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So when I forget to wash clothes for two weeks, I can do laundry in just my bra and panties when I have to.
And tonight? Yeah, tonight, I don’t even have a bra or panties clean.
But hey—no one else is up at this crazy-ass hour, so it’s not like it matters. And there’s something kind of novel about doing laundry completely in the nude.
That is, until he walks through the door.
Dark brown hair. Green eyes. A nose like a Roman general and a chest like…fuck.
Have I seriously forgotten what a man’s chest actually looks like, or is it actually that good?
His shoulders are so broad beneath his lab coat that he has to turn slightly just to fit through the laundry room door, and his slacks…
Let’s just say that it’s obvious he’s got a lot going on in the pants department—and his package fucking doubles when he finally notices me.
At first, though? At first, he’s obviously in total man-on-a-mission mode. He’s got his laundry hamper tucked beneath his arm as he heads straight for a washer, not even bothering to look up at he enters.
Which is kind of awkward, because there I am, standing barefoot in front of my dryer, watching every item of clothing I have on-hand tumbling around, still soaking wet.
Not that he notices. No, whatever he’s thinking about, he’s thinking about it so hard that he doesn’t seem to be aware that other people even exist right now.
As far as he’s concerned, he’s in the Bradford’s laundry room totally alone—which becomes apparent when he shrugs off his lab coat, unbuckles the belt around his waist and starts to pull his shirt up over his head.
I should have fucking bolted then. I’m as much of an exhibitionist as the next ho, don’t get me wrong. But being totally nude in front of a total stranger, while kind of hot, isn’t exactly how I want to introduce myself to my neighbors.
In fact, I’m about to bolt. I’m about to do the quickest runner up to my apartment that I’ve ever done in my life. Like going streaking, but without the security guards at Yankee Stadium chasing after me for once.
But then I see them.
His abs.
His gorgeous, perfectly sculpted, Roman statue abs.
They’re the kind of abs that, once you see them, you actually can’t bring yourself to look away.
He has hairy arms, a hairy chest—a sexy happy trail leading the eye down his rock-hard stomach and disappearing beneath his unbuckled belt.
I could lick ice cream off of abs like that.
Hell, I want to go pick up my dinner order from New Kum Den and eat it off those abs in lieu of a plate.
My mouth is salivating just thinking about it.
My pussy is practically drooling, for fuck’s sake.
There’s a beautiful, perfect moment where his face is totally obscured while he pulls his t-shirt over his head, and I can’t decide whether I want to touch myself or just tackle him right there while he’s caught off guard.
Instead, I just stand there. Staring. Like a total fucking perv.
And like, look. I’m a tall, leggy bleach blonde with D-cups and a bubble butt. Usually I’m the one being perved on—not the other way around.
First time for everything, I guess.
Kind of like how, when he finally gets his shirt over his head and actually sees me gawking at him, I bet it’s the first time he’s been so startled that he gets an erection.
“Holy—” he says, freezing up and getting hard all at once.
If this was a porno, this is the point where the bang music would start playing.
