My Bodyguard’s Forbidden Trespasses.

Daisy's POV**

I was reading *Priest* when it started.

The main character was on her knees in the kitchen, nipples visible through her damp t-shirt, thighs pressed together. She was seconds away from throwing herself at him. I was three chapters from finding out if she actually would.

Then I heard it.

"Oh God!"

The moan came through the walls—raw, uninvited, shameless.

I dropped the book.

My neighbor was at it again.

I should have ignored it. Should have put in earbuds or turned on music or done literally anything except what I did next. But my body moved before my brain caught up, carrying me toward the living room window like I was being pulled by an invisible string.

The blinds were already parted, giving me a view of the rising sun over Manhattan. And the apartment directly across from mine.

"Just like that," his voice came next. Deep. Commanding. "Fucking hell, Mandy!"

Heat flooded through me so fast I had to grip the windowsill to steady myself. I was standing there in nothing but my sheer nightdress—the one I'd thrown on when my editor called at six AM demanding to know where my next manuscript was.

I should have been writing. Instead, I was leaning against the window, chest heaving, staring at his apartment like a woman possessed.

I couldn't see inside clearly—just the curtains moving in a steady, unmistakable rhythm. But my imagination filled in the rest. Her wild hair falling around her face. His hands gripped her hips. The white wall behind them that I'd somehow convinced myself existed even though I'd never been inside.

"Fuck." His voice again, quieter this time but somehow closer. Like he was right in front of me instead of across the street.

My throat went dry. I tried to swallow, to clear it, to do anything except listen. But God, he sounded good. Too good.

And then—

"Harder baby, harder."

He was panting now, soft and wrecked, and I knew without seeing that his hand was pressed against the wall above her head. The image was so vivid I could feel the ghost of his body heat.

"Oh , fuck.”

He moaned out loud.

I forced myself to turn away, to face my disarranged living room. My fingers were still gripping the windowsill so hard they should have hurt me. But the only thing I could focus on was the warmth settling low in my stomach—hot, raging, impossible to ignore.

I picked up the book again. Mistake.

The priest had the main character bent over the kitchen counter now, his mouth doing unholy things. His hands were everywhere.

I dropped the book a second time.

It had been two years. Two years since my ex-boyfriend disappeared without explanation or closure. Two years since anyone touched me like I mattered. Two years of writing about passion I wasn't allowed to feel.

I couldn't take it anymore.

My dildo was right there under the shelf—black, discreet, easily accessible. Don't judge me. I was the girl whose boyfriend vanished into thin air.

I grabbed it and returned to the window. Not the couch. Not my bedroom. The window.

I pulled the high stool to the center, positioned it directly in the morning light, and sat down. My hands were shaking as I spread my legs slowly, deliberately.

Across the street, I heard him again. Darker this time. Rougher.

"You are so tight . Damn!"

Oh God.

My fingers inched up my inner thighs. I leaned back against the chair, closed my eyes, and imagined I was her. That I was pressed against that wall with his breath hot against my neck, his hands claiming every inch of me.

I clicked the dildo on. The soft whir sent anticipation racing down my spine like tequila on a cold night.

"Ahhh." The sigh left my lips before I could stop it.

I teased myself through my lacy panties first, drawing it out, making myself wait. The fresh air from the open window made me shiver. Made everything feel sharper, more real.

Her moans had turned into high, desperate cries. His grunts were so close they felt like they were vibrating through my bones.

I pushed my panties aside. The dampness made my breath catch.

I eased it inside slowly, and my back arched off the chair instantly. I bit down on my lip to keep from crying out as heat spread through me, as my body clenched around it, as every nerve ending screamed for more.

"Ahh," he moaned at the exact same moment I did.

My limbs started shaking. I moved my hand slowly at first—in, out, in—but it wasn't enough. I needed more. I started rocking with the rhythm, the chair creaking underneath me, my breathing ragged and uneven.

The sounds from across the street intensified. She cries. His groans. The unmistakable rhythm of bodies chasing release.

And me, alone in my window, chasing the same thing.

"Fuck!" I threw my head back as the first wave hit—blinding, primal, devastating. My core clenched so hard I felt it everywhere, in my fingers and toes and the base of my skull.

My lips were parted. Blood roared in my ears. Everything went white.

When I finally came back to myself, the dildo was still inside me, my body still trembling with aftershocks. The apartment across the street had gone quiet.

And that's when I felt it.

The weight of being watched.

I lifted my head slowly, blinking against the sudden brightness of the morning sun.

He was standing at his window.

The neighbor I'd never actually met. The man whose voice had just destroyed me.

He was tall—he had sharp white eyes and tattoos on both arms. Completely shirtless. Holding a steaming mug of coffee in one hand.

And staring directly at me.

His expression didn't change. Didn't shift into shock or embarrassment or anything remotely human. Just that look—hard, knowing, utterly unreadable.

Like he'd been standing there the entire time.

Like he'd watched every single second.

Heat flooded my face. Humiliation crashed over me in waves so intense I thought I might be sick. I should have moved. Should have pulled away, closed the blinds, pretended this never happened.

But I couldn't.

There was something about the way he looked at me. Something dark and magnetic and completely shameless.

Behind him, a blonde woman appeared—the one from the moaning, no doubt. She was naked, all curves and confidence, and she wrapped her arms around his waist possessively, pressing herself against his back.

His gaze never left mine.

And then—slowly, deliberately—his lips curved into a smirk.

Not a smile. A smirk. Like he knew exactly what he'd done to me. Like he'd planned it.

I yanked myself away from the window and slammed the blinds shut so hard the whole frame rattled. The dildo clattered to the floor. My hands were shaking so badly I could barely breathe.

What the hell just happened?

I stood there for a full minute, trying to catch my breath, trying to process what I'd just done. What he'd just seen.

Then my phone buzzed on the coffee table.

**Editor: Daisy, I need that first chapter by Friday or we're pushing the release date. Don't make me beg.**

I stared at the message. Then at my laptop sitting open on the couch, the cursor blinking on a blank page. Then at the closed blinds hiding the man who'd just witnessed the most humiliating moment of my life.

And I thought: Well. At least now I have inspiration.

I grabbed my laptop and sat down, fingers hovering over the keys. The words came easier than they had in months. Maybe years.

*She heard him before she saw him. The sound of pleasure, raw and unfiltered, coming through the walls like an invitation she didn't know how to refuse.*

I wrote for three hours straight. Wrote until my coffee went cold and the sun climbed higher in the sky. Wrote until I had ten pages of the filthiest, most honest prose I'd ever produced.

The main character—a writer, obviously—had a neighbor who fucked like he was auditioning for the lead role in her fantasies. She couldn't stop listening. Couldn't stop imagining. Couldn't stop wanting.

By noon, I had twenty pages and a problem.

I'd written my neighbor into my chapters. The man whose face I'd never seen up close, whose name I didn't know, whose body I'd only glimpsed through a window. But I'd written to him. Every fantasy. Every desperate, aching detail.

And I had no idea what I was going to do about it.

My phone buzzed again. Not my editor this time.

**Unknown Number: Enjoy the show?**

My blood turned to ice.

I stared at the message, my heart hammering against my ribs. It couldn't be. There was no way. He didn’t have my number. He didn't even know my name.

Another message appeared.

**Unknown Number: Your blinds are closed. Shame. I was enjoying the view.**

Oh God.

My hands were shaking as I typed back.

**Me: Who is this?**

The reply came instantly.

**Unknown Number: Your neighbor. The one you were thinking about five minutes ago. And five hours ago. And probably right now.**

I dropped the phone like it had burned me.

He knew.

He fucking knew.

And he was texting me about it.