I place Emilia Adams’ electric bill on the floor, close the door and high tail it out of there.
Christ.
I run my fingers through my hair as I take the elevator back down to my apartment. This is fucking ridiculous—it’s like sex is happening in the city all around me, to the point where I can’t even avoid it.
All it does is emphasize my real problem here: everyone else in this building is fucking.
Getting laid. Falling into bed with each other and falling in love.
And here I’ve been this entire time, ogling the dick in the window of the Birmingham across the street—obsessing over something that I’ll never fucking have because I don’t have the guts to march over there and take it.
I consider taking the elevator up to the Bradford’s lounge instead.
I mean, if everyone else in this building is fucking, then that’s probably the place to meet the man of your dreams, right? But then I remember the dick in the Birmingham, and I’m reminded how it’s ruined other dicks for me.
A jolt of fear shoots through me.
If I don’t have the dick in the Birmingham, I might never be able to feel pleasure for a man ever again.
So here’s what I’m thinking—I’m thinking I’ll go back into my apartment, close the drapes over my bedroom windows and pop on that Felix Fitzgerald movie like I planned. Sure, there’s going to be an obligatory sex scene between him and whatever blonde bimbo is playing opposite of him, but fucking Felix Fitzgerald is one of those fantasies that I can cope with right now.
Fantasizing about the dick at the Bradford is one thing. The dick at the Bradford feels oddly obtainable—I mean, it’s just across the street.
Felix Fitzgerald, at least, is more unobtainable. He’s a movie star.
Pure fantasy with no chance of ever becoming a reality.
After all, it’s not like Felix Fitzgerald is about to show up at my front door.
Felix
She leaves her window immediately after I cum all over mine.
Fuck.
That’s not what I wanted to happen. That’s not what I wanted her to do at all.
What I wanted her to do was to give up the fucking charade.
I want her. She wants me. I came all over my fucking window for her!
How much clearer of a love letter can I send?
Other than literally coming into an envelope and mailing it to her with my apartment key enclosed, of course. Which, I’m not even ruling out at this point.
Fuck!
This is the opposite of what I wanted. Apparently, coming all over your window for a woman isn’t exactly the way to her heart—and my fucking housekeeper is going to hate me now, too.
The worst part is, I’m not even spent yet. I left a substantial load smeared across the antique panes of glass for the babe in the Bradford, but it’s nothing compared to the load I’ve got left in my balls for her.
I’m horny.
I’m hot.
And remembering the look on her gorgeous face while she watched me come…
That just makes me hard all over again.