by Alexis Angel
Not that he notices. No, whatever he’s thinking about, he’s thinking about it so hard that he doesn’t seem to be aware that other people even exist right now.
As far as he’s concerned, he’s in the Bradford’s laundry room totally alone—which becomes apparent when he shrugs off his lab coat, unbuckles the belt around his waist and starts to pull his shirt up over his head.
I should have fucking bolted then. I’m as much of an exhibitionist as the next ho, don’t get me wrong. But being totally nude in front of a total stranger, while kind of hot, isn’t exactly how I want to introduce myself to my neighbors.
In fact, I’m about to bolt. I’m about to do the quickest runner up to my apartment that I’ve ever done in my life. Like going streaking, but without the security guards at Yankee Stadium chasing after me for once.
But then I see them.
His abs.
His gorgeous, perfectly sculpted, Roman statue abs.
They’re the kind of abs that, once you see them, you actually can’t bring yourself to look away.
He has hairy arms, a hairy chest—a sexy happy trail leading the eye down his rock-hard stomach and disappearing beneath his unbuckled belt.
I could lick ice cream off of abs like that.
Hell, I want to go pick up my dinner order from New Kum Den and eat it off those abs in lieu of a plate.
My mouth is salivating just thinking about it.
My pussy is practically drooling, for fuck’s sake.
There’s a beautiful, perfect moment where his face is totally obscured while he pulls his t-shirt over his head, and I can’t decide whether I want to touch myself or just tackle him right there while he’s caught off guard.
Instead, I just stand there. Staring. Like a total fucking perv.
And like, look. I’m a tall, leggy bleach blonde with D-cups and a bubble butt. Usually I’m the one being perved on—not the other way around.
First time for everything, I guess.
Kind of like how, when he finally gets his shirt over his head and actually sees me gawking at him, I bet it’s the first time he’s been so startled that he gets an erection.
“Holy—” he says, freezing up and getting hard all at once.
If this was a porno, this is the point where the bang music would start playing.
Instead, he just stares back at me for a second.
And I stare at the way his dick is threatening the structural integrity of his slacks.
“Fuck,” he finishes, and then—thank god—he laughs. “Uh…shit, sorry. Looks like, ah…”
“We had the same idea?” I ask, a little smirk playing on my lips.
Because seriously. He’s gorgeous. He’s a modern Adonis in a lab coat.
Or, I guess, out of one—since it’s currently on the floor.
He stoops to pick it up and holds it out to me like a peace offering.
Personally, I’d rather he offered me that dick…
But I just wave it away.
“Nah, man,” I tell him. “It’s cool. Don’t let me compromise your load.”
“I’d say it’s already compromised,” he laughs.
I can practically feel his gaze gliding up and down my body. The way it lingers, he might as well be feeling up my tits.
And all things considered…I don’t think I even mind.
Actually, I think I’d like that.
I’d like that a lot.
“Sabrina.” I lean across the row of washers that separates my side of the room from his and offer him my hand to shake. “You must be new here. Normally, I’m the only one who does her laundry at four a.m.…thus.”
I nonchalantly gesture to my tits and watch his Adam’s apple bob up and down in his sexy throat as he takes my hand.
“Rainier,” he says back. “I’m…ah, fuck. I’m sorry for intruding. Honestly, I didn’t mean…Should I go?”
He’s trying really fucking hard to keep his eyes off my tits now, and I’m trying really fucking hard to stop imagining how they’d feel pressed up against his hunky chest.
“It’s okay. I’m just waiting on the dryer. I’ll go.” I try to pull my hand away—not that I want to—but he still has it held tight in his.
Rainier’s skin is warm. His palm is slightly calloused. And it takes him just long enough to let go of our handshake that I have a chance to realize how fucking wet I am right now.
“Seriously,” he says, pushing his lab coat into my hands before he lets me move away. “If you’re leaving…put this on. Who knows what kind of creeps might be lurking in the halls at this time of night.”
“Flashers, voyeurs and perverts, am I right?”
He smiles at me as I shrug his lab coat over my shoulders. “I hope I didn’t ruin your night, Sabrina.”
I can’t even help it. I wink at him as I turn to leave.
“Actually, I’d say that you made it a lot better.”
Two
Rainier
Whatever I expected when I bought my apartment at the Bradford…
Running into Botticelli’s The Birth of Venus bopping around in the laundry room wasn’t it.
Sabrina. Her name is Sabrina. Sabrina with the long blonde hair and the perky tits and the ass like it was sculpted by God himself…
I just keep seeing her as Venus in my head, is all.
It’s not that I’m not accustomed to beautiful women. Before med school, I could have a different woman in my bed every night of the fucking week. But since I started working the night shift…
I wouldn’t say that I don’t see many beautiful women anymore.
Just that when I do, they’re usually trauma victims being rushed through the ER and straight into surgery. Car accidents, mystery tumors, domestic violence injuries…when I see beautiful women, it’s usually on the worst days of their lives.
These days, when I’m inside someone, it’s because they’re laid out on my operating table instead of in my bed.
As it turns out, it’s hard to see a woman as a potential dinner date once you’ve pumped her stomach and picked pieces of her front windshield out of her major organs.
So, dating—dating isn’t much of a reality for me anymore. It doesn’t bother me much, except for when it does.
I’ve always wanted to be a father. But as far as my career is concerned, that’s a dream that was destined to be dead on arrival.
I need to let it go…even though that’s fucking hard sometimes.
Especially after seeing Aphrodite incarnate naked in the laundry room last night.
I probably spooked the hell out of her, walking in on her like that. I’m still kicking myself for not being smoother—or more charming—or for not getting her fucking number, for that matter.
On one hand, it’s funny how alike we are—apparently, we both work hard enough that when we do laundry, we wash everything we own all at once.
On the other, the second I laid eyes on her gorgeous tits and her waspish waist, that long blonde hair and those broad, curvaceous hips…
I popped an erection so intense it nearly ripped through my best slacks. I fucking know she noticed it, too.
As for the smell of wet cunt on her when she came over to shake my hand…
For my own sake, I’m telling myself I imagined that.
I feel like I ought to apologize, even though it was just one hell of an erotic coincidence. But as it turns out, Hallmark doesn’t sell cards that say, Sorry for accidentally seeing your tits.
I gave her my lab coat, which seemed like the gentlemanly thing to do.
And now I’m folding her laundry, which I’m hoping makes up for the rest.
I used to be such a fucking playboy in my youth. I think that’s why I enrolled in med school in the first place, truth be told. I fancied myself Doctor Playboy, thank you very much.
Figured that I would have sexy nurses and adoring patients swooning over me left and right while I played the hero and saved a shitload of lives.
It’s fu
nny how shit changes as you get older. Wiser. Less fucking cocky and more in tune with the responsibilities of the life your younger, dumber self chose for you.
I wouldn’t change it for the world, of course…
Even though I’ll always regret never becoming a dad.
It’s a reality that hits me twice as hard as I finish folding the last of Laundry Room Aphrodite’s La Perlas…
And unearth what has to be a pair of maternity pants.
Christ. Either Dryer Sheet Venus is one yummy mummy…or some lucky bastard has knocked her up already.
Of course, her body doesn’t look like she’s ever had a kid, and it’s not like she’s started to show.
But it would explain why her tits were so full and big and fucking brilliant.
And why her skin had that insane fucking glow.
The rest of her clothes are the furthest thing from maternity-wear, so I’m willing to entertain the idea that these could belong to a friend…
But a woman like that is probably spoken for already, and if her boyfriend or husband or whoever the fuck has knocked her up, I can’t even blame the guy.
If she were mine, I’d put a baby in her the minute she even entertained the idea.
Which is a pretty fucked up thing to think about a woman I only just met an hour ago.
I guess there’s just no denying it, though. The heart wants what the heart wants—and my heart wants to be a dad, even though in my head I know it’s a complete no-go.
And what my dick wants…
I fold the maternity pants up and place them in her laundry basket.
What my dick wants is irrelevant right now. I ought to thank her husband or boyfriend or whoever the fuck for the privilege of seeing her like that at all.
And then I ought to stay the fuck away from her—because if I let myself fantasize any harder about this Botticelli hottie, I won’t have any other choice but to steal her away from the poor schmuck.
Still, there’s no denying it…she’s going to be a hot mom.
And she’ll be needing a maternity doctor.
I figure that’s the final step of my apology. I pull out my prescription pad and scrawl her a quick note:
Sabrina—
Sorry for the laundry mishap earlier. If you need recommendations for a good doctor, feel free to drop by.
—Rainier, Apt. 21A
If I knew where to take the laundry, I’d bring it to her doorstep…but maybe that’s for the best.
Because then I wouldn’t just be tempted to talk to her again.
Then, I’d want to steal her away in the fucking night.
Her husband or boyfriend or whoever the fuck probably doesn’t deserve her anyway.
Christ.
I grab my own basket of clean clothes and head back up to my place.
But while the clothes might be clean…there are nothing but dirty thoughts about that gorgeous blonde goddess in my mind.
Three
Sabrina
I’ve got the maternity pants in one hand and Rainier’s note in the other, a blush on my cheeks and a swear on my lips.
“FUCK.” I crumble the note up and shove it in my pocket. “Fuck, fucking fuck fuck fuckity…fuck.”
Which sums this situation up pretty fucking perfectly, if you ask me.
Look, I’m super not pregnant, okay? I’m like, the total opposite of pregnant. If I wasn’t late for work already, I’d head up to 21A and bang down the door to tell him so myself.
I’m like, the opposite of pregnant.
I could be the poster girl for not fucking pregnant.
But now that he’s folded my fucking maternity pants—not to mention my entire collection of La Perlas—fat fucking chance that he’ll believe that.
I know how it looks. Like, why the hell would a very-not-pregnant woman my age be rocking around with a pair of maternity pants in her dirty laundry, right?
Never mind that I only wear them when I’m on my period and totally bloated and need them to hold a hot water bottle in while I sit at my desk all night.
Try explaining that to a dude, and you’d hear fucking crickets, man.
Which is exactly what I would hear from Paging-Doctor-Hottie…if I even had the time.
Which I don’t.
“Fuck!” I yell again as I toss the laundry basket onto my bed.
I dig around in it for a clean shirt, pull it on and race out the door.
By the time I get to the station, I’m still wondering why the fuck I even care what Rainier thinks about the current status of my uterus.
He’s a dude who saw me naked in the laundry room last night.
…A really hot dude.
With a body that I kind of want to put my tongue all over.
Okay. So by the time I pull my headphones on, I know exactly why I care: I want to ride Dr. Rainier McDreamboat’s dick until we both pass out from sheer fucking ecstasy, which isn’t going to happen now unless he’s one of those guys.
Considering that his note said he wanted to recommend me a maternity doctor, not stick his dick in me where the sun don’t shine, I would guess that’s not the case.
“Sinful Selections, you’re on the air,” I say into the mic as the last song fades out.
If I wasn’t a good fucking DJ, I would bitch about this to my listeners.
But since Dr. McDreamboat seems like the up-all-night type as well…fuck, with my luck he’s probably a listener to boot.
Instead, I just take the fucking call.
“Hey, Sabrina,” an attractive male voice says on the other end of the line. Not Dr. McDreamboat attractive, admittedly…but I bet he’s somebody’s type. “I’ve got a song request for you. A special one, actually.”
I laugh a little into the mic. “What’s your name, buddy? You sound a little nervous.”
He laughs back, which is a good sign. People get weird when they’re on the air sometimes—especially when the calls are coming in this late at night.
“Evan,” the caller tells me. “See, I’m here with this girl I’ve been seeing lately, and she thinks I’m too afraid to commit—so what I’m thinking is, maybe if I say it live on air to everyone in the Big Apple still awake at four in the morning, she might fucking believe me for once.”
“I’ve got your back, Evan. What’s the song?”
He tells me, and I set it up for him, keeping the volume on low so the listeners and I can hear what he has to say.
“Emilia…you’re the mouthiest fucking woman I’ve ever met. You drive me crazy. You’re so stubborn it makes me want to pull all my hair out and live the rest of my life as a bald man. And if I fuck you any fucking harder, one of these days we’re going to end up breaking my goddamn bed…
“But I love you, babe. I’m in love with you. And if you won’t be mine…I’m going to keep calling into every radio station in the city requesting this song so it haunts you for the rest of your fucking life.”
I’m seriously grinning like crazy right now. If this was any other radio station at any other time of the day, we would have had to bleep out like every third word this dude just said…
But as far as professions of love go, it’s a winner in my book.
“What do you say, Emilia?” I ask, leaning into the mic.
But the sounds that are coming from Evan’s end of the line now are…well, frankly they’re the kind that we do have to bleep.
“Horny little shits,” I laugh. “That sounds like a yes, folks.”
I turn the volume up and let the music play them out.
By the time my shift is over, the sun is coming up. I’m fumbling around for the keys to my door when I find Rainier’s note again.
Gah. This shouldn’t still be bothering me, dammit!
Except that it is. It totally is.
I shove it back into my pocket and head for the elevator.
If Evan and Emilia are getting their happily ever after…
Then dammit, I’m going to set this right.
; Four
Rainier
She was on my mind for my entire shift.
It’s strange how a single, simple memory of a hot naked blonde waiting for her clothes to finish drying got me through twelve grueling hours of work…but it did.
It got me through the emergency appendectomy that we caught just in time.
Through the careful extraction of three quarters that a sobbing four-year-old decided to stash up his nose.
Through the five minutes I spent wrestling a loaded pistol from the hands of a Wall Street fat cat who had put all his money on the wrong company, and through the hour I spent talking him down afterward before they could find a bed for him in the psych ward.
It even got me through the awkward explanations of a man who accidentally sat on a 12-inch vibrating dildo, accidentally getting it stuck up his ass.
Poor fucker vibrated the entire way to the ER, too.
So, yeah. I thought of Sabrina’s tits for twelve hours straight.
Even I can admit that it wasn’t healthy, but even I can’t deny that it helped me get through the day, either.
By the time I get home, all I want to do is start knocking on doors. The Bradford is a tall building with a lot of apartments to cover, but I figure if I do a few every night, eventually I’ll either find her or come to regret it.
But even if I did find her…I don’t know what the fuck I would even say.
Hey, Sabrina, congrats on your pregnancy. I knocked on every door of this building because I’m in love with your cunt. Wanna leave your husband for me and hop on my dick?
Not fucking likely.
Instead, I slump down on my couch and consider my options.
She still has my lab coat.
And she’s got my apartment number.
It’s something. And I’m grasping at straws here—so something actually means a lot.
Imagine my surprise, then, when I hear the knock on my door.
She’s wearing a pair of black jeans and a t-shirt with some obscure rock band’s name on it. I recognize them from the laundry I folded last night.