c a m 𐔌՞. .՞𐦯

You first spot him through your bedroom window.

He’s shirtless, dragging a battered suitcase across the dead grass between the cracked driveway and the front door of the run-down house next door. There’s a cigarette clinging to his lips, bouncing as he mutters something under his breath. His jeans hang low on his hips, paint-splattered and torn at the knees. His hair’s a mess, like he’s just rolled out of a week-long bender, and he looks like he doesn’t give a single fuck about the neighborhood he’s just moved into.

Your throat goes dry.

You freeze, hands curled around your mug of coffee, fingers flexing as you lean in closer to the window without even realizing it. He pauses at the porch, straightens up, and stretches his arms over his head. The light hits his torso—lean, inked, tanned. Scars and stories litter his body like they’ve been earned. You can’t stop staring.

Who is he?

You don’t realize your mouth is slightly open until he glances up, eyes cutting to your window with the kind of look that makes you flinch. He doesn’t wave. Doesn’t smile. Just stares.

And then he looks away. Just like that. Like you don’t even exist.

You pull back like you’ve been caught spying—because you were—and your heart’s hammering. Not with fear. Not even with embarrassment. But with something far worse.

Curiosity.

No—craving.

You peer again. Slower this time. Watching him shoulder the door open and disappear inside. You wait, biting your lip. One minute. Two. Three. No lights. No movement. Just silence.

The house had been empty for almost a year. You thought it was condemned, to be honest. Now suddenly he lives there?

You don’t even know his name yet, but already he’s ruined every boring fantasy you’ve ever had. You can’t stop picturing him lighting that cigarette. Can’t stop imagining the way he moved—like everything annoyed him, like he’s been fighting the world since birth and losing didn’t stop him from swinging. There’s something bruised about him. Something broken and hard and magnetic.

You find yourself staring at the driveway even after he’s gone. You stand there like an idiot until your coffee goes cold.

ཐི ♱ ཋྀ

That night, you tell yourself you’re just being friendly.

You throw on some mascara, a pair of cutoff shorts, and a tank top you’d never normally wear without a hoodie. You walk next door like it’s no big deal. You don’t even knock at first—you rehearse it. Hover your fist near the door, heart thumping, listening for any sound inside.

You hear music. Loud, messy guitar. The windows are cracked. Someone’s smoking.

You knock.

The music stops, but no one answers.

You knock again, firmer. This time you hear footsteps. Floorboards creaking. A pause. Then—

The door swings open.

There he is.

Shirtless again. Hair messier now. Eyes half-lidded, cigarette dangling from his fingers. He leans against the doorframe like you’re the one intruding, like this is already a waste of his time.

You blink up at him. Forget every line you practiced. “Um… hey. I’m your neighbor.”

He just stares.

“I live right next door,” you add, trying to smile.

Nothing.

You clear your throat. “Thought I’d introduce myself.”

He lets the silence stretch out long enough to make your skin crawl. Then he shrugs—just a lazy roll of his shoulder. “Cool.”

Your mouth opens again, but he’s already turning away. Leaves the door open, like it’s up to you now. You step inside because what else are you supposed to do?

The house smells like smoke and dust and something sharp and male. Boxes are stacked everywhere. No furniture. Just a mattress on the floor in the living room and a half-empty bottle of whiskey beside it. The blinds are drawn.

He lights another cigarette. Doesn’t offer you one. “You done?” he mutters, eyes still on his lighter.

“What?”

“You said hi. Mission accomplished.”

Your stomach flips. You should leave. You should.

But instead, you lean against the wall, arms crossed. “What’s your name?”

He exhales a cloud of smoke, doesn’t look at you. “Sam.”

You say it in your head a few times like it’s a prayer. Sam. Sam. Sam.

“I’m—”

He cuts you off. “Doesn’t matter.”

You blink. “Wow. Okay.”

That earns you a glance, finally. His eyes are sharp. Tired. Kinda pissed. He looks at you like you’re the annoying pop-up on his screen he didn’t ask for.

“You’re not my type,” he says flatly. “So if that’s what this is, don’t waste your time.”

Your throat burns. He walks back toward the kitchen like he didn’t just say something that punched the breath out of your lungs.

You don’t know why that makes you want him even more.

You leave, cheeks burning, practically shaking. Not with shame.

With adrenaline.

You slam your door harder than you mean to when you get home. Storm into your room, rip off the tiny tank top like it’s the problem. You look out the window again. He’s outside now, barefoot, smoking on the porch with his head tilted back. You stare for too long.

And this time, when he looks up—

He doesn’t look away.

You bake the cookies from scratch.

Real butter, brown sugar, vanilla—the works. You even drizzle dark chocolate on top like you saw in some TikTok recipe you saved months ago, thinking one day you might need it. Turns out, this is the day. The desperate, delusional day you try to win over your brooding, shirtless neighbor with warm cookies like you’re in some sick parody of a romcom.

They smell amazing.

You wrap them in foil and tuck them in a basket—a fucking basket—because apparently you’re going for full-blown “girl next door” energy. Maybe he’ll think it’s sweet. Maybe he’ll say thank you. Maybe he’ll finally look at you like you’re not some random annoying insect buzzing around his head.

You wear something cute but not too cute. Hair down. Glossy lips. No bra. You tell yourself it’s casual. Friendly. Kindness is sexy, right?

You march over to his house with your stupid basket of cookies and knock.

No music this time. Just silence.

You knock again. Then you hear it—the unmistakable sound of footsteps, slow and heavy. The door creaks open and—

There he is.

Still shirtless. Still beautiful. Still blank.

Sam Monroe stares down at you like he’s just woken from a nap he didn’t want to end. He’s got one hand on the doorframe, the other raking through his messy hair. His eyes skim from your face to your chest and back up like he’s scanning for danger.

You force a smile.

“Hey,” you say, holding the basket up like a peace offering. “I, uh… made cookies.”

A pause.

You watch as his gaze drops again, this time to the foil-covered treats you’re offering like a sacrificial lamb. One eyebrow lifts just a little.

“Cookies?” he says like the word personally offends him.

“Yeah. Just… thought I’d be neighborly.” You laugh, but it dies in your throat.

Another pause.

Then, finally, he takes the basket. Doesn’t say thank you. Doesn’t even pretend to look pleased.

You wait. For a smile. For a comment. For something.

Instead, Sam just nods once, turns, and starts closing the door in your face.

“Oh—” you stammer. “There’s, um… sea salt on top. It brings out the chocolate.”

But the door clicks shut.

You stand there for a few seconds too long, blinking at the grain of wood like it might open back up if you just wish hard enough. It doesn’t.

You walk home, empty-handed and humiliated.

You tell yourself it was worth a try.

You tell yourself he’ll love them.

You tell yourself you don’t care if he doesn’t.

You’re lying.

That night, you’re brushing your teeth when you hear him through your window.

The walls are thin in this neighborhood. Crickets buzz, dogs bark, sprinklers click on and off. You recognize his voice now—low, dry, a little scratchy around the edges. You pause, toothbrush halfway to your mouth, because you hear him laughing.

And then—

“Betty Crocker neighbor,” he says, amused. A pause. “No, I’m serious. Brought cookies in a fuckin’ basket.”

He’s on the phone.

You freeze.

“She even did that little ‘oh no, I forgot to wear a bra’ thing,” he adds. You can hear the smirk in his voice. “Swear to god. It’s like I moved into a Hallmark movie and forgot to kill myself.”

Your face goes red. Your hands shake.

“She made cookies,” he says again, laughing under his breath. “Like I’m gonna fuck her just ‘cause she knows how to preheat an oven.”

You slam your bathroom door shut and slide down to the floor, toothbrush still in hand, breath catching hard in your throat.

You should hate him.

You should.

But instead, your thighs press together and your whole body lights up with a sick, warm heat.

You don’t even know why.

Maybe it’s the humiliation. Maybe it’s the fact that he noticed everything—your lack of a bra, the basket, the smile you practiced in the mirror.

He laughed, yeah. But he saw you.

And maybe that’s enough.

Later, curled in bed, you stare at his window.

It’s dark.

But you imagine him on the other side—shirtless, smoking, laughing at you with that crooked smirk. The idea of it burns your skin.

You whisper under your breath, mocking yourself: “Sea salt brings out the chocolate.”

You should cry.

But instead, your fingers drift low under the covers.

You close your eyes.

And picture Sam Monroe’s mouth saying something far filthier.

ཐི ♱ ཋྀ

You didn’t mean to take it.

Not at first.

The mailboxes are all crammed together at the end of the street—those sad, dented metal things with peeling paint and stuck locks. You were just grabbing your own stack when you noticed it: one envelope, bent and hanging out of Sam’s box.

You stare at it for maybe three seconds too long.

His name’s on it. Samuel Monroe.

It’s nothing important. Just some bubble mailer from a random PO box in California. Probably junk. Could be a DVD. Could be porn.

Could be nothing.

You look around. The street’s empty. And before you can stop yourself, your fingers close around the envelope.

It’s in your hands. You’re holding Sam Monroe’s mail.

Your heart pounds like you’ve just shoplifted something criminal.

You slip it into your purse like it’s a dirty secret and walk back home pretending you didn’t just commit a federal offense for the thrill of it.

You wait a whole day.

It sits on your desk while you eat breakfast, untouched, unopened. You wonder if he noticed. You wonder if he even checks his mail. Maybe he’s already suspicious. Maybe he’s already watching.

The thought alone makes you tingle.

So the next afternoon, you make your move.

You throw on a cute little sundress—nothing too revealing, but short enough to draw attention if he’s looking. No bra. Again. Hair down. Gloss on.

You clutch the envelope like a piece of evidence and march over to his house with the calm of someone who’s definitely not out of her mind.

He answers the door slower this time.

Same Sam. Shirtless again. A fresh cigarette tucked behind his ear. His jeans are slung even lower than usual, like he’s daring you to stare. And of course—you do.

You clear your throat and hold up the envelope.

“Your mail came to my box,” you say innocently. “Weird, right?”

He doesn’t take it immediately. His eyes flick to it, then to your face. Then lower.

Way lower.

“Did it?” he asks, lazy, suspicious.

You nod. “Yup. Just found it sitting there.”

Sam finally takes the envelope—slowly, like he’s debating whether he should believe a word out of your mouth.

He turns it over in his hand. Doesn’t open it. Doesn’t thank you either.

“I thought people stopped using DVDs like ten years ago,” you say, trying to be casual. “Streaming exists.”

Sam lifts an eyebrow. “People with taste don’t rely on Netflix’s garbage rotation.”

You blink. “So… it is a DVD?”

He doesn’t answer.

He just smirks.

You shift your weight, suddenly hyperaware of how short your dress is. Of how his eyes haven’t moved from your thighs in over ten seconds.

He leans against the doorframe, studying you.

“Must’ve been a real mix-up,” he says slowly, voice low. “Funny how your box and mine are five feet apart.”

You freeze. “It was just… stuck, I think.”

“Huh.”

Another long, thick silence. He taps the envelope against his palm. The sound is quiet, almost rhythmic.

“You always this helpful?” he asks, voice dry.

You give a little laugh. “Only for my favorite neighbor.”

His gaze sharpens, lips twisting.

You regret the words the second they leave your mouth. But also… you don’t.

Because that little line? That smile?

It’s the first time he hasn’t looked completely bored around you.

He finally pushes off the frame and steps back inside, tossing the envelope onto a cluttered table behind him.

“You want something?” he mutters without looking.

Your throat tightens. “What?”

“You brought cookies,” he says, offhand. “Now you’re hand-delivering my mail. So what is it? You want a thank-you card? A fuckin’ kiss?”

Your cheeks burn. “Jesus.”

He shrugs. “Just askin’.”

You take a step back. “Forget it.”

He’s already halfway to the kitchen when he glances back over his shoulder—lazy, amused.

“I never forget anything,” he says. “Especially not weird shit.”

Then he’s gone, door wide open behind him like he wants you to walk in.

But you don’t.

You go home. Slam your door. Lock it. And pace.

Because fuck—he knows.

Or maybe he doesn’t. Maybe he’s bluffing. Maybe he just likes making you squirm.

Either way, it’s working.

That night, you can’t sleep.

The heat of his voice still lingers in your ears, low and cutting. That smirk—like he’s already figured you out.

You stare out your window and wait. And sure enough, there he is.

His light flickers on sometime after midnight.

You see the silhouette of his body moving through the room, tall and lean, cigarette glowing red at the tip. He doesn’t bother closing the blinds.

He knows you’re watching now.

Maybe he wants you to.

Your fingers curl in your sheets, thighs pressed tight. You shouldn’t touch yourself.

You shouldn’t.

But you do.

And you wonder if he’d still smirk if he knew how many times you’ve moaned his name into your pillow.

Or if he’d finally give you what you want.

You didn’t plan to do it.

Not really.

You just happened to be changing. And your window happened to be open. And the light happened to be on. And you happened to not draw the curtains. Again.

It’s not your fault Sam Monroe’s bedroom window faces yours like some sick cosmic joke.

It’s not your fault he moved in next door and ruined your ability to think straight.

And it’s definitely not your fault that every time you close your eyes, you see him—shirtless, scowling, smoke curling from his mouth like a fucking demon—and feel that sick, hot pulse between your legs.

Tonight, you stop pretending.

You stand in front of your mirror wearing nothing but a lacy little bra and the matching panties you only bought because they made you feel dirty.

Your bedroom light is on full blast.

The window is wide open.

And across the way, Sam’s blinds are half-open, dark behind the glass.

You can’t see him.

Not yet.

But you feel him.

You move slowly, deliberately, peeling the bra straps off your shoulders one at a time. You keep your eyes on your own reflection—on the way your nipples harden, on the little tremble in your breath.

And then you glance at the window.

Still dark.

You sigh. Disappointed. Maybe he’s out. Maybe he’s asleep. Maybe he doesn’t fucking care.

You hook your thumbs into your panties.

You start to slide them down.

And then—you freeze.

Because across the way, his light turns on.

A click. A warm yellow glow. A figure moves behind the curtain.

Your breath catches.

He’s there.

You see the silhouette—broad shoulders, lean torso, a shadow moving toward the window. You don’t move. You don’t breathe. Your panties are halfway down your thighs and your pulse is thunder in your ears.

Then, slowly—slowly—you see it.

The red glow of a cigarette. A tiny ember, flaring in the dark.

Your body goes ice-cold, then burning hot.

Sam Monroe is standing in his window.

Watching.

He doesn’t look away.

He doesn’t fucking blink.

You straighten, panties still low, bare chest rising and falling as you meet his shadowy gaze. You don’t smile. You don’t cover up.

You let him watch.

You tug your underwear all the way off and toss them somewhere behind you. You turn to the side, giving him the full silhouette. You know exactly what you look like—back arched, skin glowing in the yellow light, chest soft and high.

Your heart is slamming. You’re wet. You feel it already.

Still, he doesn’t move. Doesn’t wave. Doesn’t acknowledge you in any way.

Just stands there, smoking. Watching.

You reach for your dresser, pretending to pick out pajamas, but really? You just want to bend over.

You want him to see everything.

You hold the pose a little too long.

Still no movement.

God, he’s good at this.

Your fingers twitch. You think about touching yourself. You want to. So badly.

But not yet.

Instead, you slowly pull on a big, oversized tee—one that barely brushes the tops of your thighs—and glance back at the window.

He’s still there.

The glow of his cigarette is a silent response.

And maybe you’re imagining it, but… you swear you see the shadow of his hand move.

You swear he’s palming himself through those low-slung jeans.

Your whole body clenches.

You crawl into bed like a girl with nothing to hide, pulling the covers halfway up, legs splayed just enough for him to wonder what’s underneath. You prop your phone up on your chest and pretend to scroll.

But all you’re doing is watching that glow. That silhouette. That stillness.

The way he just lets you put on this show.

Or maybe he’s the one putting on a show. Maybe he’s hard right now. Maybe he’s touching himself. Maybe he’s imagining you crawling onto his lap and thanking him for every second of attention.

You don’t know.

You don’t even care.

You just know you’re not stopping now.

ཐི ♱ ཋྀ

You sleep like shit.

Your dreams are full of smoke and smirks and Sam’s rough hands pinning you down.

In the morning, you wake up wet and aching, thighs sticky, cheeks flushed.

You half-expect him to show up at your door.

He doesn’t.

He doesn’t text. Doesn’t knock. Doesn’t even leave a note.

You go about your day pretending you’re normal. Like you didn’t perform a whole naked routine for your neighbor last night.

But you feel him watching.

Every time you pass your window. Every time you get undressed.

You keep the curtains wide open now.

You want to be seen.

Because that red-glow silhouette is becoming an addiction.

And you’re not done teasing yet.

You try to ignore it.

The ache. The burn. The sick little obsession that’s taken root in your stomach and spread like rot.

But you can’t.

Not after what happened last night.

Not after he watched you.

Not after that cigarette glow stayed lit long after you turned out your light, long after you pressed your thighs together and tried to fall asleep with your heart still pounding in your ears.

You saw his silhouette.

You know he saw you.

And now?

Now you’re spiraling.

The next night is worse. You try to read. Try to scroll. Try to eat. But nothing works. You check the window. Once. Then twice. Then every five minutes like you’re addicted—and maybe you are.

But tonight, his window stays dark.

No silhouette. No glow. No movement.

It’s torture.

Your whole body is buzzing with it. With need. With frustration. With this horrible hot little obsession you can’t shake. You feel it building all day like pressure under your skin, rising up your throat, tightening in your chest.

By the time the clock hits 11:43pm, you snap.

You throw your sheets off and sit up in bed, heart racing.

You’re done waiting.

You’re done pretending.

You crawl across the mattress to your window—wearing nothing but a little cotton tank and panties so thin they barely count. You crack it open halfway. Just enough. And you check again.

His window is still dark.

You don’t care.

You reach down between your thighs, fingers shaking.

You’re already soaked.

You drag your hand slowly, lazily over your underwear, pressure building immediately. Your breath hitches. Your head falls back. You try to bite your lip but it slips out anyway:

“Fuck…”

You imagine his voice. His hands. The way he’d smirk, so cruel and cocky, if he knew you were touching yourself because of him.

Your other hand grips the sheets. Your back arches.

Your fingers slip under the waistband.

And then it starts.

Low. Soft. Just for you.

“Sam…” you whisper, cheeks burning.

You circle your clit, slow and perfect. You press harder. You move faster.

Your legs fall open. You don’t care who sees.

You imagine him catching you.

You want him to.

“Sam…” you whine, louder now. “God, please…”

You’re panting. Desperate. Fingering yourself with your bedroom light still on, tank top riding up your stomach. The night air is cool against your skin, but your body is flushed, overheated, burning.

“Sam… fuck… Sam—”

You don’t hear the footsteps.

You don’t notice the creak.

Not until a voice cuts through the night like a blade.

“Are you seriously that fuckin’ desperate?”

Your eyes fly open.

You scream.

He’s there.

Standing in your room.

Sam.

At your window. Inside. Your window’s open—you forgot to lock it.

His voice is low and lethal, thick with disgust… or maybe something worse.

Desire.

You scramble up, yanking your blanket over yourself like it matters, heart pounding, throat dry.

He’s watching you like a predator watches a wounded thing.

Like you’ve finally gone too far.

Or maybe not far enough.

He takes a step closer.

“You touching your pussy with the window open like that?” he asks, voice gravelly and cruel. “Hoping your neighbor would catch you?”

You don’t speak. You can’t.

You can’t breathe.

He’s not even angry. Not really.

He’s… entertained.

His eyes are wild, dark with something dangerous. His jaw tightens. His arms flex. He hasn’t even shut the window behind him.

“You moaning my name like that?” he adds, slow and mean. “Jesus Christ. You’re fucking pathetic.”

Your body shudders.

You should feel humiliated.

But you’re dripping.

His gaze drops to the blankets in your lap. To the place your fingers just were.

And he smiles.

Not nice.

Not kind.

But cruel.

Dark.

Hungry.

“You want help, sweetheart?” he asks, cocking his head. “Is that what this is?”

You nod.

Barely.

His smile grows wider.

“Then say it,” Sam growls. “Say you want the guy next door to come over and help you get off like a proper little slut.”

Your mouth opens.

But nothing comes out.

Not yet.

Because you’ve never been this turned on in your entire life.

You swallow hard.

Your mouth is dry.

He’s in front of you now—close enough to smell the smoke on his hoodie, the sweat on his skin. His arms are crossed, but the way he’s looking down at you is nothing short of vicious. You expect him to be pissed. Furious.

But he’s smirking.

“Jesus,” he mutters, laughing under his breath. “You really are fucking desperate.”

Your cheeks burn.

You can’t respond. Your body is too busy buzzing—heart pounding, thighs trembling, core throbbing so hard it aches. Because yeah, he’s mean. He’s cruel. But you’ve never been this turned on in your life.

“You think I didn’t notice?” he asks, pacing a slow, terrifying circle around your bed. “The cookies. The mail. Standing in your window half-naked every night like a fucking cam girl. You’ve been begging for it.”

You suck in a breath.

He leans in close to your ear.

“Moaning my name while you rub that pathetic little pussy,” he whispers. “What were you expecting, huh? That I’d climb through your window and make your princess fantasy come true?”

Your body jolts.

Your thighs squeeze shut.

Sam laughs again, a little sharper this time.

“I should walk out right now,” he says. “Leave you here to finish what you started. Wouldn’t that be sad, baby?”

Your breath stutters.

He watches you squirm, watches your fingers clutch the sheets like they’re going to save you.

Then his voice drops, low and dangerous.

“Or,” he says, “I could help.”

You look up—eyes wide, mouth parted.

He cocks his head.

“You want that?”

You nod.

He raises his eyebrows.

“Nuh-uh,” he says. “Use your words, pretty girl. You had no problem moaning my name with your legs spread. Say what you want.”

Your throat clenches.

“I…” Your voice cracks. You try again. “I want you to help me.”

“Help you what?”

You hesitate.

He narrows his eyes.

“Say it.”

You exhale, shaky and embarrassed and so fucking wet you can barely think.

“I want you to help me come,” you whisper.

Sam hums like he’s considering it. Then he leans in, hand braced beside your head, mouth inches from yours.

“You touch yourself when I say so,” he murmurs. “You come when I say so. You want to be a little slut, you do it my way. Got it?”

You nod again—faster this time.

He grabs your jaw.

“I said,” he growls, “Got it?”

“Yes,” you gasp. “Yes. Please—Sam—”

“Good girl.”

And then, finally, finally—

He kisses you.

Hard.

His mouth crashes onto yours with zero hesitation, all teeth and tongue and filthy intention. You moan into it, melting, clawing at his hoodie, already dizzy from the taste of him. He shoves the blanket down. Doesn’t ask. Doesn’t wait.

His hand slips under your tank top and cups your breast roughly, thumb swiping over your nipple until you’re arching into him like a live wire.

“You been dreaming about this?” he mutters against your neck. “Me showing up, ruining you?”

You nod frantically. “Yes. Yes. Fuck, I—”

He pulls back just enough to yank your tank top over your head and toss it to the floor.

Then he looks.

And grins.

“Cute tits,” he says casually. “Wasted on someone so fucking pathetic.”

You moan.

Like that word feeds you.

His mouth drops to your chest, hot and wet, sucking a mark into your skin while his hand slips between your thighs. He doesn’t ask before yanking your panties down. Doesn’t ask before dragging his fingers through the slick mess he already knew would be there.

“Fucking knew it,” he mutters. “Dripping wet. Just from me watching.”

You whimper. “Please…”

He pulls his hoodie off in one motion—revealing that familiar, lean, body you’ve been dreaming about for weeks. His abs flex as he kicks off his jeans, still half-hard and bulging in black boxers.

You try to reach for him.

He grabs your wrist.

“Not yet,” he says, voice like smoke and sin. “You’ve waited this long. You can wait a little longer.”

Then he shoves you back on the bed and climbs on top.

You gasp.

You spread.

You surrender.

And Sam Monroe smirks down at you like he’s already won.

Because he has.

He doesn’t fuck you.

Not yet.

He lays you back, legs spread, soaked and trembling, and just stares.

Like he owns you.

Like you’re not even real—just some desperate little fantasy girl who moaned his name loud enough for him to come claim you.

Sam hovers over you, bare chest heaving, eyes dark, jaw clenched. He drags his knuckles down your ribs, down your stomach, slow enough to make you squirm.

You try to lift your hips.

He presses them down.

“Easy,” he says, smirking. “Look at you.”

You’re gasping. Chest flushed. Thighs shaking.

And he hasn’t even touched you properly yet.

“Poor baby,” he coos, mocking. “All that teasing. All those little stunts. You really thought I wasn’t gonna notice?”

You can’t speak.

He leans closer, mouth brushing your ear.

“The cookies,” he murmurs. “The mail. Standing in your window at night like some cheap little exhibitionist.”

You whimper.

He grabs your chin, tilting your face up.

“You think I don’t know exactly what kind of girl you are?”

You shake your head, but he cuts you off.

“No?” he says. “You sure? Because the way you were moaning my name with your fingers stuffed between your legs… kinda screams pathetic slut to me.”

Your whole body convulses.

It shouldn’t turn you on.

It shouldn’t.

But God, it does.

“Say it,” he snaps. “Say you’ve been trying to get my attention like a desperate little whore.”

Your lips part. “I—I—”

His fingers slide down, between your legs, two thick digits pressing through your wetness—but not in. Not yet.

He circles your clit slowly.

“I’m not asking again.”

You cry out. “I’ve been trying to get your attention!”

“Like what?”

“Like—like a slut,” you choke. “A desperate slut. Please, Sam—”

He slaps your pussy—not hard, but enough to make you yelp and gasp.

“Fucking right you have.”

He pushes your legs wider, then grabs your wrists and pins them over your head, holding you there with one hand while the other slides between your thighs again—rubbing, teasing, not giving you what you need.

“You thought this would be sweet, didn’t you?” he taunts. “Some romantic shit where I fall for the cute girl next door just ‘cause she bakes?”

You shake your head, but he doesn’t stop.

“You thought if you got my attention, I’d play nice?”

He leans in, lips brushing yours without kissing.

“Well, you got it, sweetheart,” he whispers. “So now you get me.”

He lets go of your wrists and moves lower, his mouth tracing down your stomach, his hand gripping your hip as his breath ghosts over your thighs.

You’re trembling.

You’re soaked.

You’re fucking begging without saying a word.

Sam spreads you open with his fingers, eyes locked on the mess between your legs like it’s his reward.

“Look at this,” he mutters. “So wet it’s dripping.”

Your eyes roll back.

“Bet you practiced this,” he continues. “Lying here, legs open, pretending it was me.”

He flattens his tongue against your clit.

You scream.

He doesn’t stop.

He devours you—slow, filthy licks, two fingers sliding inside without warning, curling perfectly while his mouth works you like he’s doing it just to prove a point. You writhe, moaning his name, fists tangled in the sheets.

He pulls back just as your orgasm builds.

Your body jerks in protest.

“Don’t come,” he growls. “Not unless I say so.”

You whine. “Please, I—I can’t—”

“You will,” he snaps. “Or I stop. And I walk out. And you can finish yourself off like the desperate little freak you are.”

You cry out.

You clench.

You wait.

And finally—finally—he goes back down.

Tongue flicking, fingers fucking you rougher now, faster, until your back arches off the bed.

“Now,” he orders. “Come for me. Let me see how bad you need it.”

You explode.

It’s blinding.

Shaking. Sobbing. Gasping his name over and over again as he drags it out—never stopping, not for a second, until you’re twitching and spent beneath him.

And when he finally pulls away, mouth wet, eyes dark?

He grins.

“Yeah,” he mutters. “That’s what I thought.”

You’re limp. Panting. Completely fucked without even being fucked.

Sam wipes his mouth on the back of his hand.

Then he crawls up beside you, settles back against your pillows like he lives here, like he owns this bed—and you.

He lights a cigarette, takes a drag, and glances down at your ruined body.

“You still want more?” he asks, exhaling smoke slowly.

You nod.

You’re not even embarrassed anymore.

You want him.

All of him.

Sam smirks.

“Good,” he says. “Because I’m not done with you yet.”

You’re still shaking.

You haven’t moved. You can’t move.

Sam lies beside you, shirtless, his arm slung behind his head like he didn’t just ruin you with his mouth. A thin trail of smoke curls from his cigarette. He hasn’t looked at you in minutes—but you feel him watching you all the same.

Like prey.

His voice slices the silence.

“You ever touch yourself again without my permission,” he says calmly, “I’ll make you wait a month before I even look at you again.”

Your breath hitches.

You turn your head toward him. “Sam—”

He cuts you off with a glance.

“New rule,” he says. “No touching. Not without asking. Not even if you’re dripping all over the fucking sheets.”

You blush.

But God help you—you nod.

He flicks ash into a glass on your nightstand, his lip twitching into something between amusement and threat.

“Good girl.”

Heat rolls down your spine.

He leans over suddenly, snuffs the cigarette out, and climbs over you again—his body heavy, warm, fully in control. You open your legs instinctively, already aching again.

But he doesn’t touch you.

Not yet.

He grabs your chin instead—firm, demanding.

“You want this?” he asks.

You nod too fast.

He squeezes. “No. Use your words.”

“Yes,” you breathe. “I want you.”

“I know you do,” he murmurs. “You’ve been begging for weeks. Dressing up for me, flashing me through your little window. You made yourself mine before I even touched you.”

You squirm beneath him.

“And now that I have touched you?” he continues. “You’re gonna play by my rules.”

You nod again.

“I mean it,” he says, lower now. “You want more of me? You earn it. No sneaky shit. No more pretending to be innocent.”

“I’m not pretending,” you whisper.

He laughs, cruel and soft.

“You are,” he says. “All that cookie-baking, mail-returning, ‘oops I dropped my DVD’ good-girl bullshit.”

He dips down, his lips brushing your throat. “But I know what you really are now, don’t I?”

Your heart pounds. “What?”

He lifts his head. Smirks.

“You’re my little slut.”

A strangled sound escapes your throat.

Sam leans in again, this time letting his teeth graze your neck.

“Say it.”

You hesitate.

He slides his hand down your chest, your stomach, stopping just above where you’re wet again.

“Say it,” he growls.

“I’m your little slut.”

He smiles like he’s won something.

Like he always wins.

“Good,” he whispers. “Now let’s make sure you remember the rest.”

He moves off you and sits back against your headboard, legs spread. You sit up slowly, breathless, flushed.

He gestures lazily to the space between his thighs.

“Come here.”

You crawl over, settling between his legs.

You look up at him. His eyes are half-lidded. Lazy. Dangerous.

“You want me hard again?” he asks.

You nod.

“Then take it out,” he says. “With your mouth.”

Your fingers tremble as you undo his fly.

You tug his jeans down just enough, freeing him—and you almost whimper at the sight of him, already semi-hard and big. Thick veins, flushed tip, that same cocky curve to the left.

You glance up.

“Don’t look at me,” he snaps. “Eyes on it.”

Your eyes drop instantly.

“Open your mouth.”

You obey.

He slides in slow, letting you feel the weight of him, the taste, the heat. One hand fists in your hair—not guiding, just holding you there. Making it clear you’re his now.

You hollow your cheeks, tongue tracing every inch of him, desperate to please.

He groans—low, rough, from the chest.

“You want my cock now?” he taunts. “Beg for it.”

You pull back just enough to speak.

“Please… Sam, please, I want it. I’ll be good, I swear—”

“You’ll be what I make you,” he cuts in. “That’s rule number three.”

You moan around him.

He pulls you off suddenly, his cock glistening, your lips swollen. He grabs your chin again, tilts your head up.

“You follow my rules,” he says, voice low and serious now. “You come when I say. You touch when I allow. You open that pretty mouth only when I want to hear you beg or moan my name.”

You nod, eyes wide.

“And if I ever catch you parading around your window like that again—”

“I won’t,” you whisper. “Not unless you tell me to.”

He smirks.

“There’s my girl.”

He shoves you gently back onto the bed.

Climbs over you again.

“You keep behaving,” he says, stroking himself slowly as he looks down at you, “and maybe I’ll let you come twice next time.”

Your thighs squeeze together instinctively.

But you don’t touch yourself.

Not unless he says so.

Because you belong to him now.

And Sam?

Sam’s going to make sure you never forget it.

You’re lying on your back.

Breathless. Trembling. Spread wide on your bed like a present.

And Sam Monroe is looking at you like he’s already unwrapped you.

He hasn’t even taken his jeans off. Just the shirt—tossed somewhere near the window. His belt’s still on, hanging open. He hasn’t touched you again since laying down the rules.

You’re naked.

Panting.

Soaking the sheets.

You want him.

God, you want him.

“Say it again,” he murmurs, standing at the edge of the bed, hand slowly palming the bulge in his jeans.

“Please,” you whisper, biting your lip. “I need you, Sam.”

His expression doesn’t change. Still dark. Still unreadable.

“Need me how,” he says. “Be specific.”

You swallow hard.

Your voice is barely a breath. “I need you to… fuck me.”

He tsks. “Is that how you ask?”

You whimper.

His voice lowers. “What happened to ‘I’ll do anything, Sam’?”

You flush hot—remembering the way you’d said it last night, half-crying under his tongue.

He was teasing then.

Now? He’s not smiling.

He wants control.

“I’ll do anything,” you repeat softly, eyes locked on his. “Just—please. I need you inside me.”

He walks slowly toward the bed.

Drops to his knees.

Spreads your thighs apart with his hands, and you nearly come undone right there.

“I know you do,” he says. “You’ve been fucking dripping since I walked in.”

He leans in—nose brushing your thigh. You twitch, needy.

But he doesn’t touch.

Instead, he talks.

“You been thinking about this for weeks, huh?” he mutters. “Sitting in your little bedroom, playing with your pussy, moaning my name like a desperate whore.”

You let out a choked gasp. “Yes…”

He smirks darkly. “What did you imagine I’d do to you?”

You blink at him, breath ragged.

“Tell me.”

You hesitate.

Then whisper: “I imagined you’d… push me against the wall. Pull my panties down. Say I’m yours.”

He exhales slow.

“Anything else?”

You nod, cheeks burning.

“Say it.”

“I imagined you’d choke me a little,” you whisper. “Call me a slut. Make me say how much I want you.”

His fingers flex against your thighs.

You see the heat in his eyes—barely restrained.

“Anything else?” he growls.

You look up at him.

Daring.

“I imagined you’d come inside me.”

His eyes flash.

That’s all it takes.

He rises.

Pulls his jeans down just enough to free himself—thick and hard and already glistening from how fucking ready he is.

You open your legs wider.

He climbs over you, nudging your thighs apart with his knees. Grabs your wrists and pins them above your head.

“You want all that?” he says low, cock pressed against your slick heat.

You nod helplessly. “Yes. God, yes.”

“You sure?” he murmurs. “Because once I fuck you, sweetheart… I’m not gonna stop.”

You stare up at him, pupils blown wide.

“I don’t want you to stop.”

His gaze is fire.

“Say you’re mine.”

“I’m yours.”

“Say you’ve been mine since the day I moved in.”

“I’ve been yours, Sam,” you whisper. “Since the moment I saw you.”

He leans down, lips grazing yours—soft, almost gentle.

Then he thrusts in deep—slow but unforgiving—and your back arches off the bed.

God. He’s big.

You cry out, nails clawing at the sheets.

Sam doesn’t move at first. Just lets you feel it.

Lets you stretch around him.

Lets you realize you’re finally full of the man you’ve been fantasizing about every night.

You look up at him, jaw slack.

He smirks.

“Better than your fingers?”

You nod frantically.

He starts to move—slow, deep strokes that punch the air out of your lungs.

One hand closes around your throat—not choking, just resting there. Possessive. Dominant. Hot.

You moan louder.

He leans down, lips brushing your ear.

“You’re mine now,” he whispers. “You come when I say. You moan when I want. You exist to be fucked like this.”

You whimper something between yes and fuck and he fucks you harder, pinning you down like you were made for him.

You are.

You’ve never felt anything like it.

He stays half-dressed the whole time—jeans around his hips, belt hanging loose, hair falling in his face.

You’re a mess beneath him.

Crying. Pleading. Ruined.

And it’s only the first time.

He kisses your neck as you fall apart—slow and deep and dominant.

“Next time,” he whispers darkly, “I’m fucking you against the window.”