Neighbor Across the Window

Adam meant it when he said "Dude,,You have to like... blow me every single day after work."

I'm not even sure how it became routine.

Monday to Friday, I gave Adam the kind of stress relief most guys only dream about. He'd get home from work around six-thirty. Still in his dress socks, tie loose, chest rising under that tight undershirt as he stood in front of the window, always in his trunks, like it was our unspoken signal.

The first day, he texted:

"I'm at the window."

And like a trained dog, I was out my door, across the alley, knocking on his door. No questions. Just heat.

I dropped to my knees. He didn't have to say a word. I sucked him off like it was my last meal. Hands on his thighs. My nose buried against him. Swallowing everything. And when I left, I could still taste him on my tongue.

It only took one text on Monday for me to learn his routine.

By Tuesday, I was already waiting, casually glancing at the clock around 6:30, pretending I wasn't checking the alley window every other minute. And sure enough, there he was....late by three minutes, but still in those same Calvin Klein trunks, still leaning against the sill like he owned me. He didn't text. He didn't have to.

By Wednesday, it was Pavlovian. I was already half-hard before I even knocked on his door.

By Thursday, I started to get cocky with it. Pushed deeper. Let him fuck my throat, gag me a little, moan against him just to feel him twitch. He never talked much during it. Mostly just deep breathing, some rough grunts, a hand on the back of my neck. But that day?

He let out this low groan and whispered, "Fucking hell... you are my throat goat."

I nearly laughed with his cock in my mouth. But also? That did things to me.

Friday was wild. He came so fast I didn't even get my shorts off. Something about the way he was already half hard when I walked in. His hands trembled a little when he pulled me closer. I tasted him for hours after.

And then... Saturday.

I waited.

Same time. Same place. Sat in my window seat, sketchpad in my lap but no real intention to draw. Just glancing across every few minutes. Expecting him. Needing him.

Nothing.

Five minutes pass. Ten. Fifteen.

I check my phone. No message. I consider texting him. I even type out,

"You back?"

But I don't send it. I don't want to be that guy. Clingy. Obsessive.

I mean i was definitely obsessed with my hot neighbor, but I couldn't show that.

Instead, I clean the kitchen. Fold some laundry. Dust the damn bookshelf like it matters. But I keep glancing up.

Still nothing.

By the time 45 minutes pass, I've convinced myself he's ghosted. That maybe I did too much. Maybe I made it weird. Maybe I should've pulled back on Friday instead of deepthroating him until he collapsed back on the bed, sweaty and panting like I'd blown his soul out.

So I retreat to the canvas. My safe space.

I paint. Big, messy strokes. Reds and grays and this anxious kind of blue that makes my teeth hurt when I look at it. I'm not thinking...just moving. Just trying not to feel the weird hollowness in my chest. The craving.

Then I glance up again.

And there he is.

Adam.

In the window. Fully dressed this time. Not in his work clothes...no. He's wearing a black leather jacket, open just enough to show off the cling of his shirt underneath. His hair looks slightly wet. Maybe gelled. His jaw's clenched, but there's a looseness to his posture, like he just got back from somewhere loud.

And he's not alone.

There's a woman with him.

She steps into view like she belongs there. Laughs at something he says. Tosses her hair over one shoulder and drops onto Adam's bed.

I freeze.

Suddenly I'm hyper-aware of everything. My unwashed paint-stained shirt. The fact that my tongue still remembers what his dick tastes like. The week I spent choking on him while he grunted and pulled my hair like I was just some toy.

My stomach knots.

I watch, unable to stop myself. He offers her a drink. Her laugh is louder this time. She stretches her legs out, kicks her heels off, and when he sits down beside her, she leans in like it's natural. Like she knows that space belongs to her.

I should look away.

I don't.

My fingers tighten around the brush. Red paint splashes across the canvas. It looks violent now.

I know what this is. I've seen this scene before. Not here, but in a hundred different guys. "Straight" until someone's watching. "Curious" until they get what they want. I was fun for the week. The convenient fuck. The secret. The mouth that doesn't talk back.

She kisses him.

It's soft at first. Then deeper. Her hand moves to his thigh.

I can't breathe.

I close the curtain. Slowly. Like it'll hurt less that way.

I couldn't watch the man I was obsessed with kiss someone else.

I sink back into the living room and throw on some rom-com. Something brainless. Something stupid. But the tears surprise me. Just one or two, sliding down while some overly attractive actor on screen delivers a line that's meant to be swoony. I can't even hear it.

My throat feels dry. Not like before.

By now, most nights, I'd be kneeling for him. I'd have his cock down my throat. I'd be swallowing everything he gave me without a second thought. My lips would be bruised. My knees sore. My chest heaving with pride and hunger and whatever the fuck this thing is that he makes me feel.

But not tonight.

Fifteen minutes pass. Maybe twenty. I'm not watching the movie. I'm just thinking about him. His mouth. His voice. The quiet way he groans when I take him deep.

I can't take it anymore. I get up. My feet move before I've even decided. I walk to the window. Gently pull back the curtain.

And there he is.

His back to the glass. Naked. Bare ass jiggling.

He's fucking her.

I freeze. My breath catches.

He's panting. Aggressive. His hips driving forward in rough, deep strokes. She's bent over the edge of the bed, face buried in the pillows, her body jolting with every thrust. He's holding her hair in one hand, the other gripping his own hip, steadying himself.

My chest goes cold.

That should've been me.

I should be on my knees. Or bent over for him. Or under him. Anywhere, as long as it was me.

I feel it...jealousy. Sharp. Ugly. Hot.

I hate her.

I hate how her moans are echoing through the alley. I hate the way his muscles tense, the way sweat drips down his spine, the way I know exactly what he feels like in this moment.....because I've felt it, tasted it, craved it all fucking week.

And just when I think I can't take another second...

He turns.

Looks straight at me.

A slow, deliberate smirk tugs at his lips.

Then, without missing a beat, he keeps fucking her.

And just when I think I can't take another second, he turns.

He looks straight at me.

Right at my window.

A slow, deliberate smirk curls across his lips like he's proud of what he's doing. Like this whole thing.....her bent over, the rough pace, the way her tits bounce with every thrust.....is for me. He holds my gaze. Doesn't slow down. Just keeps fucking her.

I hate him.

I hate that I'm still hard. I hate that my mouth waters. I hate the way my stomach flips because I know that smirk. I've seen it every time he made me choke on his cock. I've felt it in the way his hand curls behind my neck. And now he's giving it to her?

Fuck that.

I tear myself away from the window. Draw the curtain like I'm cutting a wire. My heart's still racing, but I'm not giving him the satisfaction. He doesn't get to make me feel like this. Not tonight.

I drop onto the couch and press play on the movie I never finished. Something stupid and sweet with soft lighting and long stares. The kind of shit you watch when you want to pretend feelings don't hurt.

Somewhere between the cheesy kiss and the airport reunion, I pass out. Hoodie bunched under my chin, phone clutched in my hand, lips dry, jaw sore. My body felt like it was buzzing with something unfinished.

A sharp ding wakes me up.

Groggy, I blink at the screen. It's been about forty-five minutes. My phone lights up again.

It's him.

Adam:

I didn't get my daily dose of blowjob today, my throat goat.

My stomach tightens. I stare at the message. A few seconds pass. Then I type back, cold:

Me:

Why, fucking her didn't make you cum?

His reply comes almost immediately.

Adam:

Hahaha. I did. But not as intense as I cum with you.

Come over. Stop sulking.

And then a photo.

His cock straining against his underwear. Thick. Hard. Bulging under the soft cotton like it knows I'm looking. He's lying on the same bed he just fucked her on.

Adam:

I'm waiting...

I don't reply.

I don't even think.

I just get up, grab my keys, and go.

Fuck being pissed off, I was craving his cock.

Two minutes later, I'm in the hallway outside his place. His door is already cracked open like he knew I was coming. Like he planned this.

"Come on in, Leo," he calls from inside, voice lazy, cocky.

I step in.

He's sitting on the edge of the bed. Shirtless. Legs wide. His grey trunks are doing absolutely nothing to hide the shape of his dick.....thick, long, angry. His abs tighten when he sees me.

"C'mon, throat goat," he grins. "I missed you."

I don't speak. I just drop to my knees between his legs and nuzzle my face into his bulge. My cheek brushes the heat of it through the fabric. My lips drag over the length. I breathe him in.

"My cock says hello," he mutters, pulling it out for me.....already hard, already leaking, already twitching.

And I don't tease. I don't stall. I wrap my lips around the head and sink down deep, swallowing him like I've needed this all day. Like I've been craving the weight of him in my throat more than food or air.

His hand lands gently behind my head, not pushing, just holding.

"You're the best throat I've ever put my dick in," he murmurs, low and smug. "Fuck, Leo..."

And I moan. Because it hurts how good that feels. Because I hate that it still means something.

His hips shift. His breath stutters. My lips stretch wider, deeper, wetter.....

But then.

A noise.

Behind me.

The bathroom door.

It creaks open.

I freeze.

Footsteps. Light. Bare.

And then.....

She walks out, towel-drying her hair. Her skin is flushed. She's wearing his T-shirt. His boxers. She looks at me on my knees, my lips wrapped around his cock.

And she laughs.

"I told you to wait," she says with a smirk. "You guys already started?"