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carusolikey · 6 days

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The Blue Hour

a Max Phillips & Bloodsucking Bastards FanFic Chapter 1: There Goes the Building

Pairing: Max Phillips of Bloodsucking Bastards x afab!fem!reader

Rating: Explicit / NSFW 18+ (No Minors)

Author’s Note: I wrote this piece during the month of April 2024 - Adenomyosis Awareness Month, and the idea came to me during March 2024 (Endometriosis Awareness Month). This will not have any type of pregnancy kink, but will touch on infertility of OC due to the aforementioned; canon for this story is also that Vampires are infertile - there will be no Renesmé. OC is intended to be around the same age as Max, reader’s choice up or down, but no age gap. Because older afab/fem lovers are sexy - we drink and we know things.

Warnings: Most of these warnings will apply to later Chapters. Chapter 1 is fairly light and fluffy "getting to know you" with some steamy close calls, lingering touches and what have you (the what have you is the best part). But don't worry - we'll be getting down and dirty in Chapter 2.

A bit of rough sex/smut (fingering, fem penetration - P in V, oral [m + f receiving]), food play, 18+ only content, able bodied fem afab reader, alcohol consumption, non-gendered pet names, fem can be carried and has hair - though length is not mentioned, consensual "bondage", some use of y+n - but not explicitly, though consensuality is implied and intended through actions and reactions, no protection used for Vampire reasons TBD (be wise and always use protection, this is fiction). Did attempt to stay away from gendered pronouns and nicknames, although did use the word woman, 3 times throughout the entire piece (not fully published yet) referring to OC. Future chapters will discuss history endo / adeno, and of previous relationship / SA; there will also be Vampire hunting, murdering, and blood….sucking bastards.

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Sitting at my little mahogany desk, stretching back in the leather desk chair, I shut off my phone alarm as it blasted the opening chords of Raspberry Beret. 3:15 a.m. - time to grab my laundry from the basement of the old apartment building where I was settled.

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Weird time to be doing laundry, huh? Not for me, though - I’d had insomnia for, let’s see, I’ll have to count on fingers and toes, 5 + 12 + 3 months, so that makes...20 months.

20 months without sunlight, for the most part. I’d had random doctor appointments that interrupted my daytime drowsiness, but about 20 months ago, I broke a little inside and haven’t been able to get back on a normal schedule.

So middle of the night laundry. And mail. And gym time, groceries, cleaning, working…

Honestly, it’s not that bad - I make my living narrating books, and I can do that whenever. Groceries get delivered to my apartment, I’m living Sandra Bullock’s The Net dream life. Peace, quiet, solitude, and ultimate zen.

Is it lonely sometimes? Sure. But that’s what my vibrator is for, and Mr. Rochester is doing fine work. The best part for us is that it’s pretty noncommittal, given that his back story is that he keeps his mentally unwell wife in the attic. Thank you, Charlotte Brontë.

As I headed down the apartment stairwell with my laundry basket against my hip, wearing my laundry day “Li’l Sebastian” (you’re 5,000 candles in the wind) t-shirt, and my hair in a side party-pony, I scrolled through my phone looking for the perfect song. Walking down the stairs, the scent of clean laundry wafting nearer, I enjoyed the open breezes from the stairwell windows. Spring was certainly taking the tepid steps of a lamb, easing along and bringing slightly warmer licks on gentle winds, carrying hints of flowers and plants experiencing horticultural resurrection.

The laundry room, in the dank cement-block basement, was far enough from the apartments that you could throw a party and no one would know, but it also had amazing acoustics. The actual accommodations, on the other hand, left much to be desired - but down here? Chef’s kiss - perfection. Which is why I always seized the opportunity of being the only one awake doing laundry, to partake in one of my favorite activities: singing while folding laundry. The ultimate mood booster.

As I scrolled through my Spotify, I landed on a classic and hit play, crooning in my best sultry voice, “I was staring at the sky, just looking for a star, to pray on or wish on or something like that…”

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I continued folding, singing at the top of my lungs, letting my voice trickle through the runs, shimmying my shoulders as I danced in place. Breathing right along with Fiona Apple during Paper Bag, “Oh, hunger hurts - but I want him so bad, oh-oh it kills, because I know that I'm a mess that he don't wanna clean up. I got to fold because these hands are just too - shaky to hold. Hunger hurts, but starving, it works, when it costs too much to love.”

Daintily placing the last folded item on top, I turned around and was startled to see a man in a three piece suit standing in the doorway of the laundry room.

This is why I don’t wear airpods down here. Safety first.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t realize someone else was down here. And - you just had to endure me giving a private demonstration on how to sing like no one’s listening and dance like no one’s watching.”

I uncomfortably raised my eyebrow and pursed my lips.

“If I gave you money, you could be my private dancer, my dancer for money.” He smirked.

“Tina Turner? Really? I don’t know if that’s the best way to - “ I paused before changing my mind, “No, wait a minute, I think if you’re even going to start with that proposition you have to at least sing it to me. Otherwise, that’s a lazy proposal.”

He didn’t laugh, but he didn’t not laugh. While I gave him the once over, waiting for his response, I noticed that he was unnervingly handsome. Sandy brown hair, with eyes like a hot, fresh espresso, I could practically smell the roasty cinnamon and nutmeg, getting lost in them as he poured them over me, so warm and comforting. His smile crept up to one side - I had a hard time determining its sincerity, but he certainly seemed amused by me. Why? I had no idea. Like the mere idea of me tickled him as he watched me uncomfortably shift in my laundry day outfit and party pony under his gaze.

“Another time, absolutely.” I took a step back, confused by his response, “I’m more interested in who you want so bad that it kills?”

“Huh?” I asked him, ineloquently, and then, “I’m sorry - what are you asking me?”

He gave a low chuckle, and stepped closer, “The song you were singing. You sang about how you ‘want him so bad, OH, it kills,’ -- “ he put his face next to mine, “who do you want?”

“You’re intense, aren’t you?”

Stepping back, he raised his eyebrows.

“How about a, ‘Hi, my name is, I don’t know - Blake? I live in the building, I like ponies and narwhals, and my favorite book is something super pretentious about fountain pens’?”

His smile widened from a half smile to a full smile, “My name is Max Phillips, I live in the building, I do like ponies - and narwhals, in theory, I’ve never seen one. My favorite book is The Grapes of Wrath and basically anything by Bill Waterson.”

“Wait - Bill Waterson? Calvin & Hobbes, Bill Waterson?” I responded, a bit shocked, but highly intrigued.

“Yes, but I think you’re supposed to respond in kind,” the words were nice, although they sounded a bit like an order, which I’m not a huge fan of, but for some reason I didn’t seem to mind coming from him.

I told him my name, that I was a huge Capote fan, loved Breakfast at Tiffany’s and In Cold Blood, but that I also really, really loved Dickens, too. Specifically David Copperfield. I hated to admit it, but somehow he’d cracked me open and gotten me talking about my favorite subject. As I stood there waxing on about the upside down ship house and Aunt Betsey Trotwood, and how the movie Breakfast at TIffany’s differed from the book, the laundry basket kept drooping lower and lower on my hip. Without realizing it until I had finished a particularly impassioned speech, I noticed that Max was holding my laundry basket for me. I had been wildly gesticulating with both hands while he contentedly watched me.

“Oh my goodness.” I started, realizing that I’d gone off on a tangent, “I’m so sorry - you probably have other things that you’re meant to be doing.”

My eyes drifted to his suit, perfectly tailored, the button-up underneath holding on just barely, and the snug collar that would probably be a lot more comfortable for him if I were to loosen his tie for him. I bit my lower lip, thinking about it - and then told myself to snap out of it. Alone is good and healthy. So what if my therapist friends say “fine” is a four letter word? I’m fine. I’m FINE. He’s fine. Haha. No. Back to narrating books. Oh shit, he’s looking at me.

“I’m not in any rush,” he started - but I took the laundry basket away from him anyway.

Immediately, he reached out and grabbed my hand in between my thumb and forefinger, pressing firmly, “Did you know that this spot right here is an acupressure point, that helps with migraines?”

“Oh!” caught by surprise, I let out a gasp. “Well, that’s incredibly useful information, thank you,” nervously, I chuckled, “I’m gonna go, but it was really nice to meet you, Max.”

“It was an extremely pleasurable experience for me, as well.” He said, his words dripping with single, double, and I didn’t know it was possible, but triple entendre as well.

As I walked back up the stairs, I thought about what he had just done for me - the acupressure point. How did he know that I was getting a migraine? Was it just obvious from my facial expressions? Well, I suppose I’d rather he recognize that I was having a migraine than think I wasn’t interested. Wait - is he a doctor? Shoot. I didn’t ask. We also didn’t exchange numbers. I can’t go back, I’m already halfway up the stairs. Ugh! You know what? No. I’m therapist “F” word. FINE. If it’s meant to happen, it’ll happen. Meanwhile, I know Mr. Rochester is charged and waiting. It’s all good.

By the time I got back to my apartment my migraine was actually gone, and I was feeling quite flushed after the passing experience with Max, so I decided to treat myself. I lit my fancy Sage & Peppermint candle, turned on my “To Be Savored” playlist, then went straight to my treasure box and pulled out Mr. Rochester. I know exactly how to set the mood for me.

I thought about Max’s handsomely roguish grin, with its slight dimple and the way his eyes crinkled playfully, like he wanted to keep toying with me all night. Placing Mr. Rochester onto my clitoris, then rubbing up and down to get him wet - easily done. After where my thoughts had been, I turned him on to the first vibration and started moaning lightly. In the back of my mind, it registered that I heard footsteps coming down the corridor of apartments in the hallway, just outside of mine. I turned the vibrator up another click and moaned a bit more, thinking about a fantasy situation where Max came bursting into my apartment, and fucked me right here and now. Suddenly, the footsteps stopped right outside the door of my apartment.

Panting, there was a sudden twitch as my clitoris began to orgasm, unable to determine what was fantasy and reality.

“Is he outside my apartment?!” I hissed in confusion and paranoia. I ramped up the vibrator, and let myself have it, breathing out, “Oh god, Max!”

Then, the footsteps started again, and I heard a deep baritone chuckling.

No. No, no, no, no, no.

Shit.

Well, there goes the neighborhood.

It had been a few days, and I started to wonder if Max was actually real, or just the product of my desperate, overactive imagination. If that was the case, kudos to me. I really could not have imagined a more perfect specimen.

I would be glad, if he were simply imagined.

Because I was so horrified post-self-coital that he might’ve heard me, that I did actively hide even more so than I’ve already been hidden.

But I still had to get mail, and I do still exercise pretty regularly, so there was bound to be an incident. Not that there had been, or that we’d bumped into each other in the gym before, but the odds of someone you’ve never met from your building, bumping into you in the laundry and then walking down your hallway at the exact moment that you just happen to decide to masturbate to their extremely, tall, hovering frame - the odds, what were they, really? I laughed to myself, to keep myself from overheating and crying a little bit.

However, I’d been keeping my nighttime moonlighting as the resident lounge singer on the very, very nonexistent down low. Which, yes, “crushes my fragile spirit,” sure, but worth it not to bump into someone I fantasy-orgasmed to very loudly.

Especially if they were real and happened to hear me through my poorly sound-proofed door. The cringe is real, the cringe has its own cringe, the cringe lives in a house made of cringe on Cringe Lane in the town of Cringe at the edge of Cringe Lake. But when you say it that way, it just sounds British, and suddenly, my cringe sounds quaint, doesn’t it? But oh, god - what if Cringe Lake has a Cringe Lake House, with a magic mailbox? No. I can’t entertain that idea. It’s too much, I’m spinning out!

The only thing that really centers me, is heading down to the basement gym. Is it poorly lit with the same cement block walls as the laundry room? Is it carpeted with a full wall of mirrors and a bar for an imaginary barre class that I sometimes pretend that I’m taking? Are there only two ellipticals, one exercise bike, and only one set of mismatched weights, but 5 treadmills? Yes, yes, yes, always, yes, yes, yes, who knows why - maybe because of the prancercise craze of the mid 90’s? (It’s just prancing. Prancing, I said!)

My machine of choice? Always the elliptical. I’ve never been skiing, but I like to pretend like I’m Audrey Hepburn, in the Swiss Alps at the very beginning of the movie Charade, when she’s at a ski resort in the Swiss Alps, not skiing at all, and then she never goes back there at any time for the rest of the movie. What I’m really saying is, I watch something on my iPad for almost an hour until I reach an esoteric high.

Tonight though, I needed to focus. No comfort binging Law & Order: SVU. Nay, it was vital I concentrate on the latest book I was narrating. I would love to say that it was something that will take the literary world by storm but, it was definitely a bit more niche.

The plot was focused on sexy British assassins - a first day on the job for one, while the other had been training their whole life. Naturally, the conflict being that they’d slept together once before and someone accidentally lost their memory when they were kidnapped. Of course, that led to misunderstandings, and one assassin thought the other was blowing them off, when it was just simply a case of, “I was drugged by a rival assassin team and forgot everything that happened between us”.

Make no mistake, once everything was cleared up - there was a lot of sex in this book. A LOT of sex in this book. So much. And you have to wonder when people are writing this, is this what they like? Do they have a partner that they’re trying all of this out with first to make sure it works? Should I be trying this out first in order to be an accurate narrator?

Oh, no. Stop thinking about Max.

As I placed my iPad on the elliptical along with my water bottle and stepped up onto the machine, my thoughts began to drift. Setting the machine to Interval Training, I opened up my iPad to the book and continued where I’d left off, trying to decide what voice I would give to the main character, to her counterpart. Although, there was a possibility the author would be finding another narrator to read for the male character. I wouldn’t know until later.

These thoughts trailed beneath as I read about how the male character could identify the female character by her scent. Ridiculous, I thought, letting out an amused giggle, even with a personalized perfume, really? Tracking her by her scent across London? Who would buy that?

Things continued to heat up for the protagonists, but right before they were about to rip their clothes off, my elliptical made a disappointed, whoosh sound as it transitioned from cool down to off.

Same, elliptical. Same.

Climbing off the elliptical, I turned up the music on my phone, and started stretching out my muscles. As I finished my stretches, Adele’s Send My Love (To Your New Lover) came on, and there was no way I was going to resist singing along.

Fuck it, it’s 2:45 a.m.

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I grabbed the mirror rail, feeling myself entirely, swaying my hips back and forth. Sliding down and dipping back up, dragging my hand down my neck, my chest, and letting it rest on my stomach, I closed my eyes and belted, “Send my love to your new lo-o-ver! Treat her be-e-etter. We’ve gotta let go of all of our ghosts, we both know we ain’t kids no more….”

“I don’t know about you, but I’m very glad we’re not kids anymore.”

“Oh SHIT!”

I jumped and hit my elbow against the mirror, then immediately slid down the mirror hard and hit the same spot on my elbow on the mirror rail, landing on my backside, cradling my elbow.

“Oh! Sad face!” I yelped.

“Did you just say ‘sad face’?” Max had rushed over from where he’d been standing in the doorframe watching me, and with tempered concern put his hand on my forehead, then my arm to see if I was alright.

“Yes, I believe it’s the current preferred standard of emoting. It’s clear, concise…it’s um,” I started to drift a little.

“Hey, stay with me, tell me more about your emojis.”

Taking his phone, he turned on the flashlight and shone it in my eyes, holding my chin to keep me steady, “Pretty eyes, song bird,” and gave me a half smile.

“I’m not a BIRD. I’m a full grown adult woman.”

Eyeing me up and down, Max scoffed gently while shaking his head, “There’s no denying that. Luckily it looks like you don’t have a concussion, but unfortunately,” licking his lips softly as he looked at my elbow, which had a large splinter of wood sticking out of it and a little bit of blood starting to drip from the site, “I’m gonna have to cut my workout short. I think this is definitely a ‘walk my sexy neighbor home emergency’.”

It was my turn to scoff, “Okay, okay - how many sexy neighbors do you walk home every night? Don’t act like this is impressive or like I should be impressed because I’m not.”

He didn’t laugh out loud, but his deep laugh rumbled and shook his chest, like he was deliberately trying not to laugh at me. As though he thought it was important to me, to be taken seriously. Which it IS, of course, but - why does he know that?

Sweeping his right arm under my left arm, leaving my wounded right arm out so that I could hold it close to my chest, and using his left arm to lift me up by the legs, he picked me up.

“Just the one,” he smirked as he made direct eye contact - and carried me up five flights of stairs.

It was definitely impressive, but I had to ask him when we got to the top, “Why didn’t you take the elevator?”

Max clicked his tongue and looked at me reproachfully, “Never, ever miss leg day. Ever.” and then he used me to do curls, after unlocking the apartment and walking inside.

“I object! To being used as gym equipment!” I declared like a regular Lady Violet, the Dowager Countess of Grantham, and Max immediately set me down on my leather couch.

“Much better.” Quietly approving in a mutter from my seated position.

“I’m assuming bandages, antiseptic, antibiotic ointment, that’s all in your - bathroom?” I nodded, still feeling a little woozy, as I watched him walk away.

And then panic struck as I remembered something terrible, a pall was cast over my face as sudden abject horror and humiliation pulled me into a dark and spiraling pit.

“Oh no.” I whispered.

“What?” called Max, from the other room.

How could he possibly have heard that? Did I not whisper? Am I a loud whisperer like my mom and I just don’t know it yet? Max returned, with the engaging smile of someone ready to sell me a bridge, and holding Mr. Rochester, “Is this what you’re looking for?”

My eyes grew wide and large and extra. I ran through a list of possible scenarios where this worked out well for me, and I hated every single one where I admitted it was mine. Normally, yes, I don’t care. I’m very sex positive, but (sobbing internally) this man. I am just not there yet, and I get to make that decision, right? Right.

“What’d you find there?” I asked innocently.

Genuine shock washed over Max’s face and he looked slightly taken aback for a split second, before smoothing himself over, and resuming play, “It was sitting on a towel on the sink in your bathroom.”

I shrugged my shoulders, I touched my face, I looked up and to the left, hid my thumbs, pursed my lips, I basically inadvertently did everything the FBI guy from the podcast about lie detecting said liars do.

“Oh, um, I don’t know. Maybe - uh, maybe maintenance left it here?”

“Maintenance?” Max gave me a dubious look.

“Yeah, the –“ had to pause while I remembered everything that might go in a bathroom that I was willing to have clogged in front of him, “SINK was clogged. I had to get maintenance here to use something for it. I think that’s a snake, is what they call it, right there. What that is.”

“A snake? For clearing clogged drains?” He bit the inside of his cheek, and ground his jaw - I could tell he was not convinced, and might be slightly amused, “You know I’ve used a snake before, this isn’t it.”

“Oh my god. I wonder if someone - accidentally - left it here during one of those, neighbor meetings.”

“What neighbor meetings?” Max gave me a very skeptical look.

“You know, the ones we have. With chips and dip and we talk about neighbor happenings. I don’t think you were at the last one. Probably it’s a microphone. Cordless. With bluetooth for TIkToks,” I gave an extra super chill shrug to add to my very convincing improv acting that has not remotely degraded in skill over the years, “Obviously.”

“You know what. You’re probably right.” He said, seeming very convinced, and I don’t think he noticed, but I did breath a sigh of relief.

“I’ll check in with all of the neighbors, and make sure that I’m on the email list for the next neighbor meeting, while simultaneously checking to see who might’ve misplaced this ‘device,’ here. In your apartment.” The look he gave me was smug.

I grabbed my Nic Cage sequined throw pillow, and hugged it tight, groaning when I realized we still hadn’t attended to my arm.

Max’s face softened, but only by a hair as he set down Mr. Rochester and walked towards me. Sitting down on the couch next to me, placing all of the medical supplies on the coffee table, he began to examine my arm. Licking his lips with a far off look in his eyes, he gulped softly, then took a tweezers and started removing the pieces of wood.

As he worked, he spoke softly, firm, but his voice remained smooth, velvety rich, plush - I wanted to run my hands against it and feel the warmth - nope, that’s the horny pain talking; but what he actually said was, “So, as I was saying, I’m going to take the ‘mysterious device’ from your bathroom for safe keeping. I’ll, uh, ‘check-in’ with your neighbors to see if it belongs to anyone,” then he looked directly into my eyes, holding mine and not letting go - deep caramel brown pulling me into him, “and if I can’t find who it belongs to in a few days time,” I groaned at that, “I’m sorry, am I hurting your arm?” I bit my lip, knowing that wasn’t why I groaned, “then I’ll bring it back, and we can explore the device together. Try and figure out what it does, how it works, the best way to use it. Sound good?”

He looked up at me from under his eyebrows, and I melted. Oof, he was smarmy and smooth, and I had a bad feeling he was going to be my achilles dick.

I tilted my head to the side like a puppy and raised one eyebrow, “I suppose that could be – ” pausing as I bit my lip, debating the right word, “amenable.”

“Well, we certainly wouldn’t want to inconvenience you, would we?” Max looked back down at my arm, taking a wet, soapy, warm cloth, and gently washing off my elbow.

The action was so small and insignificant, but I found myself easing out of my discomfort as I watched him dry off my arm, and apply a large bandage.

Snapping out of it, I started to sit up, “Oh wait, no - I just finished exercising, I need to take a shower first, I’ll put a bandage on afterwards.”

Max looked at me, one eyebrow raised, as he continued what he was doing, and I scrunched my nose up at him in response.

Giving me his smug half-smile with the dimple, his voice somewhat patronizing, “Now that this is taken care of, I’ll run a bath for you – “

“Extra bubbles, if you must,” I interrupted, frowning at him and feeling slightly suspicious. Who was he to run baths for me in my own apartment? I picked up my phone and started passive aggressively scrolling for bath tunes, because of course, despite the nerve of this man, I was going to enjoy my bath.

“Alright,” Max came out of the bathroom, “I hope it’s hot enough for you.”

Looking up from my phone, I couldn’t help myself from drawing my gaze slowly up his body, slowly lingering on his stomach, where his shirt lifted as he stretched his arm above his head. The V of his stomach, disappearing into his sweats, the light trail of hair from his navel to - destination unknown as of yet, but those pants gave some ideas. Oh my god, I’m such a Samantha! I giggled to myself, and Max gave me a confused, yet intrigued look.

I shook my head, “Nothing. Don’t worry about it. I’m sure the water is fine, thank you.”

“You’re very welcome,” he crossed over to the couch, reaching under my left arm, and giving me a lift so that I could walk leaning against him. I groaned getting up, “Yeah - you’re sore, aren’t you? You fell pretty hard. The hot water should help, I added some bath salt with the bubbles.”

“Why are you being so nice to me? We barely know each other.”

“I’m being a decent person. You need to adjust your bar for ‘so nice’, because that threshold is too low, Sweetness.”

As he walked me into the bathroom, I saw that he’d lit a candle, and put all of my shower toiletries, as well as a fresh towel on the bench next to the bathtub, within easy reach. It really wasn’t a hard thing to do, it was a simple, nice thing to do for someone who’d just hurt themself, but it got to me and I had to swallow a lump I felt rising in my throat.

Turning to him, my eyes starting to sparkle a bit with the beginnings of tears that I was determined to hold back, but my sincerity would not be mistaken, “Thank you. I mean it.”

His mouth was smiling, but his eyes lost their crinkle and his eyebrows frowned slightly, “You’re welcome. Now, I’m gonna be just outside the door, over there on the couch, catching up on some emails on my phone, but if you need me –” he mimed the words ‘call me’ while holding his hand up to his ear like a phone.

I nodded, chuckling at his corny sense of humor, “Okay, buddy. Will do,” giving him a thumbs up. He gave a look indicating that he did not like being referred to as ‘buddy,’ and I laughed a little harder while closing the door on him.

Shedding my clothes and tossing them into the hamper, I noticed that I had a large purple and green bruise forming on my backside. Perfect, that’s gonna be sore for a little while. Before stepping into the tub, I popped on my playlist - the water was nice and hot, and felt amazing on my sore body as I sank lower into the water. Yes, yes, and yes - perfection. I let my bandaged arm rest on the edge of the tub as I soaked a cloth, washing my face and the rest of my body. Using the handheld shower head attachment with my left hand, I rinsed through my hair, getting it thoroughly soaked.

I grabbed my shampoo bar soap and started to lather, realizing very quickly that with an elbow that I couldn’t bend, I was going to have to do it one handed.

“Shoot!” I muttered under my breath, as I tried to figure out the best way to do it without getting my bandage wet.

Immediately there was a knock on the bathroom door. “Is everything alright? I’m coming in, but my eyes are closed.”

Max walked in with one hand on the doorknob, and the other over his eyes. I quickly put my left arm over my chest, despite the fact that there were still a LOT of bubbles covering me up. Max knows how to make a good bubble bath, I’ll give him that.

I looked down at myself, and realizing that it was fine, said, “You can look, Max. It’s all good.”

He took his hand down from his eyes, and closed the door behind him. “I’m just struggling a bit to wash my hair while not bending my arm. I mean, I’m sure I can get used to it - I’m just in an adjustment period.”

He sat down next to the bathtub, “Why don’t I help you out tonight - you’re still obviously in shock, right?”

It definitely was a question that indicated concern, but I had a strong sense that he was cajoling me. Mr. Spider, may I introduce you to Miss Fly?

Bickering with my shoulder angel and demon, I opted to accept his offer - because I was sore, and even if his bid to assist me concealed darker intentions, I struggled to care. Somehow, within the presence of his pheromones, his spicy musk, leather and oaky whisky, there existed nothing outside of the puzzle box where we existed, where I was kept like his little secret treasure.

Handing him the shampoo bar, he dipped his hands in the bath water quickly, and started lathering up the bar. “Can you sit up?”

I put my left arm back over my chest and leaned forward until I rested my breasts against my knees, my right arm still clinging to the tub. Max started to massage the shampoo into my hair and I involuntarily leaned my head back into his hands, moaning gently.

“Well, if that’s all it takes to get you to make sounds like that, maybe I should come by and wash your hair again tomorrow.” he teased, his voice irresistibly oozing charm.

“I mean –” I started without finishing, my eyes blissfully closed, thoroughly enjoying what Herbal Essences commercials of the 90’s long ago promised and never delivered.

Cackling, actually gleefully cackling - pleased with himself, Max took the handheld shower head and rinsed the shampoo from my hair. “Alright, I’m assuming there’s a conditioner next?” I pointed to the Olaplex No. 5, “Okay, Fancy.”

“You don’t have to use very much, a lot goes a long way.” I looked over at him, resting my chin on my knees.

“Fair enough.” He squeezed a bit of conditioner into his open palm, and then started rubbing it with both hands into my ends, working his way towards the roots.

“Uh, this is not your first time washing a woman’s hair, is it?” I asked, my voice brimming with curiosity.

“Well, that would be part of my backstory.” I frowned at his response.

“Which I will tell you. One day. But I think it’s a little soon for that.” Max could tell that he was losing me to my thoughts, “But no, it’s not something that I’ve done for a sexy neighbor before.”

Immediately, I was brought back to the here and now, as the word ‘neighbor’ must have given me the same tone of face that I had given Max when I called him ‘buddy’. He looked particularly self-satisfied, as I shot him an admonishing glare.

“How long do we need to leave your conditioner in?” he asked, as my playlist moved onto one of my favorite songs, albeit an unfortunate choice for the moment - Sharon Van Etten’s, Jupiter 4.

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Twisting my hair up, I gestured towards a hair clip on the bathroom sink. Max picked it up, and while I used my left hand to hold my hair up on top of my head, he clipped my hair in place for me.

“Thanks, I usually leave it in for the length of a song - this one should be good.” Blushing as I thought about how sexy this song made me feel. I started to lean back, crossing my left arm back over my chest, and sank back in the water - letting my chest and abdomen be submerged, while my knees and legs stuck out in peaks from the water and the bubbles.

“This is Sharon Van Etten - “ Max paused, “I really like her, and this song,” he took a breath, raised an eyebrow, while looking me up and down, and started singing in his low voice, “Touching your face,” he leaned forward and lifted my chin towards his face with his index finger and thumb, “How’d it take a long, long time - to be here. Turning the wheel on my street. My heart still skips a beat. It’s echoing, echoing, echoing - “ he stared into my eyes, and it felt like another world was opening up to me, “Baby, baby, baby, I’ve been waiting, waiting, waiting my whole life for someone like you.”

As he leaned forward on the tub, his arm knocked the bottle of conditioner into the water, and I took a deep breath in, realizing that I had stopped breathing during his serenade. I broke my gaze from him to the water where the bottle had fallen in, near my legs, and then back to him. Without breaking eye contact with me, he reached through the warm, foamy water, leaning closer to my face as he carefully waded deeper beneath the bubbles.

His hand didn’t touch me, exactly, but felt along the edge of the tub, near the side of my body, going down. I knew where he needed to go, I could feel where the bottle was and squeezed my legs together, tilting them both towards the wall. Suddenly, he put his hand on my right thigh, slowly going up towards my knees. I closed my eyes, and I could feel his breath on me as he turned his face, leaning closer into my neck.

When he got to my knees, I breathed out like I was breathing through a straw, opening my eyes and looking down the tub at his large hand. He slipped his fingers between my knees and gently wedged them apart, stretching his hand so that his thumb was on one leg, and his pinky was on the other. Slowly, he dragged them down both legs, gradually pushing my legs open wider the further down he got. I could feel my heart rate increasing, my nipples growing harder, my vagina pulsing. Looking back at him, my mouth slightly open as my breath started to grow a bit more ragged, my eyebrows furrowing as I held myself back. Gazing back at me, his lips parted, his tongue poised between them, he watched me hungrily - and as I looked down at his sweatpants, I could tell his appetite was fully whetted.

His hand was almost to my vagina, to my clitoris - my whole body trembling, I involuntarily arched my back, letting my breasts peek out from the water for the briefest of moments, and Max’s eyes flickered down my body as he licked his lips. That hand, that cruel hand, slipped just mere seconds before touching me where I craved it. With a quick detour, he pulled the bottle of conditioner out of the water.

I cried out in agony, throwing my left arm over my chest, suddenly and abruptly sitting upright in the tub - trying to catch my breath, shaking as my body pulsed with uncontrollable longing. What is wrong with me? I hardly know this man. This is my neighbor. Oh god. THIS IS MY NEIGHBOR. And I let him give me a bath? Inside I was cry-laughing and dying. I’ve talked to him twice. How did I think this was a good idea?

Max said absolutely nothing. He turned on the handheld shower head and rinsed the conditioner out of my hair, then used one hand to rub my back while I focused on steadying my breath.

As my breath steadied, he asked, “Are you ready to get out?”

Standing up, he held the towel with both hands, and closing his eyes, “I promise I won’t open my eyes –” he opened one eye, looking amused, and then closed it, “again - until I leave the bathroom and, or, you say it’s okay.”

A simple enough promise - will he break it? I suppose there’s only one way to find out.

I sighed and said, “Yeah, I’m ready.”

Standing up, I started to take the towel, but Max wrapped the towel around me instead, giving me strong arms to lean on as I stepped out of the tub, and closer to him and the overwhelming scent of him. Tucking in the towel I looked up at his face, with his eyes closed. The strong, angled, and clean shaven cut of his jaw, the beautiful line of his incredibly sexy aquiline nose - like a marble statue from antiquity. The line of his brow, begging me to trace my fingers across them, and his lips - always pulling back to reveal that suave smile and dreamy little dimple. What I wouldn’t do with those lips!

“You can open your eyes.” I spoke softly, embarrassed that I was here in this moment of intense vulnerability, somehow.

He opened his eyes and looked down at me, grinning at first, but then he saw my look of deflation and his gaze became stern.

“What’s wrong?”

Glancing down, I tried to find the words, “I’m not exactly sure what just happened –”

With an encouraging smile, Max asked, “Well, I helped my sexy neighbor wash her hair –” he squeezed my shoulders, “did she want something more to happen?”

“I’m not sure.” My brows knitted together as I looked up at him.

“And that’s why I didn’t do anything more. But rest assured, the moment I get a resounding ‘full speed ahead!’ I will be hard pressed to stop.”

His eyes flashed down to my lips, sticking his tongue out just a little bit, and then continued, “You’re beautiful. You’re attractive, intelligent, funny - did I say smart? I’m not going to take advantage of you, or risk pushing you before you’re ready. We have time to get to know each other.”

I beamed as he fawned over me, heat rushing to my cheeks.

Feeling certain and satisfied that he had rejuvenated my spirits, he wrapped his arm underneath my left arm, opening the door and walking me out of the bathroom, naked but for a towel.

“What exactly are your plans for the rest of these midnight hours?” he casually asked.

I thought back to my iPad and the sexy assassin story, “Ah, well, I need to work actually.”

“Narrating? I’d love to sit in and listen.”

Again, I thought about the content of the sexy assassin story, and after that bath - no, no, no. My cheeks and my neck flushed red, “I’m not sure that’s a good idea. Besides, I don’t think the material would be up your alley.”

“Really?” He mocked surprise, “But how do you know? Unless you try?” giving me a wink.

The thought of reading him sexy lady-porn books and then ripping his sweatpants off and taking his cock in my mouth stopped me in my tracks and made my mouth twitch. You have a job, and you have to make money. You cannot make money sucking his cock. Or can you? No. You can’t. That’s not legal here. GODDAMMIT.

“As a professional,” I cleared my throat, “narrator, to be clear - it is - my professional opinion that you not be here while I work. Unfortunately. I’m sorry.”

I gave him an ‘ohmygod, I’m sooooo sorry,’ smile.

“That’s too bad,” he said, biting his lip.

“Yeah, maybe another time - like Bring Your Daughter to Work Day.” Why did I say that? Was that funny?

His eyebrows flashed up and down quickly, and he gave a surprised chuckle as he walked me to my apartment door. But not before stopping by the coffee table and grabbing Mr. Rochester.

“Can’t forget this,” he arbitrarily declared, “gotta make sure this little guy makes it back to his forever home. Bet his family misses him.”

And then he made it jump around in the air with his hand, making little yapping and barking sounds, like Mr. Rochester was someone’s lost purse dog. The blatant audacity of this man. I refuse to laugh.

When I didn’t laugh, Max made sad puppy whining sounds while nuzzling it up to my neck. “Noooooo.” I cried, closing my eyes in mock distress.

When we got to the door, he quickly nabbed my phone and held it up to my face, swiping up so that he could unlock it. Then, he called his phone from mine, and took a selfie of us together - him holding Mr. Rochester in one hand and his other arm around me in a towel. Which of course, he programmed so that it popped up every time he called me on my phone, and every time I called him, that way, “we could be phone twins.”

Stepping outside my apartment door, he turned around to speak to me, “So, I’ll see you in a couple days, after I confirm who this bad boy belongs to, and get myself situated with those,” he squinted his eyes at me, “building meetings. But if you need anything, you have my number.”

His eyes drifted down to where I was feeling tension, a craving that I wasn’t willing to give into just yet.

“Do you think you’ll be okay for a few days?”

He shook Mr. Rochester playfully, and my eyes widened, my left arm tightening around my towel, and I shifted uncomfortably from one foot to the other. Can he read minds? What is happening?

“I’ll be fine, and I promise I’ll text if I need anything.”

His grin widened, “Great! See ya soon!”

I closed the door and wobbled over to the couch, where I picked up my Nic Cage pillow and screamed into his sequined face, throwing it at the door afterwards.

Somewhere, far off, I could swear that I heard Max laughing.

Knowing full well that I am right handed and only technically a little ambidextrous because of piano lessons as a child, but definitely not enough to satisfy myself as necessary without Mr. Rochester - I looked down at my left hand, “You’re a disappointment, and I hate you.”

But it wasn’t lefty’s fault alone, it was partially mine and I would remedy that later. But first, to slog through painfully sexy narration for the next few hours. I let myself give out a loud sob, and then told myself to buck up and be a professional.

To be continued...

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