The community pool was only a ten-minute walk from the house, but by the time I got there that afternoon, I was already sweating for reasons that had nothing to do with the sun.
Elena was impossible to miss.
She lounged on a chaise by the deep end in the exact black string bikini I'd seen her wearing in the garden the night before. The one that barely qualified as clothing. Dark sunglasses hid her eyes, but her full lips curved into that same knowing smile when she spotted me approaching with a towel slung over my shoulder.
"Alex," she called, voice carrying effortlessly over the chatter of kids and the splash of water. "You made it."
She sat up slowly, deliberately. The movement made her breasts shift in a way that drew every male gaze within fifty feet—and a few female ones too. The bikini top strained against her, triangles of fabric doing heroic work. Her skin glistened with sunscreen, accentuating every curve: the dramatic dip of her waist, the flare of her hips, the thickness of her thighs pressed together as she swung her legs off the chaise.
I dropped my towel on the chair next to hers, trying to act casual. "Yeah. Figured I could use the cooldown."
Her smile deepened. "Smart boy."
We talked for hours—or at least it felt that way. Easy conversation that flowed like we'd known each other longer than a day. She told me she'd moved from San Francisco after her husband passed (car accident, two years ago). She worked remotely as a graphic designer, which explained the flexible hours. Loved gardening, yoga, cooking things that were bad for you. When I asked why Willow Creek, she shrugged and said, "I needed quiet. And good neighbors."
The way she said it, eyes flicking over me behind those dark lenses, made my stomach flip.
She asked about me too—college, job hunt, hobbies. I rambled about coding, gaming, how I'd always wanted to build something big but hadn't figured out what yet. She listened like she actually cared, head tilted, one finger tracing lazy circles on her thigh.
At one point she stood to reapply sunscreen. Asked if I'd mind getting her back.
I didn't trust my voice, so I just nodded.
Her skin was warm silk under my palms. I worked the lotion in slow, careful strokes from her shoulders down the elegant line of her spine. She let out a soft hum of approval that went straight to my dick. When my hands reached the tie of her bikini top, she glanced over her shoulder.
"Don't miss a spot," she murmured.
I didn't.
By the time the sun started dipping low, most families had packed up. We were two of maybe six people left. Elena suggested we grab drinks at her place—"I make a mean margarita"—and I followed her home like a puppy.
Her house smelled like jasmine and fresh paint. The living room was stylish but lived-in: plush sectional, art on the walls that looked expensive, floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the garden. She mixed drinks in the open kitchen, hips swaying to music playing low from hidden speakers. I sat at the island and tried not to stare too obviously at the way her ass filled out those tiny denim shorts she'd changed into.
We talked more. Laughed more. The margaritas were strong. At some point she brushed my arm reaching for the salt, and neither of us moved away.
But nothing happened.
Not yet.
She walked me to the door around ten, fingertips grazing my bicep. "Thanks for the company today, Alex. I think I'm going to like having you next door."
I floated home, buzzing with tequila and tension.
That night, I couldn't settle. Again.
I ended up at my bedroom window, same spot as before, telling myself I was just getting air. The garden was lit by soft solar lights along the paths. Elena's house was mostly dark, except for a faint glow from what I guessed was her bedroom upstairs.
Then I heard voices.
Male voices.
Two of them, deep and confident, drifting through an open window on her side of the house. Laughter. The clink of glasses.
I froze.
Minutes later, the sounds changed.
A low moan—unmistakably hers—followed by a sharp masculine gasp. Then another voice, rougher: "Jesus, Elena—"
The headboard started thumping. Rhythmic. Insistent.
I should have closed the curtain. Walked away. Instead I stood rooted, pulse hammering in my ears.
The moans escalated fast. Elena's voice rose, sultry and commanding: "Harder. Don't hold back."
One of the men groaned like he'd been punched. "Fuck—fuck—I can't—"
The rhythm faltered. A frantic scramble of sheets. Then footsteps—heavy, stumbling—rushing down stairs. The side door slammed open.
Two guys burst into the backyard, shirtless, pants half-zipped, faces flushed and wild. Early thirties, built like they spent serious time in the gym. One clutched his chest like he'd run a marathon. The other looked genuinely terrified.
They didn't see me in the shadows of my window.
"Holy shit," one panted, bending over with hands on knees. "What the hell was that?"
"I don't know, man," the other hissed, voice shaking. "I've never—she's not—she's too much. I thought I was gonna fucking die."
"She squeezed so hard I saw stars. Like her pussy was alive or something."
They scrambled over the side fence, shoes forgotten, disappearing into the night without looking back.
Silence fell.
Then Elena appeared at her back door, silhouetted against the light. She wore a short silk robe that clung to damp skin. Hair tousled. Lips swollen. She looked out into the empty yard, sighed once—almost amused—and shook her head before going back inside.
I stood there for a long time, hard and aching, mind racing.
Whatever Elena Voss was, she wasn't just a hot neighbor.
She was dangerous.
And I wanted more.