The brown cardboard box felt out of place in his large, calloused hands. Elias rapped his knuckles softly against her door, the sound echoing in the quiet hallway of the aging apartment building. He'd seen her before, of course—the girl with the shy smile and the devastating curves who always seemed to be rushing inside, her arms full of groceries or books. He'd nodded hello a handful of times, but she'd never really looked back.
He heard the soft scuffle of feet, the click of the lock. The door opened just a crack, one wide, hazel eye peering out, then widening in recognition. She pulled the door open a little more, and Elias's breath hitched. She was wrapped in a faded, flannel robe, clearly fresh from a shower. Her damp, chestnut hair was piled messily on her head, and the robe, though tied, strained heroically across her full bust and hips. The scent of vanilla and soap wafted out, a clean, intoxicating cloud.
"Hi," she murmured, her voice softer than he'd imagined. "Can I… help you?"
"This was delivered to my place by mistake," Elias said, his own voice a low rumble that felt too loud for the hushed space. He held out the box. "Saw your name on it. Lily, right?"
She nodded, a faint blush warming her cheeks as she took the package, her fingers brushing against his. A tiny, electric jolt passed between them. Her eyes flickered down, then back up to his receding hairline, and he saw not dismissal, but a flicker of something else—curiosity, perhaps.
"Thank you," she said, clutching the box to her chest like a shield. "I was wondering where this was."
"No problem. I'm Elias. From across the hall."
"I know," she said, and then blushed even deeper, as if admitting she'd noticed him was a secret she'd never meant to tell.
He knows, she thought, her heart hammering against the cardboard box. He can see right through this robe, through my skin, right into the dirty little movie playing in my head. In it, he wasn't just the quiet, slightly older neighbor. In it, his experienced hands were everywhere, his mouth was on her skin, and he was looking at her with that same steady gaze, but it was darker. Hungrier.
A week later, the drip-drip-drip from her kitchen sink became a steady stream she couldn't ignore. She stared at the under-sink cabinet, a dark mouth of plumbing and fear. Her hands were useless for this. Her mind, however, was not. It supplied a vivid, Technicolor fantasy of who was useful with his hands.
Before her courage deserted her, she was knocking on his door.
Elias answered, wiping his hands on an old rag. He listened to her flustered explanation, a small smile playing on his lips. "Let me grab my tools."
In her small kitchen, he filled the space with his presence. He knelt, his broad shoulders shifting as he worked. Lily leaned against the counter, trying not to stare at the way his shirt stretched across his back, at the competent twist of his wrists.
"There," he said after a few minutes, his voice echoing slightly from inside the cabinet. "Just a worn washer. All fixed."
He shifted to stand up, but misjudged the space, bumping his head solidly on the sink basin with a grunt of pain. He stayed on his knees, one hand going to his forehead.
"Oh my god, are you okay?" Lily gasped, rushing forward. She knelt beside him, her concern overriding her usual timidity. Her thighs brushed against his arm. "Let me see."
He lowered his hand. It was just a red mark, already beginning to swell slightly. But the position was undeniable. Him, on his knees before her. Her, looking down at him, her robe falling open just enough to reveal the deep, shadowed valley between her breasts. The air, once filled with the sound of dripping water, was now thick and silent, humming with a tension so potent she could taste it.
His eyes, dark and intent, locked onto hers. He didn't move to get up. He just stayed there, waiting. The unspoken question hung between them.
Her shyness evaporated, burned away by a wave of pure, raw desire. This was the moment from her fantasies, rendered in stunning, real-life detail.
"Stay," she whispered, the command sounding foreign and powerful on her tongue.
She stood and walked on unsteady legs to her bedroom, returning a moment later. In her hand was a simple black collar, soft leather, and a matching leash she'd bought on a whim, a secret she'd never dreamed would see the light of day. Her heart was a wild drum against her ribs.
She stood before him again. His eyes flicked from her face to the objects in her hand, and a slow, deep heat ignited in his gaze. There was no surprise, only a stark, primal understanding.
"Is this…" he began, his voice gravelly.
"My rules," she interrupted, her voice gaining strength. "You don't kiss my face. And you don't fuck me. You do everything else I want. You… you satisfy me. With your tongue."
A low, rough sound escaped him, a groan of pure, unadulterated want. "That's all I've thought about since I first saw you," he admitted, his eyes blazing with a need that mirrored her own. "The chance to taste you. To worship you."
Holding his gaze, she slowly, deliberately, fastened the collar around his neck. The leather was a dark slash against his skin, a symbol of her control, of his surrender. The buckle clicked shut, the sound final. She let the leash hang loose for now.
"Then show me," she breathed.
He didn't need to be told twice. His large hands, still smelling of metal and hard work, slid up the backs of her calves, over the sensitive skin behind her knees, pushing the flannel robe aside as they traveled up her thick thighs. He urged her to step closer, and she did, until she was standing over him. He nuzzled his face against the inside of her thigh, his stubble a delicious, rough friction against her incredible softness.
He pressed a hot, open-mouthed kiss there, and Lily's head fell back with a soft moan. Her fingers tangled in his thinning hair, not guiding, just holding on. He worked his way inward, his breath ghosting over the damp silk of her panties. He hooked a finger in the side, and she lifted her hip in silent permission, allowing him to pull them down her legs.
The first flat stroke of his tongue was a lightning bolt straight to her core. A slow, deliberate lick from bottom to top that made her knees buckle. He caught her, his hands firm on her hips, holding her steady as he did it again. And again.
Oh god, he's not just doing it, he's savoring it.
He explored her with a veteran's patience, learning her geography with his mouth. His tongue circled her clit, relentlessly soft at first, then applying a firm, perfect pressure that had her crying out, her grip tightening in his hair. He dipped lower, tasting her deeply, his groan of pleasure vibrating through her entire body. She was dissolving, melting under the relentless, expert attention of his mouth.
He focused again on her clit, sucking the sensitive nub gently into his mouth, and her vision sparked white. The leash dangled, forgotten, as she rode the waves of sensation, her moans becoming incoherent pleas. She felt the pressure build, an unbearable, glorious tension coiling deep inside her. He slid two fingers inside her, curling them, finding a spot that made her jolt and cry out, his mouth never losing its rhythm.
"Elias…" she gasped, her body beginning to tremble violently. The climax tore through her, a raw, shuddering release that left her weak and panting, supported only by his strong hands and unwavering mouth until the very last tremor subsided.
Her legs were jelly. She slowly released her death grip on his hair, her chest heaving. He rested his forehead against her stomach, his own breathing ragged. He pressed a soft, reverent kiss just below her navel.
She looked down at him, at this powerful man on his knees, his lips glistening, his eyes dark with satisfaction and a hunger that was far from sated. A possessiveness she'd never felt before surged through her. She gently tugged on the leash, a testing pull.
He looked up, a question in his eyes. She gave him a slow, wicked smile. "Now," she whispered, her voice husky with spent passion. "Let's see about those hickeys."