Neighbor’s Window: Part 2

By the second week I stopped pretending it was accidental.

I came home, locked the front door, and went straight to the bedroom without turning on any other lights. Only the small lamp on the nightstand. Soft, warm, aimed just enough to paint my body without glare. I left the curtains exactly as they were—open, framing the glass like a stage.

He was already there.

Standing in the dark of his own room, shirtless again, the faint city glow behind him outlining the shape of his shoulders. Waiting. The moment my lamp clicked on, I felt the weight of his attention settle on me like a physical touch.

I didn’t rush.

I set my bag down slowly. Unbuttoned my blouse one button at a time, eyes on his the entire way. When the fabric slid from my shoulders I let it fall to the floor instead of catching it. The bra underneath was new—black, sheer enough that the darker circles of my nipples showed through. I had bought it two days earlier with this exact moment in mind.

I reached behind my back and unclasped it. The straps slipped down my arms. I held the cups in place for an extra second, watching him, then let it drop.

His posture changed. Subtle. A shift of weight. The hand that had been loose at his side curled once into a fist and released.

I felt myself get wetter at the sight.

The skirt came next. I turned to the side so he could see the line of my waist and hip as I pushed it down. Underneath I wore nothing. I had stopped bothering with underwear on the nights I knew he would be watching. The cool air of the room brushed between my legs and made me shiver.

I stood there fully naked in the lamp light and let him look.

Then I raised one hand and cupped my own breast, thumb brushing over the nipple until it tightened. His head tilted. I did it again, slower, rolling the peak between my fingers while my other hand slid down the soft plane of my stomach.

I didn’t look away from him when my fingers reached the heat between my thighs.

I was already slick. Two fingers glided through the wetness and circled my clit in a lazy rhythm. The sensation pulled a soft breath from me. I knew he couldn’t hear it, but I also knew he could see every small reaction—the way my stomach tensed, the way my thighs shifted apart for better access, the way my head tipped back for a second before I forced my eyes open again to keep watching him.

He moved closer to the glass.

Close enough now that I could see more of his face. The focused line of his mouth. The dark intensity in his eyes as they followed the movement of my hand. One of his own hands came up and braced against the window frame like he needed the support.

I slid two fingers inside myself, slow, deliberate, letting him see the way they disappeared. My thumb kept pressure on my clit. The pleasure built faster than usual, sharpened by the simple fact of performing for him. My free hand stayed on my breast, squeezing, pinching the nipple in time with the strokes between my legs.

I was putting on a show and we both knew it.

My breathing grew shorter. I braced my free hand against the window frame on my side, mirroring him, and worked my fingers deeper. The wet sound of it was soft in the quiet room. I wondered if he was hard. If he had his cock out on the other side of the glass. If he was stroking himself while he watched me fuck myself with my own hand.

The thought pushed me closer.

I rubbed faster, hips rolling against my fingers, eyes locked on his. He hadn’t moved except for the small, tense shifts of his body. The restraint in him was almost as hot as the looking. Like he was holding himself on a very short leash.

My orgasm hit harder than I expected.

I bit my lip to stay quiet even though no one in my apartment could hear me, thighs shaking, fingers still moving through the pulses of pleasure. I kept my eyes open the entire time, watching him watch me come. His hand flexed hard against the frame. For a second I thought he might do something—step back, turn away, or finally break the silent rule we had been living inside.

He stayed exactly where he was until the last tremor left my body.

I slowly withdrew my fingers. They shone in the lamp light. I held them up for a second so he could see how wet I was, then brought them to my own mouth and cleaned them without looking away from him.

Something in his expression darkened.

I reached for the oversized T-shirt I kept on the chair, pulled it over my head, and finally moved to the lamp. My finger rested on the switch. I looked at him one last time—still shirtless, still braced against the glass, still fully focused on me—and then I turned the light off.

Darkness took the room.

I stood to the side of the window, heart still pounding, and watched his silhouette. After a long moment he stepped back. The faint light in his apartment stayed on for another minute, then went black.

I climbed into bed with the taste of myself still on my tongue and the clear, reckless knowledge that the show had stopped being enough for both of us.

Something was going to break soon.

And when it did, I already knew I wouldn’t close the curtains.