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Behind it, the hallway of the fifth floor unravels to connect four apartments and one elevator. A stairwell too.
Two ways to get down to the third floor. To Prue.
The clock by my bed shows it’s two-thirty in the morning. I’ve never been more awake, more restless than I am now.
In the dead of night, my obsession wins over my conscience.
I get up, slip into my sneakers, and grab the paper clip and keys on my way out.
Over the last week, while I’ve stalked her, I’ve studied not only Prue but also the behaviors of tenants of this apartment building. They come and go at odd hours—socializing late, jogging at sunrise.
The short research I’ve done solidifies my choice to take the stairs. The morning people, the health junkies, choose cardio over the elevator. The night people, usually drunk ones, prefer not to abuse their feet, climbing the stairs in high heels and strict dress shoes.
Their human predictability makes my sneaking around to enter my love’s apartment undetected a walk in the park.
Stealthily walking in the dark hallway of floor three, I head over to apartment 3D.
Just as I did on the other nights I broke in here, I stop in my tracks when I reach her door. No light permeates from beneath it. No sound echoes through.
There’s a slight chance Prue’s in there reading, that the night lamp by her bed is the only light on in her apartment. I won’t be able to see it standing here.
Breaking in nonetheless is a risk, the same one I’ve taken four times already over the last week.
One I’m taking now.
The lock ticks to the rhythm I’ve become familiar with. It slides and snaps, giving in eventually, granting me access to Prue’s place.
As always, her scent hits me first.
I close the door as silently as possible, close my eyes, and inhale the essence of her.
Musky and fresh. Flowers and waterfalls. Tender yet effervescent.
My Prue.
My nostrils flare, my blood thrums.
The jeans I’m wearing become uncomfortable when my cock hardens and pushes against its restraints. The hairs on my arms stand on end at the thrill of being in the same space Prue occupies while she sleeps.
But I’m not here to be in the same space as her.
I’m here forher.
I bend to remove my sneakers quietly, then navigate through the living room. My feet pad on the floor, my socks drowning out the sound of my steps.
It doesn’t take long for me to lean against the doorframe of her bedroom.
There she is. This otherworldly angel, partly covered in her mangled sheets, completely sheathed by the darkness. Just like I imagined she’d be.
And naked. That’s another fun fact I’ve learned about her. Prue Bishop, the woman who has an issue with the repeated use of the wordfucking, sleeps completely indecently. Completely nude.
No T-shirts, no underwear, not even socks.
All bare.
Waiting for…no, not anyone. Waiting for me.
I move closer to her, admiring her long locks draped on her cheek, the thick dark lashes fanning on her smooth, sweet cheeks.
