But at no point during any of these moments do I try to stop him.
At no point during any of these moments do I feel unsafe.
Maybe that’s why I have not one, not two, but three orgasms, each one on the heels of the last. And when I can’t possibly come again, maybe that’s why when he spins me back around and comes inside me with my legs clamped around his waist.
I don’t feel used or taken advantage of. I don’t feel ashamed or embarrassed.
I feel desired and powerful.
And extremely satisfied.
Of course, the postsex haze lingers for mere seconds before reality sets back in and I realize that I’m drenched in my neighbor’s cum and wearing only a pair of unwearable black tights.
I use one of the discarded napkins to wipe the sweat off my forehead before I grab my shirt and pull it on. “God, it’s late. I… I should get going.”
Uri doesn’t try to stop me. In fact, he doesn’t say a word or move a muscle. So I take the opportunity and retrace my footsteps back to the front door. I’m lucky it’s dark because I manage to hide my total state of undress as I rush, cat burglar style, all the way back off his property and back to the safe zone of my decrepit little bungalow.
Is he watching me? It feels like he is.
Don’t look back.
I get all the way up to my bedroom and collapse into my bed before it strikes me what that little nag, nag, nag in the back of my head was trying to tell me when we’d started to get all hot and heavy.
I just had dirty, steamy, aggressive, unprotected sex with my next-door neighbor, who may or may not be a mobster.
And just like that, I’m terrified again.
6
ALYSSA
Breathe, Alyssa.
I have a Plan A, which goes by the name of Plan B.
I’ve resolved to wake up bright and early tomorrow morning, drag my ass to the pharmacy, and correct my colossal fuck-up with that lifesaver of a pill. How on earth did I forget about birth control?
Well, I know how. Uri’s blue eyes are magnetic fields that suck you in when you least expect it. They really don’t give a girl much of a choice.
After I’ve hyperventilated myself into lightheadedness, I end up in the shower. I rinse off the blood, sweat, and cum （ain’t that a cocktail） and change into a clean pair of jeans and a white tank top. Now that I’m feeling more put together, I also feel better equipped to deal with the situation.
No. There’s no “situation.” You’ll get Plan B tomorrow. You’ll take it. And that will be that.
Except that I also know what it’s like to have my hot neighbor quite literally inside me.
How did I even end up at his house?
“Ah! My package!” I bolt out of my room and back towards the front door. I spot the package the moment I’m out of the house. It’s lying in the grass, right where I tossed it over the fence hours and hours ago.
I grab it and take it back inside. Okay—no harm, no foul. I’ve recovered the package, Uri will never know, and I can embarrass Elle as planned. It’s all gonna be fine. Just a little unplanned sexcapade under my belt but hey, I’m willing to think of it as some much-needed therapy.
I walk the package into my kitchen and cut it open. I’m expecting the suspiciously light box to be stuffed to the brim with all manner of obscene and embarrassing items.
But… where’s the purple dildo? Where’s the lube? The handcuffs? The restraints?
All I’m faced with is a bunch of weird straw that seems to be hiding my purchases. I suppose when you spring for a purple dildo with tentacles, it’s all about the reveal.
I pull the straw out and reach inside the box for the flesh-colored item I can see peeking through the straw. Did they make a mistake and send me a normal dildo instead of a purple one? It was bad enough making those purchases the first time around. I am gonna be so freaking mad if I have to do it all over ag—
“AARRRGHH!”
The scream erupts out of me when I realize that what I have in the box isn’t a flesh-colored dildo—it’s actual flesh.
Actual human flesh.
It’s a severed…
Fucking…
Finger.
“Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God.” I’m talking fast and shaking and despite my recent shower, I’m sweating all over again. “What the fuck? What the fuck? What the fuck?”
It can’t be. Maybe I saw wrong. Maybe it’s just a gag or something. That finger can’t be real. It must be plastic.
But there’s a smell emanating from the box that says the severed finger is anything but plastic. I grab my only pair of tongs and use it to pull out the… yup, it’s a finger. There’s even a dry callus on its tip.