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I shove the air out of my lungs.
It’s almost time for her next haircut. Her bangs are a little long, hanging into her eyes, the curls even more apparent in the short strands, making her look just the right amount of unkempt.
I love them.
But I hate when they block my view of her soft brown irises, even if it’s only for a second.
Her tongue darts out, swiping across her plump bottom lip.
And I look to the ceiling.
The doorbell sounds again.
Maybe if I focus, I can slam my head forward, impaling my eye socket onto my blade, and put myself out of this fucking blue-ball misery.
“I thought you were home, Hans.” Her soft voice slides through my speakers, and I snap my eyes back up to the screen.
She almost always mutters something to herself when she stands at my door. But she never says my name.
My dick reacts, knowing exactly how her lips would’ve parted while she breathed out my name.
I’ll play the recording back when she’s gone. Watch the shape of those perfect pink lips as they open and close.
“Dammit, Butterfly.” I press my palm down over my growing erection.
Her exposed cleavage rises as she takes a big breath, then she dips down, setting the container on the worn welcome mat in front of my door.
It doesn’t actually saywelcome. But it does have a sheet of carefully crafted explosives woven into the inner layer of the mat, so there’s that.
I keep pressing down on my dick as she straightens.
And I press harder when I watch her glance at my front window.
The curtains are closed, so there’s nothing for her to see, but I love that she tried.
Then I keep watching as she turns away from the tiny camera and hops back down the steps, the sunset causing her form to glow.
She’s so fucking thick. And soft. And beautiful. And the spark behind her eyes is so trusting and healthy and…
I let my fingers grip my length, squeezing until she’s crossed the dead-end street, skirted past her car—that she always leaves parked in the driveway—and closed her front door behind her.
I slouch back in my chair.
The only other time I’ve heard her say my name was the day we met.
I’d been out of town—out of the country. I was busy killing terrible men, so I hadn’t known my original across-the-street neighbor had died. She was a nice old lady who couldn’t hear for shit, couldn’t see past her front yard, and had an online poker habit that kept her away from the windows. She was perfect. But then she up and died, and her sister had a friend who had a daughter who was looking for a place, and by the time I got home, I had a new fucking neighbor.
Cassandra.
That was last summer. One year, one month, and two weeks ago.
I had just climbed out of my truck, and she had hurried across the street, already at my tailgate by the time I shut my door, and she thrust her hand out toward me.
Before I could stop myself, I placed my calloused palm in her smooth one while she saidI’m Cassie, your new neighbor. And since my brain could come up with nothing better to say, I replied withHans.
Just that. Just my name.
And then she repeated it back. Just as simple. Just once.Hans.
