Neighbor's Steamroom Temptation

I’ve been writing this down because if I don’t confess it somewhere the wanting will eat me alive. Twenty-eight years old, freshly divorced from a perfectly ordinary man, and I moved into the glass-and-stone complex on Elm three weeks ago thinking the rent bought me peace and a view of the river. What it actually bought me was a shared steamroom in the basement that hums with old magic, the kind that keeps the air thick and scented with cedar and something sweeter, something that clings to skin like a second pulse. And it bought me Lucian.

He lives across the hall. Thirty-two, tall enough that I have to tilt my chin, dark hair always a little damp as if he just stepped out of the mist himself, mouth made for filthy promises. The first time I saw him in the hallway he smiled like he already knew the shape of my thoughts. I learned later what he is. Incubus. Not full demon, not quite human. When he’s calm he looks like any sinfully handsome neighbor. When he’s aroused the change comes slow and deliberate: twin ridges of polished obsidian push up through his hairline, curving back like a crown; his eyes catch fire, molten crimson that seems to drink the light; and that tail—long, sinuous, the color of wet ink—uncoils from the base of his spine and moves with its own hungry intelligence.

I started watching him two weeks ago. I told myself it was accident, that I only went down to the steamroom at eleven because the building was quiet then. But I knew his schedule. I’d sit on the lower bench, towel loose around my hips, and let the enchanted fog roll over me until his silhouette appeared through the glass door. Broad shoulders, the cut of muscle along his flanks, the heavy swing between his thighs even soft. He never rushed. He’d stand under the nearest jet and let the scalding vapor kiss every inch while I pretended to close my eyes and only peeked. My cunt would get so slick the towel stuck to me. I’d press my thighs together and imagine that tail sliding between them, those horns under my palms while he pinned me to the heated tile. Every night I left aching, fingers shaking when I locked my own door, knowing one shared session could bind me to whatever aura he wears like cologne. Mortals aren’t built to walk away clean from an incubus once they’ve tasted the real thing. I knew it. I still went back.

Tonight the steam was thicker than usual, almost pearlescent, carrying that low magical thrum that makes nipples tight and thoughts slow. I was already naked under my towel, hair pinned up, skin dewed, when the door sighed open. Lucian stepped in like he owned the heat. The fog parted around him. He didn’t bother with a towel. Water beaded on the planes of his chest, traced the V of his hips, caught in the dark thatch above a cock that was already half-hard and thick enough to make my mouth water. His eyes found me immediately—still human blue, but sharper.

“You’ve been watching,” he said, voice low and rough with amusement. He didn’t sit opposite. He came straight to my bench and settled close enough that his thigh brushed mine. The air between us charged. “I can smell it on you every time you leave. Sweet. Desperate. Growing stronger every night.”

My pulse hammered in my throat. I should have denied it. Instead I whispered, “You lingered on purpose.”

“Of course I did.” His smile showed a hint of fang. “An incubus doesn’t ignore a mortal dripping for him three doors down. I’ve been feeding on the scent of your cunt for days, little neighbor. Letting it soak into my sheets. Making myself hard just thinking about how wet you’d get if I finally touched you.” He leaned in; the steam curled around his shoulders like living things. “Tell me you want more than the silhouette.”

I couldn’t breathe right. The magic in the room pressed against my skin, amplifying every shift of air. My towel had slipped; one breast was bare, nipple tight and dark. Lucian’s gaze dropped there and stayed. I watched the change begin—crimson bleeding into his irises, the first dark nubs of horns pushing free of his hairline with a soft, wet sound. Heat rolled off him in waves that weren’t just steam.

“I want…” My voice cracked. I reached out before sense could stop me. My fingers found the nearest horn, still only half-emerged, smooth and warm as polished stone fresh from the forge. I traced the curve of it, felt it lengthen under my touch, watched his pupils blow wide until the red was almost black. A full-body shiver went through him. Behind him the long black tail uncoiled at last, sinuous and gleaming, and slid across the bench to coil once, twice, around my bare thigh. The tip flicked against the soft inner skin, teasing higher.

“Fuck,” he breathed. “Do that again.”