2.1 The Neighbor’s Temptation

The sun was sinking low, painting the quiet suburban street in gold and amber. From her second-story windowsill, Myra watched the world go soft and hazy. But her focus, sharp and unwavering, was fixed on a single point, the man next door.

Steven.

He moved through his garden with the quiet reverence of a priest tending an altar. He wasn’t her uncle, not by blood or law, but the title had stuck from childhood and over those years, something more had grown in her, a dangerous, thrilling pull she couldn’t name.

Steven was thirty-five, but there was a youthful strength in him, a vitality that made her chest tighten every time she looked. He was everything she desired. His dark hair, still thick and unruly, was pushed back from a forehead lined with the faint traces of thought and sun.

Myra, at nineteen, knew every one of those contrasts by heart. For five years, she had studied him. She had imagined this moment countless times, rehearsed conversations and scenarios in her head, letting them bloom like the roses he cared for so tenderly. 

Imaginations where those strong, capable hands weren’t planting petunias, but were mapping the territory of her body, where that quiet voice wasn’t offering gardening tips, but was whispering filthy, desperate things in her ear as he moved over her, in her, fucking her senseless until the world dissolved into a scream.

It was a primal, raw hunger, and Steven Hayes was the only feast that would satisfy it. The boys her age, with their loud voices and clumsy hands, were plastic toys. He was carved in oak and tempered steel.

She swallowed, her throat dry. She wrapped her arms around her knees, a shiver of anticipation coursing through her. Today, she had decided she would do something different, something bold, something that would make him notice her in a new way. Her parents were out for a week and she wouldn’t find a better chance than this. 

With a final, steadying breath, she slid from the windowsill. She gathered her props, a fluffy white towel and a simple change of clothes, clutching them to her chest like a shield. 

Steven opened the door. His dark hair was tousled from his evening gardening, and the faint scent of soil and sunlight clung to him. His eyes widened slightly.

“Hi, Steven,” she said, and her voice was a sweet, melodic thing that did not match the wicked gleam in her eyes. “I am so sorry to bother you.”

“Myra. Hi.” He cleared his throat. “Everything okay?”

She offered a helpless, little-girl-lost smile. “My shower isn’t working. I’m a mess. Could I possibly, possibly use your shower? I promise I’ll be quick.”

He hesitated for the briefest moment, then smiled, stepping aside. “Of course, Myra. Right this way.”

Her smile could have powered the entire grid. “Thank you! You’re the best, really.”

As she moved past him, she felt the brush of his sleeve near her arm, a fleeting, electric contact that made her stomach flip. He had no idea that she had rehearsed this moment a hundred times, that her mind had raced through every subtle movement, every word to draw him in without ever overstepping.

He closed the door, leaning against it for a moment, listening to the soft pad of her bare feet on his hardwood floor. He squeezed his eyes shut. He shook his head hard. “She’s a kid. She’s your neighbor’s kid. Get a grip.”

He tried to return to the kitchen, to the paperwork waiting on the table, but the words blurred into nonsense. All he could hear was the distant, muffled sound of running water. His imagination, a traitorous beast he’d kept caged for years, broke free.

The water shut off. Silence descended, thick and heavy as a blanket. He stood frozen in the middle of his living room, a man awaiting a verdict. Then the bathroom door opened. When she emerged, the air left his lungs in a silent rush. 

She was standing in the hallway, wearing nothing but the towel. It was wrapped snugly around her, tucked just above her breasts, but it clung to every dip and curve of her body like a second skin. The damp fabric left shockingly little to the imagination. He could see the proud outline of her nipples, the gentle swell of her hips, the long, sleek line of her legs, glistening with residual moisture.

“Oh!” she let out a short, sharp shriek, her hands flying to her mouth. The movement made the towel dip perilously. “My God, Steven! I’m so sorry! I just forgot where I was for a second!”

She didn’t wait for a response. She spun on her heel and fled back down the hall, the bathroom door clicking shut. Steven remained rooted to the spot, his blood roaring in his ears. He felt a familiar, long-dormant heat coiling low in his gut, a tightening in his groin that was both a thrill and a condemnation.

A few moments later, she reappeared, fully dressed in her jeans and t-shirt, her expression a masterpiece of contrite innocence. She hesitated by the front door, wringing her hands. “I am so, so sorry. That was incredibly stupid of me.”

He had to clear a desert from his throat before he could speak. “It’s fine, Myra. We all have moments.” The words sounded hollow, ridiculous.

Her smile returned, bright and dazzling. “You’re the best. Bye.”

Then she was gone, leaving only the ghost of her scent and the roaring silence in her wake. Steven sank into his armchair, running a hand over his face. He was a disciplined man. A man of control. But control, he was realizing, was a brittle thing, and Myra had just taken a hammer to it.

The game was afoot.

Back in her room, Myra leaned against her door, her heart performing a wild, victorious salsa in her chest. She had seen it. The widening of his pupils, the hitch in his breath, the way his gaze had devoured her. He wasn’t indifferent and she had just proven the walls had cracks.

She wouldn’t let him recover. A predator never gives its quarry time to think.

The sun had fully set now, the street bathed in the cool blue of twilight and the warm orange glow of streetlamps. She changed into a different outfit. 

She made her way back to his garden, her bare feet silent on the cool grass. The air was thick with the scent of night-blooming jasmine and damp earth. She could hear him before she saw him, the low growl of his lawnmower as he finished the edges of the lawn.

He was bent over, his back to her, the muscles in his shoulders and arms cording with the effort. Myra felt a fresh, sharp twist of desire low in her belly. She walked toward him, letting her hips sway in a slow, natural rhythm, knowing the short dress would ride up with every step.

He must have sensed her presence as he straightened up, turning. His eyes found her instantly, a flicker of surprise and something darker, hotter flashed in their depths before he banked it.

“Myra,” he said, his voice a little rough. “You here?”

She stopped a few feet from him, close enough for him to smell the honeysuckle on her skin. “I just wanted to thank you again.” She smiled, tilting her head. “You’re always so dependable.”

“It was nothing,” he muttered, his gaze dropping from her face for a split second, skimming down her body, taking in the shortness of the dress, the length of her exposed legs.

She let her eyes drift over his garden. “Your flowers are so beautiful. You’ve really got a green thumb,” she said lightly, letting a smile curl on her lips.

He glanced toward the garden, then back at her. “It keeps me busy, helps me unwind after the chaos of work.”

“And it shows why you love it,” she said, a little teasingly, stepping back toward the door.

He chuckled softly, the sound warm and grounding. “Thanks, Myra. That’s nice of you to say.”

She leaned down ostensibly to smell a rose, the motion causing her dress to hike up, exposing the backs of her thighs and the very edge of her lace-trimmed panties. She heard his sharp intake of breath. It was a sound of pure, undiluted male appreciation.

As she straightened, she deliberately let her feet tangle, letting out a sharp, convincingly startled yelp as she tumbled onto the soft, recently-cut grass.

“Oh!” she cried, landing in a deliberately graceful heap.

“Myra!” Steven was at her side in an instant, his strong hands gripping her arms, hauling her to her feet with effortless strength. His touch was electric, sending sparks across her skin. “Are you okay? Are you hurt somewhere?”

She leaned into him for a moment, longer than necessary, feeling the solid, unyielding wall of his chest. “I’m okay,” she breathed, her voice shaky. She looked down at herself, at the green stains and smears of dark, damp mud on the pale yellow fabric of her dress. “Oh, no. My dress, it’s ruined.”

His eyes followed hers and she saw the exact moment his gaze snagged on the hem, which was now twisted high on her hips. The delicate lace of her panties was on full display, a stark white contrast against her tanned skin. The thin fabric did little to hide the shape of her, the round, soft curves of her ass.

“Don’t worry,” he said, his voice a low, gravelly rasp. I’ll help you clean it up.”

She gave him a grateful, trembling smile. “Thank you, Steven. You’re the best.”

She turned away from him with agonizing slowness, presenting him with her back. She arched her spine just a little that made the dress pull taut, revealing the perfect curve of her ass, the lace of her panties cutting into the flesh. She could feel the heat of his gaze like a physical touch. She stood there, waiting, the air crackling with tension.

“Is it clean?” she asked, her voice a blend of sweet innocence and sultry promise.

She heard him take a step closer. 

“No,” he managed, his voice hoarse. “The ground was still wet. Mud is….”

She felt his presence behind her, then she felt his hand. It was trembling slightly as he tentatively placed it on the small of her back. He ran his palm slowly over the fabric of her dress, his touch feather-light. His hand brushed lower, over the curve of her ass and they both froze. A jolt of pure lightning arced through her. 

This was no longer her game alone, he was now an active, willing participant.

His fingers trembled again, then pressed a little more firmly. He wasn’t dusting off mud, he was exploring. His thumb brushed against the edge of her lace panties.A sharp, silent gasp caught in Myra’s throat. This was more than she’d dared to hope.

She heard his breath hitch. He was staring at that forbidden glimpse of her. She could feel the conflict raging in him. His finger pressed lightly against the exposed edge of her skin, then slid downward, tracing a slow, deliberate trail along the damp curve of her ass. It was a touch of pure, unadulterated possession. 

The sensation was exquisite. His touch was calloused, rough from work, and the contrast against her soft skin was everything she had ever dreamed of. Her body tensed, a shudder of pure pleasure wracking her frame. She knew he could feel it.

“Steven?” Her voice came out as a shaky, breathless whisper.

The spell broke. He snatched his hand back as if burned. He took a full step back, putting a foot of desperately needed space between them.

“It’s… it’s clean now,” he said, his voice ragged, stripped raw.

Myra turned around slowly, letting the motion swing her hips. She composed her face into the bright, guileless smile he was used to, though her cheeks were flushed and her eyes were dark with triumph.

“Thank you, Steven,” she said, her voice sweet as spun sugar.

She didn’t wait for a reply. She turned and walked away, back toward her house, feeling his gaze burning into her with every step she took. She didn’t look back. She didn’t need to.

The first move was over and she had won. The hunt was on, and the prey was already in the snare. All that was left was to pull the rope tight.