My Neighbor Caught Me Staring at Her Curves Again

I'm sitting here at my desk, cheeks still burning, my breath uneven, trying to pretend I’m just typing up a report. My thighs are sticky, my underwear a mess, and I can’t look at him without feeling that ache all over again. Twenty minutes ago, I was just another drone in this gray office, clicking through spreadsheets, sipping bad coffee. Then he caught me staring—again—and everything unraveled in ways I didn’t expect.

Let me back up. I’ve been in this job for three years, same cubicle, same view of the parking lot through the window. Same routine of pretending to care about quarterly projections. But a month ago, they hired Ethan as the new IT guy. Ethan, who I dated five years back in college. Ethan, who I thought I’d never see again after we crashed and burned over stupid drama. Ethan, whose broad shoulders and stupidly perfect jawline still make my stomach flip, even though I swore I was over him.

He’s been fixing computers on our floor, always in a tight polo that shows off his arms, always with that half-smile like he knows something I don’t. I’ve caught myself watching him more times than I can count—leaning over a coworker’s desk, those jeans hugging his ass just right. I’m not proud of it. I’m thirty now, not some horny teenager, but old habits die hard. I know how his hands feel, how his mouth tastes. And yeah, I’ve been looking. A lot.

This morning, I was at the copier, wrestling with a paper jam, when he walked by. I didn’t mean to stare, but he bent down to grab something from a low shelf, and my eyes just… locked on. The curve of his back, the way his shirt rode up a little, showing that strip of skin. I forgot I was even holding a stack of papers until he straightened up and caught me. Full-on, no-doubt-about-it, caught me gawking.

He didn’t say anything at first. Just smirked, walked over, and leaned against the copier like it was the most casual thing in the world. “Need help with that, Jess?” His voice was low, teasing, the way it used to be when we’d flirt over cheap beers at dorm parties. I mumbled something about the machine being a piece of junk, my face already hot, but he didn’t move. Just stood there, close enough I could smell the faint cedar of his cologne, watching me fumble.

Then the innocent trap hit. See, the copier’s in this tiny alcove, barely room for one person, let alone two. But he squeezed in anyway, saying he’d check the rollers or whatever IT nonsense. His shoulder brushed mine as he reached past me, and I froze. It wasn’t a big deal, just a graze, but my skin prickled like I’d touched a live wire. I could’ve stepped back, given him space, but I didn’t. I stayed right there, pretending to hold the paper tray, while his arm pressed against mine a little longer than it needed to.

“Still staring, huh?” he muttered, not looking at me, his fingers working the machine. His tone wasn’t mean, more like he was amused, maybe even pleased. I laughed, too loud, and said, “What, I can’t look at the copier now?” Weak excuse, and he knew it. He turned his head just enough to catch my eye, and that old spark was there, the one that used to get us in trouble.

He shifted to reach deeper into the machine, and now his hip bumped mine. Not hard, just enough to make me aware of every inch of space—or lack of it—between us. I didn’t move. Neither did he. My heart was thudding so loud I swore he’d hear it over the hum of the office AC. His sleeve slid up as he tugged at something, showing the faint tan line on his forearm, and I remembered how I used to trace those lines with my fingers after we’d spent hours tangled up in his tiny twin bed.

“Got it,” he said, pulling out a crumpled sheet, but he didn’t step away. Instead, he turned, facing me now, so close I could see the flecks of green in his hazel eyes. His hand brushed my waist—accidental, maybe, as he steadied himself against the copier. But it lingered, his palm warm through my blouse, and I didn’t pull back. I couldn’t. My breath caught, and I saw his eyes flick down to my lips for half a second before he looked away.

“Jess,” he started, voice quieter now, almost rough. He didn’t finish the thought. Didn’t need to. My hand moved before I could stop it, resting on his chest like I was just balancing myself, but we both knew better. His polo was soft under my fingers, his heartbeat steady, and I felt that pull, that stupid, reckless pull we always had. I stepped closer—or maybe he did—and suddenly my chest was brushing his, the heat of him sinking into me.

I don’t know who moved first. Maybe it was me, tilting my head up. Maybe it was him, his hand sliding from my waist to the small of my back. But then his mouth was on mine, firm and hungry, like no time had passed at all. I tasted coffee on his tongue, felt the scrape of stubble against my chin, and my hands were in his hair before I could think. We were kissing in the copier alcove, in the middle of the damn office, where anyone could walk by. And I didn’t care.

His hands moved down, gripping my hips, pulling me against him. I could feel him through his jeans, hard and insistent, and a sharp jolt of need shot through me. My skirt was pencil-tight, not exactly made for this, but I didn’t stop him when he bunched it up, his fingers skimming the bare skin of my thighs. I gasped into his mouth, and he made this low, desperate sound that I remembered so well it hurt.

“Fuck, Jess,” he breathed, pulling back just enough to look at me. His eyes were dark, pupils blown, and I knew mine matched. I didn’t say anything—couldn’t find words—just tugged him closer, my nails digging into his shoulders. He got the message. His hand slipped higher, under the edge of my panties, and I bit down on a moan as his fingers found me, already slick and aching. He knew exactly how to touch me, slow circles that made my knees buckle, and I clung to him to stay upright.

I fumbled with his belt, my hands shaky, but I got it undone, got his jeans open just enough. He hissed when I wrapped my fingers around him, hot and heavy in my hand, and I stroked once, twice, just to feel him twitch. “Here?” he muttered, half-laughing, half-groaning, like he couldn’t believe we were doing this. I didn’t answer, just nodded, because yeah, here, now, I didn’t care if someone heard the copier beep or saw us through the frosted glass.

He pushed my underwear aside, not even bothering to pull them down, and lifted me just enough to pin me against the wall of the alcove. My skirt was a crumpled mess around my hips, my legs wrapping around him on instinct. I felt the blunt press of him against me, and then he was pushing in, slow at first, stretching me in a way that made my breath stutter. It’d been too long, and I’d forgotten how he felt, how he fit, like my body hadn’t changed at all in five years.

He buried his face in my neck, muffling a curse, and started moving. Not fast, not yet, just deep, steady thrusts that had me gripping his shirt so hard I thought I’d rip it. The wall was cold against my back, a sharp contrast to the heat of him, the drag of him inside me. I could hear the distant clatter of keyboards, someone laughing down the hall, and it only made this feel dirtier, more urgent. My hips rocked to meet his, chasing that edge, and his hand slid between us, thumb pressing just where I needed it.

I was close, so damn close, my breath coming in short, sharp pants against his shoulder. He was too, I could tell from the way his rhythm faltered, the way his grip on my thigh tightened. “Jess,” he rasped again, like my name was all he could manage, and I felt that old ache, not just the physical one, but the one that remembered us, all the good and the bad, crashing back.

And then, right as I felt that first tremble start to build, someone coughed—loudly—right outside the alcove. We froze, mid-thrust, my heart slamming in my chest. Ethan’s eyes met mine, wide and a little panicked, but there was a glint of humor there too. I couldn’t help it; I snorted, a choked little laugh escaping before I slapped a hand over my mouth. He grinned, shaking his head, still buried inside me, and whispered, “Shit, we’re bad at this.”

We didn’t move, didn’t dare, listening as footsteps shuffled closer, then paused. My pulse was a drum in my ears, but I could feel him still, the heat of him, the way my body was still coiled tight and begging for more. The footsteps started again, moving away, and I let out a shaky breath. Ethan looked at me, questioning, and I nodded, just once.

He started moving again, slower now, careful, but no less intense. Every slide of him felt sharper, amplified by the risk, by the near-miss. My hands were on his neck, pulling him close, and I could feel it building again, that pressure, that need. His breath was hot against my ear, ragged, and I knew we didn’t have long, not like this, not here.