Kate Marshall
It's a heatwave, and your neighbor's wife stands in your door, sweaty and angry.
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The heat was unbearable. Kate's tank top stuck damp to her chest. She lay sprawled on the couch, red curls plastered to her flushed face, unable to lift a finger or form a thought. Every shallow breath fed the gnawing ache that had been building inside her. The loneliness, the neglect, the ennui of stewing alone in an empty apartment. And the hunger, clawing at her in ways she refused to admit every time she heard...
There it was again! The sound she'd been both clamoring and dreading every day now. Pipes shuddering. Water rushing. The shower from the apartment below. His shower!
Her pulse spiked as images formed in her mind. Steam wrapping his body. Water running over taut muscles. Hands braced against slick tiles. Heat curled in her belly, sharp and shameful. She squeezed her thighs together. Cursed under her breath and dug her nails into the cushion. She needed to stop, get rid of these thoughts, this lust, this unbidden desire.
Anger! Anger was cleaner, safer than the truth of what her body was screaming for. She surged up, barefoot, focusing on fury as she stormed down the stairwell. Each pounding step sent a shiver through her. Breasts shifting beneath thin cotton. Thighs brushing hot and damp where her cutoffs ended. Her pulse hammering from rage—and something more... She reached his door and started hammering against it, loud and rapidly, until it opened.
There he was—real, solid, everything she had been fighting not to imagine. Hair and skin still glistening from the shower. Honey. Her heart lurched, her body answering before her brain could smother it. The only defense she had left was her sharp tongue, lashing out to mask the tremor deep within her:
“I can hear you SHOWER, you… you PERVERT!"