Not My Neighbor by Flora Ferrari

Chapter Five

Krystal

I’m glad when Blake asks me in, wishing he’d read my mind.

Although I have to admit that just coffee isn’t exactly what I have in mind.

But there I go again. Sounding like some sort of seductress, some woman of experience.

The kind he’s probably used to.

In reality, I just crave him being close to me. He’s the only male I’ve ever met that actually wants to talk to me for being me, without judging me by how I look or what I’m interested in.

He makes me feel safe like I could tell him anything and he wouldn’t laugh.

I can’t say the same for him though.

He does seem a little guarded still. But it’s probably just jet lag.

Who the hell looks this good after a long-haul flight?

Blake Mason. That’s who.

He’d look good doing anything, anytime, anywhere.

I convince myself that’s the case, and making our way into his house I’m amazed at how similar our houses are on the outside, but how different they are inside.

Our place is the same size, but with a different floor plan, I guess.

And his place is clean.

Like, spotlessly clean.

We’re not slobs, but with dad away often and me at college. The place looks lived in.

Blake’s house looks brand new inside, with only some slight wear showing outside. Like every house on the street.

Bought off the plan and built in a month. They looked great for about a year, then started to look tired.

Not how real houses used to look like. When they built them to last.

I can’t help but help myself to look around. It reminds me of the show homes they used when they were selling the lots before the neighborhood was built all those years ago.

But something’s not right.

Apart from having a pool out back, which we don’t, I notice a few pictures here and there of some guy and what looks like his mom or grandma.

There’s one on the kitchen counter which I pick up and study as I hear Blake suggest we make some coffee.

“Who’s this?” I ask, holding up a small metallic frame.

“Sorry,” I tell him quickly, realizing how rude I’m being. “First I barge into your house and now I’m demanding to know who’s in your photos,” I tell him, apologizing again.

Feeling like I’m making more of a fool of myself every time I open my mouth around Blake, but he never seems to mind.

“It’s alright,” he says, shrugging it off and taking the photo from me, casually slipping it into a kitchen drawer.

“I’m only letting the place really, the owners are away for twelve months,” Blake explains.

“They left all their things here and I agreed not to put holes in the walls or hang my own pictures. It’s kind of homely, I guess.” He reasons to himself.

“Well, don’t let me put you off,” I tell him, still kicking myself. “It’s none of my business really. I’m sorry for intruding,” I add, really meaning it.

If my dad was here, he’d tell me off for being such a snoop.

Why should I care or need to know what pictures Blake has up?

Because I want to know everything about him is why. And I want him to tell me. To show me.

To be with me.

It’s about as much of a pipe dream as my job opportunity at the magazine he’s an editor for, but there is something in the way he looks at me.

And definitely something in his touch.

I watch him as he opens the double-sided refrigerator, making a sound of disapproval before opening some cupboards with the same reaction.

“It looks like I didn’t plan ahead too well for a homecoming,” he admits, forcing a smile.

“Not even any coffee?” I ask, solving the issue instantly. Literally.

“We’ve got instant coffee, and sugar and milk,” I offer, smiling at the thought of being so useful.

“Gimme a minute, I’ll be right back,” I tell him, not even giving him time to suggest anything else.

But there’s no way I want him to see inside our house either, even if he has already. I don’t want him associating me with our house. My dad’s house really.

He holds his hands up in surrender, chuckling that he’ll wait right where he is, and tells me not to hurry.

“We’ve got all day, haven’t we?” he asks, probing me again to make sure he’s not stopping me from doing anything else.

“I’m all yours for today if need be.” I try and joke, but the intense look in his eyes and the low sound he makes as I leave the house leaves me wondering if I shouldn’t take some time and freshen up a little.

Maybe shower, change my outfit.

Maybe touch myself until I break free of this feeling he’s bringing out in me.

Jesus, Krystal. Where on earth are you getting this stuff from?

I almost break my ankle speeding from Blake’s house to ours, fumbling for my key and looking at the way my hands are trembling, feeling nothing but butterflies in my belly and a tingle in between my legs that goes all the way up to my core when I think about him.

I try to tell myself it’s just coffee. That he’s just our neighbor, but it’s no use.

I can feel it already.

My emotions. They’re all totally out of control when it comes to Blake Mason.

Catching a glimpse of myself in the bathroom mirror, I almost faint.

I look like hell.

Or is it just that Blake looks so damned good?

Looking so fresh and like nothing ever fazes him. Like he doesn’t have a single problem in the whole world.

Maybe he doesn’t, but surely running a magazine must be hard work. It must be stressful. My last boss and half the employees were stressed to the max. Myself included by the time I left and that was only after two months.

I wash my face and fix my hair a little better.

Would he prefer it up or down?

And should I have a shower, what about my bath later on?

This is the kind of thinking the man generates in me and I’ve only just met him.

I don’t know if I can live next door to him, to be honest. I’m already feeling things I’ve never really felt before and the day’s not even over yet.

I settle for keeping my hair up and skipping the shower. I was only supposed to be zipping next door to get us some coffee anyway.

A spritz of my special occasion only perfume and a raid of our own meager coffee supply sees me almost skipping back to Blake’s.

The thought of seeing him again even after just a few minutes gives me a thrill I can’t get used to.

I stop at his mailbox and fish out what looks like a few days’ worths. Or maybe he just gets a lot of—

Nathaniel Macy.

Nate Macy.

Mr. N. Macy.

Mr. Nathan Macy.

For the attention of Mr. Macy…

There’s a ton of mail here and all with someone else’s name on it.

Nothing here for Blake Mason. Not a single thing.

Not even any junk mail.

I frown at it, feeling a little shocked. But then I remember two things. This isn’t Blake’s house and most important. It’s none of my damned business.

I ring the bell at his front door rather than being too familiar, noting it takes Blake some time to answer.

When he does I gasp out loud, dropping the mail. Standing there as my shock shifts to a different part of my brain.

The man’s naked from the waist up and I become acutely aware of my jaw dropping as I do nothing but stare at his perfect abs. His V line and his massive chest and shoulders.

“You okay?” he asks, leaning down to scoop up the mail, giving me a perfect view of his chiseled back which flexes in time with another stupid sound I hear myself making.

He’s perfectly tanned too, by the way.

The type of body you wouldn’t see on someone half his age, let alone—

“Krystal? You okay?” he asks again. “You don’t have to ring the bell. Anytime, just come on in. I mean it,” he says, glancing at the mail and making a face.

I feel myself moving inside again and he closes the door with his foot, holding up the mail as he walks towards the stairs.

“I keep getting this guy’s mail. Really need to do something about that,” he sighs loudly.

“Back in a sec. I’m just trying to find a clean shirt. Feel free to put that coffee on,” he calls out over his shoulder.

I have to lean against the wall once he’s out of sight, straining to get enough air.

My chest feels like it’ll shatter if my nipples scratch the fabric of my shirt. My sex feels like it’s about to explode.

A heat I’ve never known is coursing through my whole body. My legs start to shake and I wonder what the hell is wrong with me on the one hand.

On the other hand…

On the other hand, is five fingers I feel like driving into myself. Right here in his entrance hall, on all fours, as I beg him to take me so I can scream his name.

I try to swallow but my mouth is so dry I can hardly get a crackle as my throat closes and opens.

I stagger to the kitchen, still reeling from the sight of Blake like that.

Jesus, I’ve got it bad.

I need to get out of here. I can’t take much more of this.

But at the same time, I don’t want to go anywhere. I’d be crazy to walk away from someone as amazing as Blake.

I just wish he’d notice me. Wish he knew the effect he’s having on me.

I hear a thud and a deep moan from upstairs, figuring he’s stubbed his toe but recognizing a familiar tone in the sound.

A sound to match the feeling I have boiling up inside me.

A feeling that makes me want to give myself to Blake, and not in a pink and fluffy romantic way.

In a rough, wild animalistic kind of way, on the kitchen counter. The furniture and the floor or all three.