Chapter 1: A Neighborly Request
The fridge wheezed like a dying man when Gaby finally gave up on the stubborn handle and plopped onto the counter, legs dangling. Beer cans rolled beside her, cold sweat dripping from the broken seal onto the sticky linoleum. She should’ve called maintenance days ago, but what was the rush? The apartment was just a place to sleep between parties, between men who didn’t know her name right or leave her full enough.
She wasn’t thinking about the fridge now.
Her fingers found the thin belt of her robe before she even decided to.
One tug, and the fabric loosened enough to let the neon light spill over her bare shoulders, over the dip of her collarbone, over the swell of her breasts. She wasn’t cold. The kitchen was a sauna, the air thick with the scent of stale beer and something sweet—maybe mango from the takeout that sat half-eaten on the counter since last night.
She liked to tease herself when she was alone. It was her little ritual, a way to pass the time before the next distraction walked through the door. Tonight, though, she wasn’t just teasing. Tonight, she was impatient.
Tonight, she was reckless. She forgot she told Tom to come over tonight—she forgot to keep track of time the way she forgot to keep track of names after three drinks. Her phone lay somewhere beneath the couch cushions, buzzing uselessly against the wood floor, ignored. The headphones hummed softly against her temples even though the music had long since stopped, the cable dangling loose over her shoulder like a dead nerve.
She sat on the couch with her legs spread wide, the robe pooled around her waist like a discarded promise. Her fingers moved slow circles over her thighs before dipping lower, her breath hitching when she found the heat between her legs. She wasn’t just teasing. She was pushing. Probing. Wishing for friction that wasn’t there, for hands that weren’t hers. The fridge wheezed in the background, a rhythmic complaint that matched the pulse between her thighs.
Her robe fell open completely, the thin fabric surrendering to gravity like an unzipped confession. Her breasts spilled free—heavy, full, the nipples already tightened points of anticipation. A gasp escaped her parted lips as her fingers plunged inside herself, knuckles glistening, thighs trembling against the cold countertop.
Tom stood frozen in the doorway, his massive frame filling the space between the light and the dark. The beer cans rolled under his weight, their aluminum echoes lost beneath the hitch of her breath. She didn’t notice. Her hips arched upward, her free hand gripping the edge of the counter so hard her knuckles turned bone-white. The kitchen trembled with the sound of her pleasure—wet and unashamed.
*“Tom!”* She barely recognized the broken cry as her own voice, but there it was, spilling into the neon-drenched air like a secret finally spoken aloud.
He didn’t hesitate. His shoes crushed a crushed beer can as he stepped closer, his shadow swallowing the flicker of light that had once danced across her bare belly. Then his hands were on her thighs, parting her further, his breath hot against the slick heat she’d been drowning in moments ago.
Before she could protest—before she could even gasp—his mouth was on her, tongue firm and slow, tracing her with deliberate hunger.