Stefanie London - The Fling

“That doesn’t mean I’m not attracted to you...” Mr. Suit frowns. “Is it weird if I ask for your name now?”

“While you’re in the middle of turning me down?” I laugh. “Why bother?”

He nods. “Right. Anyway, it’s not you. It’s me.”

“Unoriginal.” I shake my head. “I’m so disappointed.”

Despite the fact that he’s walking away, I’m feeling more like myself than I have in weeks. I’m going after something I want, setting my own rules. I’m not shrinking into my sadness anymore. That sounds like progress, right?

“Trust me when I say it’s not you. Because I could happily tear those stockings off with my teeth and make a meal of you.” His gaze rakes over me, leaving fire in its wake. “And it is me, because I don’t have time for anything besides my work.”

“I’m not asking for anything beyond tonight.”

“Neither am I.” He looks as though he might offer further explanation, but then he walks across the room and grabs his coat. “Now, I’m going to head home and get myself off in the shower while thinking about your incredible legs.”

I’m left standing open-mouthed as he disappears into the hallway. A second later I hear his door slam shut.

IT’S PAST MIDNIGHT and I can’t sleep. I’ve got a head full of bad memories and images of my sexy next-door neighbour, which is a potent and annoying cocktail. So I’m restless, tossing and turning until the bedsheets wind around my legs like a python going in for the kill.

If only I didn’t have to come home for Presley’s wedding. If only I hadn’t let myself fall for a guy who was destined to break my heart. But oh, no, I had to go and think that I could be the only woman he wasn’t lying to when he told me he loved me. Even though I knew his reputation, I fooled myself into thinking that I was different. That I was special.

What could be further from the truth?

Huffing, I untangle myself and get out of bed. My bare feet hit the cool floorboards and I realise I’m burning up. Tossing and turning is quite the workout.

The apartment is quiet and unfamiliar. I’ve only been back in Melbourne for three weeks and already it’s reminding me of all the reasons why I left—how far I’ve fallen behind my sister. How much more lovable she is.

I pad out to the main room where the window looks out over South Melbourne. The view is awash with glimmering lights, and in the far corner of the view, I can see the occasional car gliding along Clarendon Street. It’s Wednesday night, so the traffic isn’t too heavy. I’ve always found the noise comforting—because total quiet unsettles me. It means I have to focus on what’s in my head, instead of something easier. Something more tangible.

Pulling open the sliding door to the balcony, I almost sigh in relief when the cool air hits my skin. The rain has stopped and it smells glorious—like springtime and wet grass and jasmine and life. This apartment is on the corner of the building, with the balcony facing the back of the property. The garden below is lush and beautiful, and I can totally see why my friend bought this place.

I lean my forearms against the railing and suck in a big breath. I’m wearing an oversized white T-shirt, which the breeze flutters around my body. I have no idea how long I stand there, leaning and trying not to think. Just feeling. Eventually I’ll need to get back to bed, but as I turn, I catch a glimpse of something. A warm light emanating from the apartment next to me.

I can only see into Mr. Suit’s place because of the angle of the corner apartment, and even then it’s not a full view. Only a sliver. But it’s enough for me to see the glow of a room inside the otherwise dark apartment. A door is open, and light spills from what looks like a bedroom. A shadowy figure emerges, momentarily blotting the light with its broad frame.

My breath catches in my throat as the figure stills. Can he see me peering in? For a second I freeze, mortified at being caught looking like some peeping Tom. What the hell am I thinking? It’s a total invasion of his privacy, especially after he said no to me.

He also said he was going to go home and get off while thinking about you.

Images swirl of him in the shower, water streaming over what I know will be a rock-hard body, while he reaches one of those strong, long-fingered hands down between his legs...

I shiver.

The figure is still standing there. Unmoving. Waiting.

Waiting for me?

It’s a silent standoff. I should go inside before I embarrass myself further in front of this guy...but something keeps my feet rooted to the ground. Desperate desire winds through my system, slow and steady like the drip of condensation down a glass on a summer’s day. I want him. I want the feeling of hot, confident hands roaming my body and stubble-roughened kisses on my neck.

When the shadow disappears into the darkened apartment, I think the show might be over. Disappointment stabs me in the gut. I’m definitely going to have to avoid this guy in the elevator until I skip town. Lord, what am I going to tell my friend when she comes back?

Hey, sorry if things are a little weird between you and the guy next door. I unsuccessfully propositioned him for sex and then stared into his window in the middle of the night.

But then a lamp flicks on inside the apartment. The warm glow grows enough that I can see more detail—the white towel around his waist, the shadow of definition in his muscular torso, the brooding expression on his face. In the dim light, his hair looks like burning embers, matching the intensity of how he watches me, watching him.

I swallow and find my mouth dry, waiting for him to wave me away. Or mouth an appropriate “what the fuck?” while glaring at me. But nothing like that happens. He takes a step forward, more fully into the light. I can see more detail now—the smattering of hair on his chest and the trail that winds from his bellybutton down to where the towel is knotted, riding low on his hips. Any lower down and I’d be able to tell whether the bulge there is from the material of the towel or something else.

Show him what he missed by walking out on you tonight.

There’s that dark little voice again. The one that urges me to make bad decisions and get into trouble.

I skim my hand along the edge of the T-shirt, fingertips dancing across my bare thigh. The hem barely covers the bottom of my cotton underwear—tonight it’s pink and red stripes—and I gently brush the T-shirt up enough to expose it.

Mr. Suit’s chest moves sharply, as though he’s sucked in a quick breath. The guy is so cut I second-guess my assumption that he works in an office. His shoulders are strong and round, his biceps deliciously curved, but it’s the flex in his jaw that does me in. Like he’s grinding his teeth, trying to hold his reaction back...and failing.

Emboldened by the fact that he’s still watching, I draw the hem of my T-shirt up higher. Cool air grazes my bare stomach, and I hold the material just over my breasts—teasing at what might be beneath without actually showing him.

Mr. Suit stalks toward the glass. Oh, yes, there’s definitely a bulge under that towel. His eyes are so strikingly blue that I’m captured for a moment. He’s much closer now, his face still shadowed by the dim light inside. There’s no balcony outside his bedroom—they stagger the rooms here, and his bedroom shares a wall with my living room. That means the balconies are spaced apart—probably so the residents don’t feel in each other’s pockets if they’re both outside. But it means I can’t hear him. The double-glazed windows keep all the sound inside. His mouth moves, but I’m too dazed to lip-read.