Play Me(5)

By: Katie McCoy

Then again, if I knew she had been hiding that body under those clothes, I would have stopped on the stairs and introduced myself, boyfriend be damned.

Suddenly, she stood, and I took a step back, but not far enough away that I couldn’t still see her walk in front of the window. I couldn’t see her eyes, but I could see a whole lot of everything else. There had been a lot she had been hiding under those baggy clothes. Long slim legs with a firm, round ass and shapely hips.

Fuck. I imagined myself there, in the room with her, sliding my hands over the slippery smooth lingerie before quickly stripping it away. Laying her down on the bench, kneeling down between her thighs with her gorgeous legs draped over my shoulders as she’d moan and shudder from my hands and mouth. She might be skilled with the piano keys, but a woman’s body was an instrument I was more than experienced with. After she’d cry out her pleasure, I’d pull her to her feet, crushing my mouth against hers, our tongues hot and wet, mine tasting intimately of her. Then I’d bend her over the smooth surface of the piano and . . .

Damn. I couldn’t remember the last time a fantasy had gotten me so riled up. I was as horny as a teen boy watching his first porno.

Did she know I could see her? A part of me wanted to believe that she could, but her lights were off and I had no doubt that she thought she was invisible in the dead of the night. So even though I ached to keep watching her and ached to take care of the very large problem I currently had in my pants, I stepped away from the window. Pulling the curtains closed, I stripped off the rest of my clothes. With my cock standing at attention, I headed towards my bathroom. My own hand was a poor substitute for what I craved—black satin and smooth skin—but if a fantasy was what I had, a fantasy was what I’d use.

Chapter 3


I woke to classical music playing. What the fuck? My head ached, and still half asleep I felt around for my phone—was it eleven already? The only time I was up before then was after my days off, or when I had to go shopping for produce for the restaurant. But when I squinted at the bright screen—way, way too bright for my groggy, hung over state of being—it said eight a.m.

I then remembered that the ring tone for my alarm was “I Like Big Butts,” which Dakota had programmed into my phone a year ago and I was too lazy to change. So where the hell was the classical music coming from? And not only that, it seemed to be on repeat.

Some of my confusion lifted and I realized, yep, whatever song it was, it was playing over and over again. In fact, it seemed to be skipping or something because it got to a certain point, hit a sour note and abruptly stopped. For about two seconds. And then it started all over again.

“Ugh,” I groaned, grabbing my pillow and shoving it over my head, hoping to block out the noise, but it didn’t work. I threw the pillow at the wall, and when it fell it accidentally hit a picture on my dresser, knocking it to the ground, the glass shattering on my hardwood floor. It was too goddamn early for this.

Then, for a moment, there was silence. I held my breath.

“Fuck!” I swore as the music started up again. Then I remembered last night when I was looking down into my new neighbor’s apartment as she sat at her piano. Was this punishment for checking her out in her underwear? As far as I was concerned, the crime did not match the punishment. I had just taken a little peek. And constructed an entire fantasy around her. A super fucking hot fantasy. And, okay, yeah, looking in on your neighbor when she doesn’t know you’re watching her is kind of a creeper move, but I hadn’t mean it that way. Maybe she didn’t know that she needed curtains. I fell back on my mattress with a groan.

All of my neighbors knew that I was a chef and that I needed to sleep in. Most of them went off to work early, but were really good about not slamming doors or stomping down the stairs—an important courtesy in an old building like this with pretty thin walls. Perhaps no one had let our new neighbor know.

The song started up again and I dragged myself out of bed, grabbing last night’s clothes and yanking them on. Well, there was no time like the present to introduce myself and let her know a little bit about neighborly decorum.

Even though I knew where it was coming from, I followed the music and as expected it led me right to her door. 1A. From inside, I could hear her make the same mistake she had been making all morning and I made a quick prayer that she would just cut her losses and take a walk or read a book or do something that was considerably more quiet.

But I apparently must have pissed someone off in a former life because after the same short break, the music started up again, exactly as it had been doing all morning. Curling my fingers into a fist, I gave her door a good pounding, when I’d rather be giving her a good pounding. God, she had looked so fucking hot in those sexy panties last night.