Page 9 of Daddy Next Door

Also, to my surprise, I imagined him tying me up. Restraining me. Fucking me.

"You're doing so well," Fantasy Ethan said in my head, his voice a perfect blend of the therapist's professional tone and something darker, more primal. "Such a good girl for me."

The phrase "good girl" sent a sharp spike of pleasure through me. I increased the pressure on my clit, circling faster as my hips began to rise to meet my hand. My breathing grew ragged, little whimpers escaping with each exhale.

I slipped two fingers inside myself, curling them to find the spot that made my thighs tremble. With my thumb still working my clit, I fucked myself slowly with my fingers, imagining they were his—larger, stronger, reaching deeper.

The dual sensation pushed me closer to the edge. I turned my face into my pillow, muffling the sounds I couldn't control as tension built low in my belly, winding tighter with each stroke of my fingers.

In my fantasy, Ethan was above me, his weight supported on powerful arms, his eyes holding mine as he pushed inside me. "Let go for me," Fantasy Ethan commanded, his voice both gentle and unyielding. "I've got you."

The imagined words broke something loose inside me. My back arched off the bed as orgasm swept through me in pulsing waves. My inner walls clenched around my fingers as I gasped his name, over and over, into the darkness of my room.

As the pleasure ebbed, reality seeped back in. I lay there, hand still between my thighs, breathing hard. The ceiling fan continued its indifferent rotation. Outside, a car drove past, its headlights briefly illuminating my wall before disappearing.

I pulled my blanket over my cooling skin despite the lingering heat. Tomorrow I'd have to face him again, carry on normal neighborly interactions while holding the secret knowledge of his naked body and what I'd done with that knowledge.

Sleep eventually found me, but my dreams were filled with water and steam, strong hands and gentle words, and the persistent feeling of wanting something I wasn't sure I could name.

I’d find a way to make up for it.

***

Thechocolatechipcookiescooled on my counter, their edges perfectly golden-brown. Seven days since Ethan had moved in next door, and I'd spent an embarrassing amount of that week thinking about him—especially after the sprinkler incident.

I'd managed to avoid him for three days after accidentally seeing him naked, but avoidance felt childish now. Besides, good neighbors brought baked goods. That's what normal, mature adults did when they weren't hiding from their attractive neighbors or masturbating while thinking about them. I arranged the cookies on a blue plate, covered them with plastic wrap, and headed next door before I could talk myself out of it.

My knock was answered quickly, as if he'd been nearby. Ethan opened the door wearing reading glasses perched low on his nose, a button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled to his elbows, and jeans. The glasses were new—they softened his face somehow, made him look both more intellectual and more approachable.

"Lily," he said, genuine pleasure warming his voice. "This is a nice surprise."

I thrust the plate forward like a shield. "I made too many cookies. Thought you might want some."

He removed his glasses, tucking them into his shirt pocket. "You're just determined to be the best neighbor in town, aren't you? Come in, please."

His home looked different again—more settled, with books on shelves and framed photographs on the walls. A leather armchair sat in the corner with a reading lamp beside it, a book splayed open on the seat. The place had a lived-in feeling now, as if he'd been here much longer than a week.

"Can I get you something to drink? Water, coffee, tea?" he offered, taking the cookies to the kitchen.

"Coffee would be great, actually." I followed him, noting how confidently he moved through the space, already at home in a way that had taken me months to achieve in my place.

"How's the standing desk working out?" I asked, leaning against the counter as he prepared coffee in a French press.

"It's been a lifesaver for my back." He pressed the plunger down with deliberate pressure. "Thanks again for your help with that."

"Happy to assist with furniture assembly anytime." I winced internally at how eager I sounded.

He poured coffee into two mugs, one midnight blue, one forest green. "Milk? Sugar?"

"Just black is fine."

He handed me the green mug. Our fingers didn't touch during the exchange, and I felt oddly disappointed.

"So," he said, gesturing toward the living room, "how has your week been? Any progress on those juice people?"

I smiled, surprised he remembered. "Vitality Juice? Project delivered and approved. They loved the rebrand."

"Congratulations." His smile reached his eyes, creating those little crinkles I found unreasonably attractive. "That's got to feel satisfying."

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