takes off his shirt, leaving him in just an undershirt that shows off his toned body, as he focuses on the task at hand.
As I watch him work, his flexing muscles make me think of the night before and the skillful way he rolled his hips. The insanely hot way he’d bite his lower lip and watch himself disappear inside that woman. The way his sexy, unruly hair was matted to his forehead, the strands tempting me to run my fingers through them. About halfway through, I have to excuse myself and pretend I need to take an important phone call outside, so I can get my shit together. I was falling apart in there. All I had done for a solid thirty minutes was scroll through my phone, searching for help by texting Kassandra. I needed to do something, anything to get my mind off him and the fact that he’s here in my house, right next to my bedroom, where I masturbated while I watched him fuck another woman from his bedroom window.
That’s how fucking insane I am.
I shake my head at the mess I seem to have found myself in, and I head straight for the kitchen sink. I splash my face with cold water to snap myself out of it.
It doesn’t work.
Not that I expected it to.
I hide out until it’s time for him to leave, and when he finally does, he takes his heavy looming presence with him, and I finally feel like I can breathe again.
When night rolls around, and it’s time for me to start getting ready for bed, I purposely find myself doing mundane tasks to get rid of this extra energy, surging through my veins, making me antsy. I was strung too tightly after being near Rome for a few hours. I was seriously considering downloading Tinder and swiping right at the next man I saw, but I, obviously, decided against it.
After another cold shower, I pad into my darkened bedroom and my feet skid to an abrupt halt when my gaze travels next door of its own volition, and there through the window, I see Rome. He’s alone tonight. But that’s not what stops me in my tracks. It’s the fact that he’s completely nude, stroking himself. His head is tossed back, and his cock is long, thick, and proud, and his muscles strain and cord, as he strokes. I let out a whimpered moan as my core clenches, then gapes, practically begging me to go next door and have him do the same to me. Work my body just as skillfully as he worked that woman’s body from the other night.
A part of me wants to open the window and see if I can hear him, but the other part is so transfixed by the sight of him, I stick to the shadows of my bedroom and watch. I watch with rapt attention, until his arm and hand quicken, then he’s spraying everywhere. I think I even have a mini orgasm, without even being touched.
I do spontaneously combust when he flicks his gaze my way, and I swear I see the hint of a smirk on his face. I jump out of view of the window. The chances of him seeing me are slim. But…what if he did?
I army roll, my heart pounding, and I lift my head slowly, trying to get a glimpse to see if he’s still looking my way. When my line of sight clears the windowsill, I realize he’s no longer there, and the lights are now off. I blow out a deep, relieved breath.
How did this guy go from being my obnoxious asshole neighbor to a man I can’t get out of my wet dreams?
I’m in trouble. I’ve never been more sure of anything.
“Faded”—VÉRITÉ
It’s been a total of four days since I’ve last seen Rome, and I have to keep repeating to myself that it’s a good thing. I haven’t bothered reaching out to ask if he’s going to finish the piping, because I know he’s almost done. He made it seem like there was just one more quick replacement before I was all set. But instead of waiting on him—something that could possibly take forever because he hates my guts—I finally called my dad.
It was due time I reached out and asked for help. I tried to tell myself nothing was wrong with it. Every child needed their parents. That is just facts. And I’m finally well-situated and comfortable enough to reach out