Page 2 of Felix

Hey, neighbor.

Fun fact. If you go into your bedroom and look outside, you’ll notice there’s a window one floor up on the building next to yours. The blinds are black. Second fun fact—someone looking through said window has a perfect sightline to your bed.

First of all, bravo. Quite the finish.

Second, I promise I didn’t mean to catch the show. But, well, there you were.

So here’s me, letting you know you may want to close your curtains next time. Or not. Honestly, I would not be upset to catch that again.

Welcome to the neighborhood.

-C

“Holy shit,” I whisper, my pulse sprinting so fast I’m left dizzy. My neighbor saw me jerking off.

I should be embarrassed—mortified, even—that I put on an unintended peep show. But I’m not. At least, not in the way I know I’m supposed to be. All that almost-shame is curling tight in my gut, heating my veins and making my fingers tingle in anticipation.

Did they like what they saw?

Do they really want to see it again?

This is where, logically, that shame should come. Because I don’t regret it. I’m thrilled to have been caught. And I’m so damn horny all I can think about is that “or not” in regards to closing my curtains.

There’s a reason I work in porn. And it has nothing whatsoever to do with the money.

Forcing a calming breath through my body, I put away my groceries before walking into my bedroom. My adrenaline is still high, pulse pounding, but my steps are even as I approach the window. Sure enough, there are a few windows on the building next to mine that I didn’t notice yesterday. Probably because they’re so far to the side I can’t see them except from a certain angle. But in the case of one particular window—the one a floor above mine—that angle happens to line up perfectly with my bed, exactly as C indicated.

A wave of heat rushes through me.

Can they see me right now? The blinds might be cracked open; it’s hard to tell. Are they watching? Waiting for a reaction? Waiting for me to snap my curtains shut?

I don’t know what possesses me to do it, but I grab a sheet of printer paper and a marker, and I scribble my number in thick print. Then, I slap the paper against the windowpane.

My heart beats heavily as I wait. Chances are they aren’t even there. I’m being ridiculous. And yet, less than a minute later, my phone pings. I drop the paper and grab the device from my pocket. A text waits.

Unknown: Hey, Specs.

“Holy shit,” I whisper again.

I adjust my glasses and change the contact to “C,” and then I type out a response. Maybe it’s because of C’s own bluntness in their letter or that nearly irresistible offer of “or not,” but instead of being polite or appropriately apologetic about what they saw, I decide to throw caution to the wind for once in my goddamn life.

What’s the harm? I don’t know this person. And they don’t know me; not really.

There’s safety in anonymity, even if it’s only an illusion.

Me: I’d say I’m sorry, but I’m not.

C sends me a grinning emoji that immediately sets me at ease.

C: Never asked for an apology. Does that mean you’re going to leave those curtains open?

There goes my pulse again.

Me: You really want me to?

C: Is that a serious question? That was hot as fuck. I’ll watch you anytime, Specs.

My thumb hovers over my screen before I type back.

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