove it wasn’t our fault. Ultimately, the blame was placed on me for not checking before buying and I learned a valuable lesson.
“Ali!”
The unexpected explosion of my name sent every nerve ending in my body into automatic panic mode. I jumped. The eggs shot out of my hand and splattered in a yellow mess across the linoleum, yet the worst part was my undignified screech as I whirled around.
Gabriel stared back at me, gray eyes enormous in surprise, like he couldn’t understand what the fuck just happened.
“What the hell is wrong with you?” I exploded, clutching at my chest where my heart was threatening to vomit in fright all over my ribcage. “Why are you sneaking up on people?”
He continued to gawk at me from beneath a filthy black baseball cap that was drawn low over his eyes. Stray wisps of hair curled around his ears and along the back of his neck where his t-shirt collar began. It was also black, as were his jeans and disgusting boots.
“Are you robbing the place?”
His brows furrowed as they seemed to do often whenever I spoke. It made me wonder if maybe we didn’t speak the same type of English.
“I called you,” he said finally. “Everyone in the store heard me.”
“I doubt that,” I countered, letting my hand drop down to my side. “This place is like the set of some war movie.”
He said nothing and I wondered if I had to start explaining myself to the guy. I knew my wit wasn’t for everyone, but seriously, I thought I was hilarious.
“So…” I began slowly. “This is awkward.”
“Earl was asking for you this morning,” he said at the exact same moment. “But he didn’t know how to get a hold of you.”
“So, you’re stalking me?”
His eyes narrowed. “I came to get a few things for the flat and saw you.”
It was then that I noticed the cart behind him, filled with things like whole grain and soy. It was all the things in the organic, healthy choices aisle I usually avoided like the plague and children.
“Wow!” I mused, unable to suppress my amazement, and mild amusement. “You’re really taking this mountain man thing to the next level, huh?”
So I had to admit that his beard wasn’t too terrible outside the rustic grunge of his auto body shop. Dressed in black with those intense gray eyes, he actually kind of looked … hot, like a really buff rocker.
“Mountain man?”
I decided to avoid his question by reaching for another carton of eggs. I gingerly set it down in the little spot reserved for children and started moving forward.
“How is Earl?” I asked, feeling the full power of Gabriel’s eyes burning holes into my spine.
“Upset.” He fell into step alongside me with his cart lining up with mine. “He really has his heart set on you working at the shop.”
“And you still hate it,” I ventured, already knowing the answer.
“Yes.” At least he was honest. “I will never like the idea.” He turned his head and I was caugh
t in those silvery eyes. “But if this is important to Earl, I’ll learn to get over it.”
“Just like that?” I stopped walking and turned to him. “You’ll put up with me because your grandfather is upset?”
He stopped next to me and nudged the knuckle of one bent finger against the bill of his cap.
“Earl raised me after my dad died,” he said evenly. “He did all the things a dad would do with his kid right down to beating my ass when I deserved it. There is very little I wouldn’t do for him, even if it means putting up with you.”
While I wasn’t thrilled at being put up with, I came to the notion that I needed a job. Badly. I also had nothing lined up, nor had I bothered looking for anything since moving back and it wasn’t because I was lazy. I had wanted to take the time off and enjoy … me. Between getting emotionally stifled by my mother and then working my brains to soup at school, I had no idea who I was. It was the first time in twenty-three years where I got to do what I wanted, where I was the boss of me. But the time for fun and games was over. I had to join the world of the responsible adult.
“Okay,” I said. “But I have one condition.”
Gabriel gave an almost imperceptible nod.
“I only work until six.”
Gabriel didn’t ask why. Maybe he figured I had some hot social life, or maybe he was at the point where he would agree to anything to appease his grandfather. Either way, I was relieved. I wasn’t sure how to explain my after hour curricular activities to him. I highly doubted neighbor watching would classify as a normal hobby. I didn’t think he would understand. But I paid for my things—paying double for the eggs to cover the cost of the ones I annihilated across the dairy aisle floor—and left the grocery store. Gabriel didn’t follow. He turned his cart in the opposite direction after our talk and disappeared through the throng of frustrated mothers and screaming children.
At home, I packed everything away and made my way into the bedroom with a fruit cup and a spoon. I turned the TV on to some random channel, then made my way to the terrace doors. I pushed them open and stood watching the blank windows. It was still early, too early for anyone to be home. Even Large, Hairy Man had a day job. His battered and severely dented recliner sat lonely and empty in the shabby state of his apartment. But my main focus was the patio straight across from mine. A hot surge of liquid desire coursed through me and pooled in my center. I felt the clench of my muscles grasping for something that wasn’t there and I forgot all about my fruit cup.
Could I? Could I call him and set up a time to meet and fuck? Could I really be that daring? While I wasn’t some wilting wallflower, I wasn’t exactly a leap into the lion’s den kind of girl either. It took a year for me to let my last boyfriend get into my pants. I wouldn’t even wear shorts around him. When we did finally have sex, the lights were off and the curtains were drawn. But I had a feeling it wouldn’t be like that with Sexy, New Neighbor. He would want to see everything and that scared the holy hell out of me. How was I supposed to let him look at this body when even I couldn’t?
No. The best thing to do would be to ignore his request. I would send him a note back, saying thank you, but I wasn’t interested, which was such a lie. I didn’t think I had ever been more interested in anything in my life. I wanted more of the previous night. I wanted to feel that rush. I wanted him to watch.
Clearly, I had problems.
I opted for the coward’s way out. I walked back into the apartment and flopped down on the bed to pretend to watch the weather channel with my fruit cup. All the while, my gaze and attention kept darting to the alarm clock. My subconscious slowly counted down the hours that eased by until seven. By six forty-five, I was nervous enough to piss myself. I was trembling and cotton mouthed like I’d spent the day licking the carpet. My stomach writhed with anxiety and anticipation and the fruit cup was making a comeback. I still hadn’t made up my mind and the quicker time ran out, the more I wanted to scream in frustration.
Call me at seven, he’d said. Well, what if I needed more time? He hadn’t even given me an option. Why couldn’t he have said between seven and infinity? What the hell was I supposed to do?
“Okay, pull yourself together,” I told myself with a firmness that surprised even me. “You will call him and tell him you’re not that kind of girl.”
And what the hell kind of girl was I? I wondered lamely. The day before, I hadn’t believed I was the sort to finger myself out in public either and yet … so I clearly couldn’t use that excuse. Well, maybe I didn’t need an excuse. I was a grown woman and if I didn’t want to sleep with a stranger, well, damn it, I wasn’t going to sleep with him. It wasn’t like I owed him anything. He got off and got a show just like I did. As far as I was concerned, we were even.
My eyes darted to the clock.
Six fifty-seven.
Where the hell was the time going? I swear it never moved that fast when I needed it to.
“Okay.”
I stalked confidently to the dresser and snatched up the note. Then I walked to the end table and grabbed the phone. I held both tightly in my hands and reminded myself that I was a badass sex goddess and I could do this. Yet the urge to vomit persisted.
My hand shook so badly, I had to stop and get my glasses when the numbers became a vibrating blur. I propped myself on the bed and dialed the digits to block my number before punching in his.
It was exactly seven.
Don’t pick up.
Don’t pick up.
Please, God, I will go to church most every Sunday if you…
Click.
“Hello.”
His voice was a low, husky drawl that made me all but come on the spot. Jesus. The man had sex phone operator voice.
“Hi.” My breathy, terrified squeak was mortifying. “I’m—”
“I know who you are.”
I licked my lips, tasting the bitter tang of my own nerves. “I got your note.” I winced. He knows you got his note, idiot! I tried again. “Thank you.”
Apparently, my brain, as smart as it pretended to be, was an absolute moron when it came to men. Where the hell was the sultry vixen it claimed to be? I wondered if it was too late to hang up. Then he spoke.
“You were watching me last night.”
I swallowed before I could speak. “Yes.”
“Do you make a habit of watching people through their windows?”
I snorted slightly. “Yes.”
He was quiet. Then, “Do you touch yourself when you watch them?”
“No.”
“But you did with me.”
It wasn’t a question, nevertheless…
“Yes.”
So far, this was a pretty easy conversation. I just had to listen and occasionally answer with a short and simple response. I could handle that.
“I liked watching you.”
My core clenched and moistened at his husky confession. My breathing quickened and it was a struggle keeping my voice even.
“Me too.”
I heard what I could only assume was a sharp intake of air and even that was sexy as hell.
“I want to see you come again. I want to hear you.”
The sheets rustled as I shifted, trying to peel my soaked panties away from my throbbing crotch. The man held nothing back and I kind of loved that about him.
“Yes,” I breathed, shamelessly flushed and wanton.
A low growl crossed the line between us and catapulted down the length of my spine. It crackled along my skin, raising goose bumps and hardening my nipples to fine points against the front of my robe. The silk fabric whispered against the sensitive peaks, sending another wave of arousal over me that I barely managed to stifle between my teeth.
I didn’t care how we did it, or where, I wanted him inside me. It didn’t even matter that I didn’t know his name, or even what he looked like. All I knew was that I wanted him and that was all I could think about.
“I want you,” I said, seeing no point in pretending oth
erwise.
“Christ, I want you, too.”
My gaze went to my dresser, my mind an eager little hamster contemplating just how long it would take to get dressed and to his apartment, when he spoke again.
“But we need rules.”
I blinked. Mindless, satisfying sex had rules?
“Rules?”
A sort of chuckle, sort of groan left him. “All things worthwhile have rules.”
I supposed he was right, but I wasn’t sure I liked it. Somehow, whenever I thought of crazy animal sex, I imagined no rules and just a lot of fucking.
“Okay?” I decided carefully.
“No names,” he said right off the bat. “No attachments. This is purely physical. I don’t want to know about your day, or what your plans are for the future. We will set up a time each evening when we can both meet and go our separate ways afterwards. The main purpose of this is sexual gratification without the mess.”
“So how would this work?” I wondered, trying to work the scene out in my head.
“At first? Webcams. I will watch you and you will watch me. Overtime, should we both agree on it, we will progress the relationship while maintaining the stipulations.”
“Why?” I murmured at last. “Why like this? Why not in person?”
“Because I liked knowing that watching me touch myself got you off. I want to see it again. I want to watch you touch yourself for me. We’re not like other people. The anonymity is what gets us hot. Should we ever met, that mystery will be gone. The rules will change and I don’t want that just yet.”
There was no arguing that point. I did like the mystery. I secretly liked the idea of him getting off simply by watching me touch myself. Maybe partially, it was also a sort of ego boost. It was the knowledge that my body was sexy enough to turn a man on.
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