The heat in Mia’s Brooklyn apartment was a living, breathing beast, clawing at her skin with sticky, relentless talons. Her ancient window unit had given up the ghost two days ago, and the pitiful little desk fan whirring on her cluttered desk did nothing but push hot air around in sad, futile circles. She slumped over her laptop, a half-finished graphic design project mocking her with its blinking cursor. Sweat trickled down her spine, soaking into the thin fabric of her gray tank top, the material clinging to her like a desperate lover.
“Fuck this heat,” she muttered, shoving her damp hair off her neck. “And fuck this client who thinks ‘modern minimalism’ means Comic Sans. I’m one bad decision away from becoming a stripper just for the air conditioning.”
She leaned back in her chair, stretching her arms above her head, her body aching for a reprieve. Her gaze drifted lazily out the window, across the narrow alley separating her brownstone from the one next door. That’s when she saw him. Jake. The new guy who’d moved in last week, all tousled dark hair and broad shoulders she’d only glimpsed in passing. He was pacing around his apartment, phone pressed to his ear, wearing nothing but a white towel slung low on his hips. The fabric barely clung to him, teasing the sharp V of his pelvis, and Mia’s mouth went dry—though, admittedly, that might’ve just been dehydration.
“Jesus Christ, who walks around like that with the blinds open?” she whispered to herself, her voice a mix of indignation and raw, unfiltered thirst. “Not that I’m complaining. Bless you, neighbor. Bless your complete lack of situational awareness.”
She knew she should look away. She *should* be a decent human being and not ogle the unsuspecting man like some creepy voyeur. But then the towel slipped—just a fraction at first, revealing the taut curve of his hip—before gravity took over entirely. The fabric hit the floor, and Mia’s breath hitched in her throat. There he was, in all his glory, his cock thick and impressive even from this distance. Her core clenched involuntarily, a rush of heat pooling between her thighs that had nothing to do with the oppressive summer air.
“Oh, fuck me,” she groaned, pressing a hand to her chest as if that could slow her racing heart. “I’m going straight to hell. Do not pass go, do not collect two hundred dollars. Just straight to the fiery pits for my pathetic, horny ass.”
She bit her lip, torn between guilt and the primal urge to keep watching. Jake turned slightly, giving her a side profile that only made things worse—his ass was a goddamn work of art, sculpted like it belonged in a museum. Her mind spiraled into filthy territory, imagining what it’d be like to dig her nails into that flesh, to feel the weight of him pressing her into a mattress, to hear him groan her name in that low, gravelly voice she’d only heard once when he’d said “hey” in the hallway.
“Get a grip, Mia,” she scolded herself, her voice sharp even in the empty room. “You’re not some desperate teenager sneaking a peek at the quarterback. You’re a grown-ass woman with a vibrator and a shred of dignity. Act like it.”
But her body wasn’t listening. Her nipples had hardened under her tank top, the friction against the damp fabric sending little sparks of need straight to her clit. She shifted in her chair, thighs pressing together in a vain attempt to ease the ache. It didn’t help. If anything, it made her hyper-aware of how wet she was, how badly she wanted to slide her fingers down and take care of this herself—right here, with Jake still in her line of sight.
She laughed bitterly, shaking her head. “What am I even doing? Am I gonna start narrating my own porn now? ‘Oh, Jake, take me against the window, you clueless Adonis.’ Get real, girl. He doesn’t even know your last name.”
Still, her eyes stayed glued to him as he bent down to pick up the towel, the muscles in his back flexing with the movement. She wondered if he’d ever caught her staring before—if he’d noticed the way she’d lingered a little too long in the stairwell last week, pretending to fumble with her keys just to steal another glance at him. Not likely. Men like Jake didn’t notice women like her, all sharp edges and snark, with a portfolio of unfinished projects and a fridge full of takeout leftovers. But oh, how she wanted him to notice. How she wanted to march over there, knock on his door, and say something ballsy like, “Hey, hot stuff, I saw the goods. Care to give me a private encore?”
The thought made her smirk, even as her cheeks flushed with a mix of embarrassment and desire. “Yeah, right,” she muttered. “I’d probably trip over my own feet and end up face-planting into his crotch. Real smooth, Mia. Oscar-worthy seduction right there.”
Jake finally wrapped the towel back around his waist—much to her disappointment—and disappeared into another room, leaving her staring at an empty window. The loss of him hit harder than it should have, leaving her restless and aching in a way that no amount of cold water or design work could fix. She leaned forward, elbows on her desk, and dropped her head into her hands with a dramatic groan.
“This is ridiculous. I’m ridiculous. I can’t just sit here marinating in my own lust like some sad sap in a rom-com montage. I’ve got to do something about this before I combust.”
She straightened up, a determined glint in her dark eyes. If the heat outside wasn’t going to let up, and the heat inside her was only getting worse, then fuck it—she was taking matters into her own hands. Metaphorically. And maybe literally, later. But first, she needed a plan. A bold, take-no-prisoners kind of plan to get Jake’s attention, to make him see her as more than just the sarcastic chick next door. Because if she was going to burn, she’d damn well make sure it was worth the flames.
“Game on, neighbor,” she said to the empty room, a wicked smile curling her lips. “You’ve got no idea what’s coming for you.”
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