So dirty!

I was knee-deep in laundry when my neighbor wandered in from next door. "Need a hand with those?" he offered, all smooth like he'd practiced. I knelt down to stuff another pile into the machine, and he crouched too, brushing his fingers against my ankle with this feather-light touch. "You've got legs for days," he muttered, and I shot him a look, half-laughing. "Don't start messing around," I warned, but he wasn't joking. Before I knew it, he had my calf cupped in his palm, sliding his hand up with zero hesitation while I still held a shirt half-folded. His other palm settled on my thigh, warm and insistent. He pressed closer, and suddenly the cool tiles under my knees felt hotter than they had any right to. He hooked his fingers under the hem of my shorts and tugged, exposing more skin, and I realized the game had shifted from laundry to something else entirely. He ran his tongue along the inside of my knee, then higher, tasting every inch like he'd been waiting for the chance. My shorts came down in one quick pull, and he leaned in, burying his face between my legs while I grabbed the edge of the washing machine for balance. His tongue worked fast, flicking, circling, then flattening out in long strokes, and I had to bite my lip to stay quiet. He slipped two fingers inside me without warning, curling them just right, and the wet sounds mixed with the machine's rumble behind us. I came hard, shaking, one hand still clutching a pair of jeans. He wiped his mouth on the back of his wrist, grinned like he'd won a bet, and said, "Laundry's done." Then he left me kneeling there, half-naked, trying to remember where I'd put the rest of the clean clothes.