Page 1 of Crave

DADDY ISSUES

Daddy! Oh God, fuck me, Daddy!

I yank my pillow over my head, but it does nothing to hide the noises from next door. The walls are thin in this building.

It’s after midnight, and an unprecedented series of moans and groans have been spilling from my neighbor James’s apartment. Now that we’re into the wee hours, the dirty talk is kicking into high gear.

And it’s making me wet.

Please, Daddy, shove it in me.

I have a case going to trial in the morning, for God’s sake. My briefcase and purse sit on a chair next to the suit hanging on my closet door. I need to clear my head and get some fucking sleep, but all I can hear are another girl’s moans.

All I want is to be in her place.

Daddy, ow. OW! Ooooh, that hurts so good.

My thighs part, and I stroke my damp pussy. My fingers slide to my swollen clit. I’m in a state of shock that my nice, polite neighbor, a forty-something guy who’s a chef at a fancy restaurant, is into this kinky shit.

James is fit. He wears cute little glasses. His brown hair is touched with gray at the temples, and his hazel eyes crinkle adorably when he smiles.

But I bet he’s not smiling right now. His face is contorted with lust as he looks down at me — no, her. Thrusting…pounding…maybe slapping. Would he do that?

A Tinder hookup. That’s my best guess. She’s half his age and I saw them introduce themselves right outside his door.

Make me your SLUT, Daddy!

Jesus. I can’t concentrate. She keeps jolting me out of my own fantasy. Maybe it’s because the dirty talk sounds so chipper. So oddly impersonal.

Checking the time on my phone, I chuck it onto the nightstand. I can’t perform on less than six hours of sleep anymore, much less bounce out of bed bright-eyed and bushy-tailed.

I’m thirty-five years old, I don’t have time for this shit.

I roll out of bed, my pussy throbbing for release. I’m tired. I’m annoyed. And I’m dangerously excited to think of James all dominant and mean in bed. Precisely because he’s always been such a good neighbor.

Whenever he bakes, which is basically every weekend, he leaves a plate of goodies on my doorstep. He invited our entire floor for a dinner party when he moved in, featuring spaghetti carbonara that caused me to die several ecstatic deaths and really good Chianti. He gets the paper delivered and always gives me the Sunday Times when he’s finished. He even leaves the crossword for me.

I’ve had a crush on James for months and done nothing about it. Because we’re both consumed by our jobs. Because we’re neighbors. Because he’s ten years older.

And now he’s screwing someone literally young enough to be his daughter.

Who’s screaming too loudly to let me sleep or fantasize.

Uhhh! Yeah Daddy, spank me! Harder, harder!

Stomping across my apartment, I grab my stereo speakers and drag them right up against the offending wall. I cue up the sassiest, perkiest dance music I can find and crank the volume way, way up.

Then I let out my frustration in a one-girl dance party — flailing, shimmying, singing at the top of my lungs.

It doesn’t take long. In under a minute, there’s a firm, pissed-off knock at my door.

Rap. Rap.

I switch off the music and catch a glimpse of myself in the full-length mirror as I go to answer that ominous knock. My short dark hair is practically standing on end. I rake my fingers through it.

My heart is pounding, and it accelerates when I open the door to see James. Shirtless, wearing plaid boxers and the body God gave him. No sign of the glasses.

He’s in excellent shape. The man has done good things with the material he’s been given. His hair is damp with sweat, and irritation rolls off him.

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