Peaches on Linoleum: Witnesses to Stairwell Confessions

Two weeks after the elevator incident, and Michael's mouth was on mine in the stairwell. The concrete walls amplified each wet sound between us, making me hyperaware of how awkward this felt.

Michael wasn't a bad kisser, technically. He had nice lips, and he didn't use too much tongue. But as his hands fumbled at my waist, I felt nothing but a dull obligation to continue. This was what normal twenty-year-olds did, right? Made out with classmates in stairwells?

"You're so hot, Leah," he murmured against my neck.

I made an encouraging noise, tilting my head back against the wall. The stairwell's emergency lights cast everything in a sickly orange glow. Michael's fingers slid under my shirt, stroking my stomach with clumsy urgency.

"Is this okay?" he asked, his hand inching higher.

I nodded, though my body remained frustratingly unresponsive. His palm cupped my breast over my bra, squeezing with inexperienced enthusiasm as he pressed his hips forward. I could feel his erection against my thigh, insistent and warm through our jeans.

"Fuck," he breathed. "I've wanted this since Sociology 101."

I closed my eyes, willing myself to feel something—anything—beyond this clinical awareness of what was happening. Michael's tongue traced my collarbone as his hand kneaded my breast. His thumb brushed over my nipple, and I managed a small gasp, more performance than pleasure.

Then I heard it. Heavy footsteps from above.

My eyes snapped open just as Michael's hand dipped to the button of my jeans. The footsteps paused at the landing above us.

And there he was.

Caleb stood frozen on the stairs, one foot suspended mid-step. His face, usually a mask of cold indifference, transformed into something raw and exposed. His eyes widened, then narrowed, his lips parting slightly before pressing into a hard line.

Michael, oblivious, continued kissing my neck, his fingers now struggling with my zipper.

"Michael," I hissed, pushing at his shoulder. "Michael, stop."

"What?" he mumbled against my skin.

I couldn't look away from Caleb. His gaze pinned me to the wall more effectively than Michael's body. There was disgust there, yes—but something else too. Something that burned.

Michael finally noticed my distraction and turned. "Oh. Uh, sorry, man."

Caleb didn't acknowledge him. His eyes remained locked on mine, traveling from my flushed face to my disheveled shirt, down to Michael's hand still resting on the waistband of my jeans.

I expected him to look away. To continue down the stairs with that disapproving scowl. But he didn't. He stood there, watching, judging, witnessing my humiliation with an intensity that made my skin prickle and my chest tighten.

The moment stretched between us, taut and electric. My embarrassment should have made me want to disappear, but instead, I felt hypervisible. Seen in a way Michael's eager hands had failed to make me feel.

"Whatever," Michael muttered, stepping back from me. "This is weird now."

Finally, Caleb moved. He descended the remaining steps with deliberate slowness, each footfall echoing in the stairwell. As he passed us, I caught a glimpse of his profile—jaw clenched, nostrils flared. He didn't hurry. He moved like a man in absolute control, while I stood there, disheveled and exposed.

The door at the bottom of the stairs closed behind him with a soft click.

"What the hell was that about?" Michael asked, reaching for me again.

I shoved him away harder than I meant to, my hands trembling. "I'm sorry. I can't do this."

"Seriously? Because of that asshole?"

I straightened my shirt, unable to explain the storm building inside me. "I just... I need to go."

"Fine," Michael huffed, frustration evident in his voice and the bulge still visible in his jeans. "Call me when you're not being weird."

I nodded, knowing I wouldn't. As soon as he disappeared through the door, I sagged against the wall, my heart hammering. The stairwell suddenly seemed too empty, too quiet, the ghost of Caleb's gaze still hot on my skin.

I pressed my hand to my chest, feeling my nipple harden under my palm in a way it hadn't for Michael. The moisture gathering between my legs had nothing to do with Michael's kisses and everything to do with those dark, judging eyes.

I took the stairs up to my apartment two at a time, unlocked my door with shaking hands, and slammed it behind me. The shame of what had just happened—and my body's betraying response to it—followed me inside like a physical presence.

My bedroom was pitch black, the way I always kept it after sunset. I'd drawn the blackout curtains and killed every light, even unplugging my phone charger to eliminate that tiny blue glow. Darkness was my sanctuary. My shield.

I lay on my bed fully clothed, jeans still buttoned, my hoodie zipped to my throat. The ceiling fan whirred above me, its steady rhythm failing to calm the chaos in my head.

Three hours had passed since the stairwell. Since Michael's lips. Since Caleb's eyes.

I squeezed my thighs together, a reflexive movement that sent a jolt through my body. The humiliation should have faded by now. Instead, it kept building, transforming into something else entirely.

I couldn't stop thinking about the way Caleb had looked at me. Not just looked—witnessed. Judged. His eyes had cut through me like a physical touch, leaving me naked despite my clothes.

"Fuck," I whispered into the darkness.

My hand slid across my stomach, fingertips brushing the button of my jeans. I hesitated, my breath catching. This was wrong. So wrong. But the memory of his gaze—that scorching contempt mixed with something darker—made my skin burn.

I tugged at my zipper, the sound obscenely loud in the quiet room. My fingers slipped beneath the denim, over my cotton underwear. I was already wet. Not from Michael's fumbling attempts at foreplay, but from the memory of being caught. Being seen.

"This is fucked up," I hissed, even as my fingers pressed harder against the damp fabric.

I didn't fantasize about Michael's hands on my breasts or his erection against my thigh. Instead, I replayed the moment Caleb appeared on the landing. The split second when surprise transformed his face before that cool mask slipped back into place.

My middle finger traced circles over my clit through my underwear, my hips lifting into the contact. I pictured Caleb's eyes tracking the movement of Michael's hand as it slid under my shirt. The flare of his nostrils. The slight parting of his lips.

Impatient, I shoved my underwear aside. My pussy was slick, swollen. I dipped two fingers inside myself, gathering wetness before returning to my clit.

"Oh god," I gasped, my free hand gripping the comforter.

In my mind, Michael disappeared completely. It was just me and Caleb in that stairwell. His gaze holding me in place as I touched myself for him. My shame feeding his judgment, his judgment feeding my arousal.

My fingers moved faster, my breathing ragged in the darkness. I was close already, much closer than I should have been. The wrongness of it—getting off to the very person who made me feel like garbage—only heightened every sensation.

I slid two fingers inside myself, curling them upward, my palm grinding against my clit. The wet sounds of my fingers fucking in and out of my cunt filled the room.

"Caleb," I whispered, the name a forbidden incantation.

Behind my closed eyes, I saw him watching me. Not with disgust anymore, but with the same intensity. Cataloging my pleasure like he had my embarrassment.

My orgasm hit without warning, a violent wave that had me arching off the mattress. I bit my lip to keep from crying out as my pussy clenched around my fingers, my clit pulsing beneath my palm. I rode it out, shaking, Caleb's name trapped behind my teeth.

As the pleasure receded, reality rushed back in. I lay there, hand still in my pants, shame and satisfaction tangled together in my chest. The darkness suddenly felt less like protection and more like exposure, as if someone could see through it to the mess I'd become.

I withdrew my hand slowly, wiping my fingers on my jeans. The wetness would dry by morning. The evidence erased. But I knew that something had fundamentally changed.

In that stairwell, Caleb had seen something in me that I'd been trying to hide. And in this dark room, alone with the phantom of his judgment, I'd finally seen it too.

I groaned as Olivia scattered her textbooks across my coffee table. We had an ethics midterm on Tuesday, and I'd reluctantly agreed to study together despite my inability to focus on anything beyond the memory of that night in my bedroom three days ago.

"I'm making coffee," I announced, desperate for something to do with my hands.

"Make it strong. I was up until three watching makeup tutorials." Olivia flipped through her notebook, her blonde ponytail swishing back and forth.

I measured coffee grounds, trying to ignore the subtle throb between my legs that had become my constant companion whenever thoughts of Caleb surfaced. The memory of my fingers inside myself, his name on my lips—

"Oh. My. God." Olivia's voice pierced through my thoughts.

"What?" I glanced over my shoulder.

She was standing at my living room window, the one that faced the courtyard of our apartment complex. "Mr. Tall, Dark, and Judgy from 4B just walked out of his bathroom."

My heart lurched. "What?"

"Your neighbor! The one who always looks at everyone like they're something he scraped off his shoe." Olivia pressed her face closer to the glass. "Holy fuck, he is naked as the day he was born."

I abandoned the coffee, wiping my hands on my sweatpants as I moved toward the window. "You shouldn't be spying on people," I said, even as I stepped beside her.

"Oh please, like you've never looked." She shifted to make room. "Quick, before he—"

And there he was.

Caleb.

Completely, utterly naked.

He walked across his bedroom with casual confidence, unaware of our eyes. His back was to us, muscles shifting beneath tanned skin as he reached for something—a towel—from his dresser. His ass was firm and round, the definition where it met his thighs making my mouth go dry.

"Jesus," Olivia whispered. "He does not skip leg day. Or ass day."

I couldn't respond. My pulse hammered in my ears as Caleb wrapped the towel around his waist, the movement accentuating his broad shoulders tapering to a narrow waist. He turned slightly, offering a glimpse of his profile—the straight nose, the strong jaw—before disappearing back into his bathroom.

"Wow." Olivia stepped back from the window, fanning herself. "I'd let him judge me anytime, if you know what I mean."

"Yeah," I murmured, still staring at the empty space where he'd stood. "I know exactly what you mean."

A strange possessiveness surged through me. His nakedness felt like a secret shared with me, even though Olivia had seen it too. I alone knew what his eyes looked like when they stripped me bare in that stairwell. I alone had touched myself to the memory of his judgment.

And now I had seen him exposed, vulnerable in a way that seemed impossible for someone so controlled. The image burned into my mind—not just the physical details of his body, but the casual, unguarded way he moved when he thought no one was watching.

"Hello? Earth to Leah?" Olivia was waving her hand in front of my face. "The coffee's going to boil over."

I blinked, tearing myself away from the window. "Right, sorry."

As I rescued the neglected coffee, my hands trembled slightly. First, he had seen me. Now, I had seen him. The balance had shifted in some fundamental way I couldn't articulate.

"So," Olivia said, accepting the mug I handed her, "how well do you know Mr. Naked Neighbor?"

I took a careful sip of coffee, buying time. "We've never actually spoken. Just seen each other around."

"Maybe you should change that." She wiggled her eyebrows. "A little neighborly hello?"

If she only knew how thoroughly he already occupied my thoughts. How I'd come undone with his name on my lips. How seeing him naked had only intensified the strange, shameful obsession growing inside me.

"Maybe," I said noncommittally, returning to the window to draw the curtains. I let my fingertips rest briefly against the glass, feeling both closer to and further from Caleb than ever before.

Behind me, Olivia launched into a story about her lab partner, but I barely heard her. My mind was still in Caleb's bedroom, watching droplets of water slide down his spine as he reached for that towel, completely unaware of being observed.

Just as I had been unaware in that stairwell.

The symmetry of it made something tighten low in my belly. Something that felt dangerously close to anticipation.

I'd been avoiding the mail for three days. The image of Caleb's naked body had lodged itself in my brain, making the prospect of running into him both terrifying and thrilling. But bills waited for no one, so I finally forced myself downstairs.

The lobby of Havenwood Arms was eerily quiet at 2 PM on a Wednesday. Sunlight streamed through the smudged windows, illuminating dust particles floating in the air as I approached the wall of brass mailboxes. I focused intently on the small key in my hand, willing my thoughts away from tanned skin and firm muscle.

I'd just opened my box when I sensed someone behind me. The hair on my neck rose before I even heard his voice.

"Leah."

My stomach dropped. I knew that voice, though I'd rarely heard it speak my name. I turned slowly, clutching a handful of envelopes to my chest like a shield.

Caleb stood closer than I expected, his tall frame blocking the path back to the elevator. His face held none of its usual coldness. Instead, his expression was unfamiliar—intent, calculating, almost nervous. A thin sheen of sweat glistened on his forehead despite the lobby's cool air.

"Hi," I managed, my voice embarrassingly small.

His eyes darted around the empty lobby before settling back on me. He took a half-step closer.

"The other night," he began, his voice low enough that I had to strain to hear it. "In the stairwell."

My chest tightened. Here it was—the confrontation I'd been dreading. More judgment, more humiliation. I braced myself, suddenly fascinated by the worn carpet beneath my feet.

"I should apologize for staring."

I looked up, surprised. His deep-set eyes met mine briefly before glancing away, a gesture that seemed almost... shy? It was so at odds with his usual confident demeanor that I found myself unable to look away.

"But I can't," he continued, his voice dropping even lower. He swallowed visibly, his Adam's apple bobbing in his throat. "To be honest..."

He paused, stepping close enough that I could smell his cologne—something expensive and woody. The air between us felt charged, dangerous.

"I was turned on," he said finally. "Incredibly turned on."

The words hit me like a physical blow. My mail slipped in my suddenly sweaty grip.

"What?" The word came out as a whisper.

"Seeing you like that." His eyes met mine again, this time holding steady. "It was... I haven't been able to stop thinking about it."

My brain scrambled to process what was happening. Caleb—cold, judgmental Caleb—was admitting to being aroused by my fumbling make-out session. The memory that had filled me with such deep shame was, for him, a source of desire.

"I shouldn't tell you this," he said, a hint of vulnerability creeping into his voice. "But I had to. I needed you to know."

I stood perfectly still, feeling the wall of mailboxes press into my back. When had I stepped backward? His confession had completely inverted everything—I was no longer just the object of his judgment but the subject of his fantasies.

"I..." I started, having no idea how to finish the sentence.

A door slammed somewhere in the building, making us both jump. The sound broke whatever spell had fallen over the lobby. Caleb took a deliberate step back, his face settling into something closer to its usual composed expression, though his eyes remained heated.

"I've said too much," he murmured. "I'm sorry."

He wasn't sorry. I could see it in the way his eyes lingered on my face, my neck, lower. He wanted me to know. Wanted me to carry this knowledge with me.

"Don't be," I heard myself say, my voice steadier than I felt.

Something flickered across his features—surprise, followed by a flash of that same intensity I'd glimpsed in the stairwell. He nodded once, then moved past me toward the mailboxes. As he passed, his arm brushed against mine, a brief, electric contact that sent a jolt straight through my body.

I stood rooted to the spot, mail forgotten in my hand, as he retrieved his own letters with mechanical precision. The ordinary action seemed absurd after what had just passed between us. When he walked to the elevator, I followed on unsteady legs, my heart hammering so loudly I was certain he could hear it.

We stood side by side, watching the floor numbers descend. Neither of us spoke. The silence was unbearable, filled with all the words we weren't saying.

The elevator arrived with a cheerful ding that felt obscene in the charged atmosphere. Caleb held the door for me, and as I stepped inside, he leaned close—too close—to press the button for my floor.

"Fourth, right?" he asked, though he knew perfectly well where I lived.

I nodded, not trusting my voice. As the doors closed, sealing us in the small space together, I felt something fundamental shift between us. The power he'd held over me through his judgment had transformed into something else entirely—something mutual, dangerous, and thrilling beyond words.

The elevator doors closed with a soft whoosh, leaving me alone with Caleb in the tiny space. Neither of us spoke during the short rise to the fourth floor. When the doors opened, he gestured for me to exit first, his fingertips barely grazing the small of my back. That featherlight touch sent electricity racing through me.

I walked to my apartment on autopilot, fumbling with my keys at the door. Only when I was safely inside with the door locked behind me did I allow myself to collapse against it, sliding down until I sat on the floor, mail scattered beside me.

"Holy shit," I whispered to the empty apartment.

I pressed my palms against my flushed cheeks. My heart wouldn't slow down. Caleb's words echoed in my head: "I was turned on. Incredibly turned on."

I forced myself to stand on shaky legs and walk to the kitchen. I needed water. I needed to think.

The cool liquid did nothing to calm the heat spreading through me. I wandered aimlessly around my small apartment, too wired to sit still. The events of the past few weeks played through my mind like a movie: Michael's clumsy hands in the stairwell; Caleb's burning stare interrupting us; masturbating in the dark to the memory of that stare; seeing Caleb naked through the window; and now this confession that turned everything upside down.

I'd spent my whole life trying to be good. To control these urges. My mother's voice echoed in my head: "Nice girls don't think about those things, Leah." I'd believed her. Had built walls around my desires, convinced myself they were shameful.

But now those walls were crumbling.

I found myself at my bedroom window, the one with the view across the courtyard to Caleb's apartment. His lights were off. Was he home yet? Was he thinking about me too?

I touched the glass, cool against my fingertips. Just days ago, I'd stood here and seen him naked, unaware he was being watched. The memory made me press my thighs together.

What would happen if I acted on this feeling? If I stopped being passive, stopped waiting for judgment or permission?

My reflection stared back at me from the darkened glass. I hardly recognized myself—flushed cheeks, bright eyes, lips slightly parted. I looked... hungry.

The shame was still there, a dull background hum beneath everything else. But it was drowning under waves of something stronger. Desire, yes, but also a newfound sense of power. Caleb wanted me. The realization was intoxicating.

I turned from the window and caught sight of my bed. How many nights had I lain there, clothes on, in the dark, touching myself while imagining faceless men? Men who couldn't judge me because they weren't real.

But Caleb was real. His judgment was real. And apparently, so was his desire.

I pulled my phone from my pocket and stared at it. I could text him. Say something. Make the next move. My thumbs hovered over the screen. What would I even say?

I put the phone down. Not yet. This thing between us—whatever it was—felt too fragile for words. Too raw for the banality of text messages.

Instead, I walked back to the window and pulled the curtain wide open. I stood there, fully visible to anyone who might look across the courtyard. My heart pounded as I slowly, deliberately raised my hand and pressed my palm flat against the glass.

I didn't know if he was watching. Didn't know if he'd understand the gesture if he was. But it felt like stepping onto a high wire—terrifying and thrilling all at once.

I was done being a passive observer in my own life. Whatever happened next, I would be an active participant.

I let the curtain fall back and turned away from the window. Tomorrow was laundry day. I had a basket full of dirty clothes waiting.

For the first time in my life, I was excited about doing laundry.

I lugged my laundry basket down the back stairs to the basement, Olivia and Sam chattering behind me. It had been three days since Caleb's confession at the mailboxes, and I hadn't seen him since. But I'd thought of little else.

"So then he had the nerve to say I wasn't 'emotionally available,'" Sam was saying. "Like, you texted me at 2 AM asking if I wanted to 'hang out.' What emotion were you looking for exactly?"

Olivia laughed. "The emotion of horniness. It's very complex."

I smiled distractedly, pushing through the fire door into the corridor that led to the laundry room. My stomach fluttered. Would he be there? I'd been purposely putting off doing laundry, waiting for a time when he might be there too. It was pathetic, but I couldn't help myself.

The door to the laundry room was propped open with a small wooden doorstop. I could hear the hum of machines running inside. Someone was there. My pulse quickened.

I rounded the corner, Olivia and Sam still behind me, and froze.

Caleb stood at the metal folding table, his back to us. At first, I thought he was sorting laundry. Then I realized what was happening. His arm was moving rhythmically. He was making small, desperate sounds. His head was tilted back, eyes closed.

He was masturbating.

Olivia gasped loudly behind me. Caleb spun around, his eyes wide with horror. His pants were open, his cock jutting out, hard and flushed. For a split second, we all just stared at each other in shock.

"Oh my God," Sam whispered. "Holy shit."

Caleb scrambled to cover himself, his face a deep crimson. "I—I'm sorry, I thought—"

Olivia grabbed Sam's arm. "We'll come back later," she said quickly, pulling Sam back into the hallway.

I should have followed them. I should have been horrified, embarrassed. Instead, I stood rooted to the spot, a hot wave of desire washing over me. Seeing him like this—completely exposed, caught in a moment of raw need—broke something loose inside me.

I heard the fire door slam shut behind Olivia and Sam. It was just the two of us now.

"Leah, I—" Caleb started, his voice strained with humiliation.

I took a step toward him. Then another. My heart hammered so loud I could hear it in my ears.

"That..." I whispered, barely able to form words, "that aroused me."

His eyes widened. He'd tucked himself away, but I could still see the outline of his erection straining against his zipper.

"Can I...?" I gestured vaguely, my voice small. "Can I help you?"

Before he could answer, I closed the distance between us. I put my hand on his chest and gently pushed him back against the folding table. I'd never been this bold before. It was terrifying. Exhilarating.

I sank to my knees in front of him, my eyes never leaving his. With trembling fingers, I reached for his zipper and pulled it down again. His cock sprang free, thick and ready. I wrapped my fingers around it, feeling the velvet-soft skin over steel hardness.

"Leah, you don't have to—" he started.

I looked up at him. "I want to."

And I did. God help me, I wanted this more than I'd ever wanted anything. I leaned forward and took him into my mouth.

The taste of him – salt and musk – filled my senses. I'd never done this before, but instinct guided me. I moved my lips over him, taking him deeper with each pass. His hands clutched the edge of the table, knuckles white.

A moan escaped him, deep and primal. The sound sent a jolt of pleasure through me. I was doing this to him. Me. Quiet, repressed Leah was making this controlled man fall apart.

My initial hesitance evaporated. I sucked harder, using my tongue to trace the ridge under the head of his cock, reveling in the way his thighs tensed in response. One of his hands moved to my hair, not pushing or guiding, just resting there as if he needed to touch me.

"Fuck, Leah," he groaned. "Your mouth feels so good."

The praise unleashed something in me. I hollowed my cheeks and took him deeper, feeling him hit the back of my throat. His hips bucked involuntarily.

"I'm going to—if you keep—" he gasped.

I pulled back, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand. I stood up, shrugging off my jacket. The fluorescent lights hummed overhead, harsh and unforgiving, but I didn't care. I wanted him to see me. All of me.

"I want you," I said simply.

He nodded, eyes dark with desire. In one fluid motion, he lifted me onto the table, hands gripping my waist. This was nothing like the clumsy fumbling with Michael. Caleb's movements were sure, decisive.

His hands slid under my sweater, skimming over my ribs to cup my breasts through my bra. His thumb brushed over my nipple, and I arched into his touch.

"Not here," I said, glancing at the hard metal table. I slid off and pulled him down to the floor with me.

The linoleum was cold against my back as I lay down, but I barely noticed. Caleb knelt between my spread legs, unbuttoning my jeans and pulling them down along with my underwear. I should have felt exposed, vulnerable. Instead, I felt powerful. The way he looked at me—like he was starving and I was a feast—made me feel like the most desirable woman on earth.

He positioned himself between my thighs, the head of his cock nudging at my entrance. I was already so wet, so ready for him.

"Are you sure?" he asked, his voice strained with the effort of holding back.

"Yes," I breathed. "Please."

He pushed into me in one long, slow thrust. The stretch was exquisite, bordering on pain but never quite crossing that line. I gasped, my back arching off the floor.

"Fuck," he groaned. "You're so tight. So wet for me."

His words sent another rush of wetness between us. He began to move, slowly at first, then with increasing urgency. Each thrust hit something deep inside me that made stars explode behind my eyelids.

I wrapped my legs around his waist, urging him deeper. One of his hands slipped between us, his thumb finding my clit and circling it with just the right pressure.

"Oh God," I moaned. "Don't stop. Please don't stop."

The dual sensations of his cock filling me and his thumb on my clit pushed me rapidly toward the edge. My orgasm built like a wave, higher and higher until it crashed over me with stunning force. I cried out, my inner walls clenching around him as pleasure radiated through every cell in my body.

My climax triggered his. With a final deep thrust, he stiffened above me, his face contorted in pleasure as he came. I felt the hot pulse of him inside me, filling me.

For several long moments, we lay there on the laundry room floor, breathing hard, his weight a comforting pressure on top of me. The hum of the machines surrounded us, bringing me slowly back to reality.

What had I just done?

Caleb lifted himself off me, tucking himself back into his pants before offering me a hand. As I stood and began to dress, the magnitude of what had just happened hit me. I'd had sex on the floor of the laundry room. With Caleb. The neighbor who'd barely spoken to me before last week.

And it had been the most incredible experience of my life.

He handed me my jacket, his expression unreadable again. "I should go," he said quietly.

I nodded, suddenly shy again. What did you say to someone after something like this? Thank you? See you around?

He gathered his laundry quickly, stuffing it into his basket without folding it. Before he left, he paused at the door.

"Leah," he said, his voice low. "That was..." He seemed to search for words, then gave up with a small shake of his head. "I'll see you."

Then he was gone, and I was alone with the churning washers, my damp thighs, and the lingering scent of sex in the air.

I sank onto a plastic chair, legs still trembling. What had gotten into me? This wasn't who I was. I didn't seduce men in laundry rooms. I didn't drop to my knees and take cocks in my mouth. I didn't have mind-blowing orgasms on cold linoleum floors.

Except I had done all those things. And I wanted to do them again.

I stood on shaky legs and began loading my laundry into an empty machine, trying to act normal in case anyone else came in. But inside, I felt fundamentally changed. The walls I'd built around my desires hadn't just crumbled—they'd been obliterated.

Three days passed without a word between us. No texts, no calls—we hadn't exchanged numbers anyway—and no "accidental" encounters in the hallway. But the memory of what happened in the laundry room haunted me, playing on repeat behind my eyelids whenever I closed them.

I'd been avoiding the elevator, taking the stairs instead. Partly because I didn't want to risk running into him in such a confined space, and partly because I secretly hoped I would run into him in the very stairwell where he had first caught me with Michael.

The concrete steps echoed under my shoes as I trudged upward, my bag of groceries heavy in one hand. I'd just rounded the landing between the third and fourth floors when I heard it—footsteps coming up behind me.

I knew it was him before I even turned around. Something about the cadence, the weight of his steps. I stopped, my heart suddenly hammering against my ribs.

"Leah."

Just my name, nothing more. I turned slowly. Caleb stood on the landing below, looking up at me. He wore a simple black t-shirt and jeans, his hair slightly damp as if he'd just showered. His face gave nothing away, but his eyes—those deep brown eyes that had judged me so thoroughly in this very spot—now burned with something else entirely.

Neither of us moved for a long moment. The air between us felt charged, like the moment before lightning strikes. He didn't speak again, just stood there, his eyes asking a question I already knew the answer to.

I set my grocery bag down on the step. Deliberate. Measured. Then I walked back down toward him.

When I reached him, I didn't hesitate. I put my hands on his chest and pushed him back against the wall. His eyes widened slightly—he hadn't expected this aggression from me. I rose on my tiptoes and pressed my mouth to his.

For half a second, he remained frozen. Then he groaned, a deep, guttural sound that vibrated through his chest and into my palms. His arms wrapped around me, one hand tangling in my hair, the other gripping my ass, pulling me hard against him.

The kiss was nothing like the tentative ones I'd shared with other men. This was devouring, desperate. His tongue pushed into my mouth, claiming me. I bit his lower lip, drawing another groan from him.

I fumbled with his belt, my fingers clumsy in their urgency. He helped me, his hands steadier than mine, unfastening his jeans and pushing them down just enough. His cock sprang free, already hard, the tip glistening.

"Now," I whispered against his mouth. "I need you now."

In answer, he spun us around so my back was against the wall. His hands slid up my thighs, pushing my skirt to my waist. He hooked his fingers into my underwear and tugged it aside rather than taking it off.

"You're soaked," he murmured, sliding a finger through my folds.

I was. I'd been wet since I heard his footsteps behind me, maybe since the moment in the laundry room, maybe since the first time he looked at me with those judgmental eyes.

He lifted me easily, his hands gripping my thighs, spreading me open. I wrapped my legs around his waist, locking my ankles behind his back. His cock nudged at my entrance, thick and insistent.

"Please," I breathed, not caring how desperate I sounded.

He thrust up into me in one powerful movement. I gasped, my head falling back against the concrete wall. The stretch was exquisite, the angle allowing him to hit places inside me that made stars burst behind my eyes.

"Fuck," he hissed. "You feel amazing. So good around my cock."

His words sent a jolt of heat through me. I'd never been talked to like that before, never thought I'd like it. But hearing those filthy words in his cultured voice made me clench around him.

He began to move, pulling almost all the way out before slamming back in. Each thrust drove the air from my lungs in little gasping cries. The wall was hard against my back, but I barely felt it. All I could focus on was the incredible sensation of him filling me, stretching me, claiming me.

His pace was relentless, brutal. One hand moved from my thigh to grip my hip, angling me so he could drive even deeper. The other hand went to my breast, squeezing roughly through my shirt.

"That's it," he growled. "Take it. Take my cock."

I couldn't answer, couldn't form words. I could only hold on, my nails digging into his shoulders through his shirt, my thighs trembling with the effort of keeping myself wrapped around him.

The danger of where we were—a semi-public stairwell where anyone could walk in at any moment—only heightened everything. Each creak and groan of the building sent adrenaline coursing through me, making every sensation more intense.

His thrusts grew faster, more erratic. He was close. So was I. The friction of his pubic bone against my clit with each thrust had built a coiling tension low in my belly.

"I'm going to come," I whispered, the words torn from me. "Oh god, Caleb, I'm going to—"

"Do it," he commanded. "Come on my cock. I want to feel you."

Those words pushed me over the edge. My orgasm crashed through me like a wave, my inner walls clamping down on him rhythmically as pleasure radiated out from my core. I buried my face in his shoulder to muffle my cries.

He followed me a moment later, his hips jerking erratically as he pushed as deep as he could go. I felt the hot pulse of his cum filling me, marking me from the inside.

For several long moments, we stayed like that, joined together against the wall, our breathing harsh in the quiet stairwell. His forehead rested against mine, our sweaty skin sticking slightly. I could feel our combined fluids beginning to trickle down my thigh.

Slowly, reluctantly, he lowered me to the ground. My legs felt like jelly, and I had to lean against the wall for support. He tucked himself away, watching me with an expression I couldn't quite read.

I smoothed down my skirt with shaking hands, suddenly aware of how I must look—flushed, disheveled, thoroughly fucked. A strange pride welled up in me. I liked looking this way. Liked knowing it was because of what we'd just done.

Neither of us spoke. What was there to say? Words seemed superfluous after what we'd just shared. He reached out and brushed a strand of hair from my face, his fingertips lingering on my cheek for just a moment. Then he nodded once, as if confirming something to himself, and continued up the stairs.

I watched him go, my body still humming with aftershocks of pleasure. The memory of Michael in this stairwell seemed like it belonged to a different person entirely. That Leah had been afraid of her desires, ashamed of them. This Leah—the one who had just fucked her neighbor senseless against a wall—embraced them.

I retrieved my grocery bag and continued up the stairs on shaky legs, already wondering when and where we would have each other next.