Neighbor Across The Window Ch. 02

I was painting in my room when I saw a hot guy directly across from my window. Literally across. Like, if I leaned forward, we'd probably breathe the same air. He was just moving in boxes, duffel bags, a fan that kept tipping over. I figured he was new to the building. I watched him unpack for a while, not really thinking much of it. Until he leaned back on the bed, peeled off his sweats, and let them fall to the floor.

And just when I thought it couldn't get any better,

he stood up... and reached for the waistband of his underwear.

His hands moved to the waistband of his dark grey trunks, and just like that, they were gone. One slow, deliberate pull, dragging the fabric down over his thick thighs, the outline of his cock straining beneath the fabric until it finally slipped free, bouncing slightly as it stood tall and proud in front of him.

He wasn't shy about it. My Neighbor's cock, thick and flushed, hung heavy between his legs. My mouth went dry. I couldn't stop staring. His movements were slow, controlled--like he was letting me take it all in, letting me see exactly what he had to offer. He cupped himself for a moment, like he was savoring the feeling of being completely exposed.

Long. Thick. Loose at first but heavy, already rising. Veins like brush strokes.. clean, strong, beautiful. Definitely a shower. Or in his case, a shower that was still growing.

Fucking art.

I should've grabbed a sketchbook right then. He should've been my subject. Lit by the soft glow of a desk lamp, framed in the boxy symmetry of his new place. His hand brushed along it, just once. Like even he had to admire it.

Then he sat back down on the bed.

No rush. No performance. Just casually draped himself across the mattress, pulled a pillow under his head, and adjusted the way his vest clung to him. Rolled it slightly up his torso. That's when I saw them... abs, ridged and faint, carved with ease. The vest bunched around his chest, his skin flushed from the heat or the work or maybe the fact that he knew what he was about to do.

Left hand held his phone.

Right hand wrapped around his cock.

He started slow. No urgency. Just a few long strokes as his thumb rolled lazily over the tip. I mirrored him instinctively. Slipped my hand into my own trunks and tried to match his rhythm. I could barely see the screen on his phone, but whatever it was, it had him focused. Like he was sinking into it.

His grip shifted. His hips moved slightly. That thick length swelled in his palm with each pass, fingers tightening just below the head, dragging back down. He was stroking with purpose now, still slow, but heavier. Bolder.

I was hard as hell. Rocked slightly on the edge of my seat, breathing shallow, my brush forgotten in a little blob of violet paint on the floor. My cock ached in my grip. I didn't blink. Didn't move.

He adjusted his grip again. Switched pace.

I did too.

I couldn't tell if this was real or some sick fantasy. He looked too good. That body, those legs slightly spread, his stomach tensing subtly every time he hit the base. His eyes flicked down to the screen again. His thumb moved like he was scrubbing forward in the video.

Then, suddenly, he stopped.

Mid-stroke. Just let go. Cock standing there, hard and heavy, glistening slightly from the way he'd been working it. I froze. My hand still wrapped around mine. Mouth dry. Not breathing.

He stood up. Again.

Still watching whatever was playing on his phone with one hand, he dug into one of the open boxes nearby. His cock bobbed with each step, fully erect, flushed, beautiful. I couldn't look away.

He pulled out a towel and a clean pair of trunks. Tossed his trunks on to the bed like he wasn't done. Like he'd be back. Then, he peeled the vest off over his head in one quick motion and threw it on the mattress.

And he walked away.

Just walked.

Out of frame.

Out of sight.

Cock still fully erect. Swinging with each step like he didn't even care. Like it wasn't the centerpiece of the show he just abandoned.

What? No. No way. The good part. We were right there.

I sat there fully hard, pissed off, chest tight like I'd been edged by a ghost. He didn't even hesitate. Just left me there hanging, with my cock out and heart pounding like a pervert in the middle of a gallery opening.

Minutes passed. Still nothing. My window was just... empty. A blank rectangle. The worst painting I'd ever stared at.

Frustrated, I let go of myself and reached for my brush again. Tried to get back to painting. Like that was even possible. I was mid-stroke, on the canvas, I mean, when I saw motion again.

He was back.

This time, with a towel around his waist. Hair fully wet, darkened and messy, sticking to his forehead. He looked fresher. Relieved. Like he'd just... finished. In the shower. Goddamn it.

He tossed his phone onto the bed and took a few steps toward the window.

Then he looked at me.

Not a smile. Not a smirk. Just stared. Straight through the glass. Into my room. Into me. And then, he laughed. Just a little.

The kind of laugh that said:

Yeah. I know you were watching.

So, here's where we are: I moved into my apartment almost two years ago, and everything was normal until today. I spotted my new neighbor across the alley, right out of a magazine. Hot as hell. I watched him unpack, slowly peel off his sweats, and then, yeah, he gave me a full view of himself. He knew I was watching. And just when I thought I'd lost him, he came back from the shower, and we made eye contact. He laughed, like he knew what had just happened.

Then he smirked. A small, knowing curl of his lip, like a hello without words.

And just like that, he turned and walked away. No wave. No second glance. Just left me there, cock hard, brain short-circuiting, wondering if I'd imagined the whole thing.

But then, halfway across the room, he paused. Turned back.

Our eyes met again.

This time, the smirk was cockier. Like he was letting me in on something. He adjusted the towel slung dangerously low on his hips. And then, with zero hesitation, he let it drop. Just let it fall.

Bare ass. Right in front of my face. Framed perfectly in the glow of his room, like a painting I wasn't supposed to see.

Then he walked off. Bare-ass. Like it was nothing. Letting me take in the beautiful view of his body.

I sat there, rock hard, breath caught somewhere between a moan and a prayer. I didn't move for a while. Just stared at the now-empty room across the alley, replaying every frame of what I'd just seen. My dick throbbed against the front of my shorts, aching for attention, but I couldn't tear my eyes away.

He had to know I was hard. That I was going to stay up thinking about it. Maybe that was the point.

The next morning, I woke up earlier than I needed to, 7 AM sharp. First thing I did was look at the window. Was he still there? Had I made it all up?

Nope. There he was. Shirtless. Again.

He walked around his room in a tight pair of trunks like it was nothing. Like his body wasn't built to destroy people's sleep schedules. I wasn't complaining. I just watched.

I dragged myself to the kitchen, brewed some coffee, and came back to my room. Sat on the stool by my window, right next to my canvas. If I was going to enjoy the view, I was going to do it properly, coffee in hand, posture casual, gaze locked. I wanted him to see that I liked what I saw. That I appreciated the effort.

As soon as I sat, he started walking toward the window. Confident. Purposeful.

He opened it and leaned out, waving like we were old friends.

"Hey!" he called out, voice easy. "I'm Adam."

Caught me off guard. I leaned out my own window. "Uh... Leo. I'm Leo. You just moved in?"

"Yeah," he said, flashing that same cocky smile. "New job. New city."

I nodded, suddenly feeling awkward, though still painfully turned on. "Cool, cool. I, uh... I've been enjoying the show."

He laughed, the sound light and unbothered. "Yeah, I noticed. Thought I'd give you a little something."

My jaw tensed. "Well. You definitely succeeded."

He gave me a once-over. Not shy about it. His eyes dipped down my chest before landing back on my face. "Glad you liked it."

I swallowed. "I did."

There was a pause. Just long enough to feel like it meant something.

Then he added, "I'm straight, by the way."

That threw me. "Oh."

"But I don't mind eyes on me," he said, like it was the most casual thing in the world. "Kinda like it."

Cocky bastard.

And God, I loved it. That smug grin, that hint of challenge, that impossibly toned body and that "yeah, I know I'm hot" energy. Straight, huh? We'd see about that.

Because if this was a game, I was absolutely playing.

He looked like he was about to say something else, but I beat him to it.

"My eyes are definitely on you," I said, resting my elbow on the windowsill, sipping my coffee like I wasn't half-hard again. "I like the morning view."

That smirk again. Like he knew exactly what he was doing.

"Yeah?" he said, arms resting casually on his own windowsill. "I figured I'd make up for disappearing last night."

I grinned. "About that..."

His brows lifted, curious.

"I loved the little show you put on," I said. "But I was a little bummed you stopped midway. Right before the... climax."

He laughed, really laughed this time and shook his head like I'd just caught him red-handed.

He raised his eyebrows, that same damn smirk on his lips. "I had to take a shower," he said, playing innocent.

"Mmhm." I leaned against the windowsill, cocking my head. "Sure. You left me hanging."

He stared at me for a second. Then two. Then something shifted in his expression, like he was debating whether to keep playing the game or push it a little further.

"Well," he said, his voice lower now, a little slower, "maybe I saw you watching... and wanted you to suffer a bit."

That made me laugh, quiet and sharp. "Suffer, huh?"

He gave a lazy shrug. "What can I say? You looked like you were enjoying yourself."

"I was," I said. Then I tilted my head, just slightly. "And if you hadn't bailed so fast, I might've offered to help you finish."

He raised an eyebrow. "Oh yeah?"

I nodded. "With my hand... or maybe my mouth."

That one hit. I saw the flicker in his expression. The cockiness didn't disappear, but it shifted--less mocking now, more intrigued.

He let out a soft laugh, dragging a hand through his hair. "Damn. Tempting, bro. Real tempting. But like I said, I'm straight. Don't think a guy could get me hard anyway."

I leaned back in my chair, letting that hang for a second. Then I smiled.

"Is that a challenge?"

He gave me a look, half grin, half dare. "What, you think you've got some kind of magic mouth?"

I sipped my coffee. "You'll find out soon enough."