I adjust my night shirt as I walk by the window. It's probably too late in the day to still be wearing pajamas... but when my eyes drift out the window and I catch sight of the neighbour working in his yard, my steps falter.
Too young--in his twenties--and surely not interested in a women in her thirties, like me; and yet, I can't stop looking. His jeans are torn and faded, and the hem of his white tank top is stained with grease, no doubt from the car he's bent over and working on.
I catch myself running my tongue along my teeth and my nipples peak as I envision running my hands up and down his strong, wiry arms.
Like he can sense the path my thoughts have taken, he turns and catches me staring. I lift a hand in what I hope is a polite, neighbourly wave. He returns it, then goes back to the car. Of course, he wouldn't think anything of me. He's lived next door since he was a teenager, and I was always just the lady next door--and until recently, I hadn't been interested in him, either. But when he got back from ranch college, or auto college, or where ever it is that he's been... suddenly, his long, lean form was hard with muscle. Not the showy muscle people get from the gym... the farm-strong kind. The kind that didn't look like anything until they were at work holding your back against a wall. I couldn't deny it... He'd become a man, and I wanted him.
My heavy breasts are one of my best assets--always have been--and I make good use of them now. I catch hold of the bottom of my shirt and tug it down just enough to hint at the swell of skin underneath. I open the window and lean out, angling my elbows so everything is on display.
"Car trouble?" I ask, and am rewarded when the neighbour turns and does a double take. I can tell he doesn't mean to, but his eyes catch on my volumous cleavage.
"Wh--Sorry, what?" He gives his head a little shake, wrench forgotten at his hip. I smile and take a deep--chest heaving--breath.
"Don't work too hard out here... it's a lovely day. Wouldn't want to waste it."
He's not sure what to do, so I just smile sweetly and close the window.
Later that afternoon, I put on some jean shorts and a threadbare tank top of my own, and forgo the bra. Just the thought of him makes me nipples grow hard as they rub against the fabric, and I have to gnaw on my lower lip just to keep from sighing.
I make a pitcher of lemonade and bring it out to him next door. Each step sets my chest bouncing, and the cowboy boots I chose have just enough of a heel to pop my ass.
"Dylan," I call as I approach. He's done working on the car now, and heaven help me, his shirt is off when I come around the corner. His skin is tanned from long hours spent working in the sun, and his abs cut a tempting line down into his pants.
"Oh, what a surprise!" He takes a glass, eyes darting down at my see-through tank top. "Thanks Ms. H."
"Michelle, please." I give a breathy laugh and run one hand lightly up his warm, muscled arm. His arm hair is blonde--almost white in the sun. "We've known each other long enough for first names, I think."
"I think you might be right." He holds my stare, then downs the lemonade in one. He licks his lips, slowly, as if savouring every... last... drop.
The next day, I conveniently forget to put a top on, and stand in front of the window watering my plants in nothing more than my white bra. When I'm done, I look down and catch Dylan looking over at me. I bite my lip and wave at him, making no effort to hide my aching breasts from him. He swallows hard, I can see it from here, and waves back. When he turns back to the vehicle, I see him give his head a little shake.
Almost there...
That night, I see that Dylan is having a small bonfire in his yard. It's a warm, dark night. I leave a lamp on and crack the window, and I know that if he looks up, he'll be able to see inside my window with perfect clarity.
I start slowly... massaging one tender breast through my tank top and leaning against my wall. I picture Dylan's hands caressing me, and soon enough I've slipped a hand into my bra and am pinching my nipple in earnest. A gasp escapes me, and I slowly--so... slowly... slide a hand down my stomach to the waist of my jean shorts. I'm picturing him watching me, and it's getting me wet. I press my fingers against my jeans, right at that sweet spot, and can barely conceal a groan.
When I glance up, though, Dylan isn't by the fire anymore; in fact, it's smouldered down to ashes. How long have I been touching myself?
That's when I hear the knock at my door. I hurriedly pull my tanktop back up over my boobs, and go to answer it. It's Dylan.
