Julia had a habit.
Every night, around 10, she'd sit on the staircase just outside her flat.
A notebook in one hand. A pen or a cheap novel in the other.
Sometimes she scribbled thoughts. Sometimes she just watched.
Watched him.
The man from the top floor. Tall. Broad. Quiet.
Not once had he looked at her.
Not once had he said a word.
But she watched his back like it held answers.
Watched the way his fingers flexed around his keys.
Watched his thighs shift in tailored black joggers that made her mouth dry.
She wanted to touch him like a prayer—desperate and doomed.
But he never looked.
Until one night—he did.
He stopped in front of her door. Knocked once.
Calm. Casual. Like he hadn't been the center of every filthy thought she'd had for months.
"Do you have a screwdriver?" he asked, voice low—so low it felt like velvet dragged across skin.
She blinked, heartbeat hitching. "Uh… maybe."
She turned, stepping inside, fumbling blindly toward the drawer by instinct alone.
And then—
He was behind her.
No warning. No space.
His chest pressed to her back, one palm flat on the wall beside her head, the other ghosting just above her hip—hovering like a threat.
His breath grazed her neck, slow and humid.
She froze. But her thighs pressed together. Automatically.
"You like watching me?" he murmured.
"Every night. Pretending to read while your eyes strip me bare."
She didn't respond. Couldn't.
"I see how you look at me. Like you want me to ruin you. Right there. On the fucking staircase."
His hand didn't touch her—but it hovered near the waistband of her shorts, close enough to burn.
"Bet you've touched yourself after I passed. Legs spread, fingers soaked, thinking how I'd sound moaning your name."
Her breath stuttered. He leaned closer.
"You want me to pin you to that cold step and fuck the moans out of you?"
"I'd make you bite your notebook just to muffle how wrecked you'd sound begging."
His lips brushed her ear, voice filthier now. Meaner. Measured.
"You want to feel my cock dragging inside you, slow and deep, while your neighbors pass and wonder why you're shaking?"
"You want me to bend you over that rail, make you come while your legs tremble like they're about to give out?"
Still—he didn't touch her.
"I won't. Not tonight," he said, voice like smoke and sin.
"Tonight, I just wanted to remind you… I notice."
"Every stare. Every squeeze of your thighs. Every fucking time you try to look innocent."
And just like that—he pulled away.
Left her standing there.
Dripping. Shaking. Unsatisfied.
And for the first time in weeks—he didn't look like a stranger.
He looked like the man who would destroy her.
-------
The room was still. Silent.
But Julia couldn't breathe.
She hadn't moved since he left—hadn't even shut the door behind him. Her heart was still sprinting, her body still aching, as if he had touched her.
But he hadn't.
He didn't need to.
The way he spoke—so close, so dirty—his breath hotter than any touch she'd ever known. Her panties were soaked. Her thighs tense. Her skin was humming from a voice that never even kissed her.
She couldn't take it anymore.
She slid onto the bed. Slowly.
One hand slipped under her shorts. The other gripped the sheets. She closed her eyes and saw him—pressed to her back, whispering filth, promising everything she'd fantasized about in secret.
"I'd make you bite your notebook just to stop the sounds you make."
"I'd fuck you right on the stair, so hard they'd hear you on every floor."
"Say you want it. I know you do. I see how your body begs."
Her fingers moved—slick and fast. Circling. Teasing.
She imagined him watching her. Smirking. Feral. Fist tight around his own cock while she moaned his name in the dark.
She spread her legs wider. Whimpered.
"You'd be so good wrapped around me, trembling—used."
Her hips arched, muscles tightening. Her breathing ragged now.
She wasn't even quiet. She wanted the walls to hear her. Wanted him to hear.
The orgasm hit like a wave—sharp, sudden, stolen from his voice alone.
She cried out. Bit her own wrist. Shook beneath her own hand like he was already inside her.
After, she stared at the ceiling. Sweaty. Drained. Still trembling.
And all she could think was:
Next time, he won't just speak.
He'll break me.
And she was ready.
-------
She didn't bother pretending tonight.
No notebook. No excuses. No panties under her silk robe.
Julia sat on the stairs, legs crossed too carefully, a glass of wine untouched beside her, every inch of her skin alert—as if her body already knew what it was waiting for.
Him.
And then…
Footsteps.
She didn't look. She didn't need to.
He stopped mid-step. Slowly turned back. And saw her.
Bare legs. Bare throat. Barely breathing.
"Did you touch yourself after I left?" he asked, voice a quiet, brutal thing.
She didn't answer. She didn't need to.
He stepped down. One. Two. Towered over her like sin in human form. And when he crouched before her, he didn't touch her. Not yet.
"Did you think about me dragging you down these stairs, fucking you on the landing while the neighbors pretended not to hear?"
She inhaled, chest trembling.
"Say it," he whispered.
"I did," she choked. "I thought about your mouth. Your voice."
His hand slid up her thigh. Slowly. Possessively. He found her heat and groaned.
"Dripping. You wore this robe for me?"
"You wanted to be ruined on the concrete like a whore in silk?"
She gasped when he grabbed her thighs and pulled her down two steps, spreading her legs as he dropped to his knees.
And then—
His mouth.
Hot, wet, wicked.
He licked her like she was a drug and he was long past withdrawal. His tongue teased her clit, slow and lazy at first, then relentless, flicking and circling until she was grinding into his face, moaning his name like a prayer turned curse.
"Don't come yet," he warned, lips wet with her.
"I want to feel you fall apart while my cock's inside you."
He stood. Dragged her up by the hips. Pressed her against the wall. One hand slipped into her hair. The other gripped her jaw, forcing her to look at him.
"Open your mouth," he said.
She did.
He kissed her so hard her spine curved. Bit her lip until it swelled. Slid his tongue down her throat like he was tasting how far she could take him.
He undid his jeans, pulled himself out—and she saw how thick, how hard he was for her. Already. Already.
"Turn around."
"Why?"
"Because I want to fuck you like I've been dreaming."
She obeyed.
He pushed her over the banister, the open stairwell gaping beneath her as he slammed into her—one brutal thrust, bottoming out, making her cry out like she'd been hit by lightning.
"That's it," he growled, thrusting deeper. "Take it. You wanted this. You sat out here begging for it."
She shattered. Screamed. Fisted the railing as he drove into her over and over, his fingers in her mouth, his breath on her spine.
"You're mine now. This pussy's mine. Your moans. Your fucking stairs. Mine."
When she came, it was violent. Gut-wrenching. Soaking his cock, her legs giving out, her voice cracked from the sound of her own pleasure.
He didn't stop.
He flipped her, lifted her onto the banister, fucked her again—harder, deeper, making her legs shake as she clung to his shoulders and begged for more.
"You want more?"
"Yes—God, yes—"
"Then open your fucking door."