Can’t You Hear Me Knocking?

Read on for a short steamy story!

This is how it starts:

I’m riding my boyfriend (now ex) in my bed at 2 am. We’ve got the TV going in the background—some really bad late night horror movie—mostly to drown out the sound of our neighbors next door. My walls are toilet-paper thin and we can hear everything. The guy (dubbed 207 for his apartment number) isn’t bad—he’s actually got a really nice, low grunt that slips out at just the right moments. It’s his girlfriend I can’t stand, or girlfriends, since it seems to be some new scream queen every night. 207 is blaring the Rolling Stones (Can’t You Hear Me Knocking?) like we’re in a college dorm room, but his girl is going off like a freight train. I decide if you can’t beat them, join them, and start shouting as I ride my (ex-)boyfriend’s cock. There’s something to be said about faking it until you make it, because I cum hard that night, and every night after as 207 and I get bigger and louder, trying to out do each other.

Weeks later, I’m freshly back on the market, lingering in a sex-starved rut (207 has also been quiet for days, it must be contagious), when the fire alarm goes off. It’s a drill, but we don’t know that until we’ve been waiting in the cold for about fifteen minutes. The guy standing next to me, waiting, is wearing nothing but boxer shorts. I’ve got a blanket wrapped around my shoulders and I offer him a corner. Party because he looks cold, party because he’s tall, fit, but not overly so, with just enough muscle to lightly define his arms and chest and copper-brown hair. He smiles—a charming, cute smile—takes the corner with a thanks.

After a second of silence, he starts humming to defuse the awkward situation. Can’t You Hear Me Knocking?

I bark a laugh. “Oh, shit,” I say. “You’re 207.”

He blinks at me. “I’m sorry?”

“I’m your neighbor,” I tell him. “I can hear you…playing Rolling Stones all night.”

It clicks. He gives me a stupid, crooked grin. “Sorry. I’ll try to keep it down.” And then he adds, almost like he’s setting up for a review, “You like the Stones?”

I crinkle my nose. “I’m more of a Beatles girl.”

“Tough audience,” he says. Our shoulders brush and I don’t know if it’s my dry spell or the secret smile in his eyes, but the hair on his bare arm electrifies me.

Twenty minutes later, we walk each other upstairs and break at our respective apartment doors. “Let’s keep this conversation going in morse code,” he says before he heads inside and I laugh. It’s not all that funny, but he’s cute and my heart is hammering a mile a minute, day dreaming about pulling those low-throated moans from him with his bottom lip between my teeth.

I’m about to go into my own apartment, but I stop with my key in the lock. Well. Who knows when the next fire drill will be. I don’t think about it, I just knock on the door marked 207. He answers—still boxer clad—in seconds. “I was wondering,” I ask, tilting my hips, “If you could play that song again.”

He smirks. A shark’s smile. “I think I can do that,” he says and takes me by the arm, pulling me inside. The door shuts behind me and he pushes me up against it; our foreheads touch and I feel my breath ricochet off his lips as I laugh. I don’t know his name, I don’t know what he does for a living, I don’t know if he’s someone’s husband or boyfriend, but somehow I feel comfortable here, like I’ve known him forever. He fits me like a winter sweater—snug and warm—and our bodies knock together, trading heat. My shirt rides up and his bare abdomen feels smooth and hard against mine, making me crave him. I close the gap between our lips and drink him in like a woman starved, my tongue swiping over his, flicking the tip. That gets a little impatient jerk from his hips and I would take more satisfaction from that if it wasn’t followed by one of his deep grunts.

That noise—it does something to me. Makes my insides clench and my breath catch; I can feel my panties getting uncomfortably wet and my thighs squeeze together. “I want you,” I beg, breathlessly, and I’m surprised by how weak I sound for him suddenly.

“Me too,” he says, and even in my fog of lust I can tell that he means it. The thin fabric of his boxers is doing nothing to cover the very obvious erection tenting vulgarly, demanding attention. His hands are on me now, lips and teeth sucking at the sensitive skin on my neck as he fumbles with my shirt until he just rips it open in one clean yank. I can hear a couple buttons clatter to the floor and I might be pissed about that later by right now, his hunger just makes my thighs press tighter together around my swollen, throbbing clit. I’m not wearing a bra underneath—I gave up on trying to make more of my tiny tits long ago—but the second he notices this he grabs them—soft, perky handfuls in his hands.

“I want to hear you moan,” he growls thickly against my neck.

I can’t help it—I have to make it hard on him. It’s that same challenge that kept us beating the wall between us to death with our headboards; that double-dog-dare spark that keeps me defiant and bold. I bite my lip and grin wickedly at him. “Make me.”

It lights up his eyes—challenge accepted. His hands work the button and zipper of my pants, then my panties, and he pushes them down my legs, his foot tugging both down the rest of the way. I’m in nothing but a haphazardly torn-open shirt now, back against the door, feeling sexy and wanted and wanting.

“You’re even hotter than I imagined you’d be,” he says. His eyes drink me in, his breath short, and he reaches down to give his needy cock a squeeze through the fabric. That sight alone is almost enough to pull a whimper from me, but I button it back with my bottom lips between my teeth.

And then he’s on me. His hand cups over my pussy as my legs part for him and I can barely stop myself from grinding against his palm. He doesn’t let me off the hook, however; he keeps me hovering there and just teases two fingers against my slit. I let out a breathy, frustrated sound and I can hear how wet I am, that slick, sticky sound as his talented fingers work me. His hits my clit and a deep ache shoots through me like a bolt. I gasp, but before my lungs expand his fingers are inside of me. I’m panting like a dog, my mouth open, stupidly, and I buck against his hand.  I’m vaguely aware that anyone walking by us now will be able to hear the door near rattling off its hinges, but that’s not what’s on my mind right now. There’s nothing on my mind right now, just him, him, and more of him.

I finally let go of that coveted moan and he rewards me with a strong kiss before pulling his fingers back. I feel empty without his fingers; my mouth feels dry and I drink him in, my arms wrapping around his shoulders, my legs climbing his hips like a tree. “I need you,” I murmur, peppering kisses over his face, down his neck.

He responds with new yearning in his kiss as his hands slip under my ass and he carries both of us deeper into his apartment, into his bedroom. I shrug out of my shirt completely, dropping it on his couch or his floor or somewhere. He eases us down and I feel my back hit the soft fabric of his bed. I cling to him, nails in his back to keep him close, and undulate under him, body hot and desperate. He drops his boxers, letting his hard cock swing free, and it’s impressive. I feel myself lick my lips like a predator at the sight.

“Stay there,” he murmurs—like I’m going anywhere—and he has to pry me off of him in order to sit up. I flop back on his bed and finally take in the surroundings—white and clean (thank God) sheets, a stuffed bookshelf, some Roy Lichtenstein poster hanging on the far wall. He perches on the edge of the bed to dig through his bedside table and I take the opportunity to sit up. There’s a stereo stuck up on a shelf over the bed—ah, the stereo—and I flick it on, press play. Sure enough, the Rolling Stones’ guitar riff swells through the room.

207 lifts his eyebrows at me as he plucks a condom from the bedside table and I shrug. “Wouldn’t feel right without it.”

The corner of his mouth quirks in a smile and he says, “I think we’d make it work.” He’s back on top of me again, his sheer presence pushing me down, making me flatten out against the mattress again. His lips are on mine and it’s like he’s reached deep up into some secret, hidden spot inside of me and flicked a switch; I’m burning again, melting into a puddle of pure want under his kiss.

He shifts on top of me and then I feel it; his cock presses deep inside of me, filling my ache, and I feel like I might cum right then and there. He uses his palms to prop himself up above me, and he finds his rhythm. I can tell he’s trying to go slow at first, trying to let me settle, but when I press my hips back against his, it’s all the encouragement he needs.

He starts pounding into me, his hips slapping against mine, and it unlocks something inside of me. I’m panting, sweating, arching my body up against his, and all I can think of is getting more, more, more, even when I feel filled to the brim, even when I feel completely overwhelmed. His breath comes ragged, his skin heats up against mine, and I can feel myself quickly reaching that taut, sharp peak. Right when I’m vibrating on the edge, my body quaking, my thighs locked around his hips, he reaches down and starts flicking my sensitive, pink little clit. That’s all it takes—I scream, a scream that rips out of my chest and through my whole body as I cum. I’m still reeling, spinning out when I feel him shudder and jerk against me, groaning loudly into my shoulder.

When I start to catch my breath, the weight of his body is warm and comfortable on top of me. I slip my fingers into his hair and feel his heart slow against mine. We stay like that for a long while, just breathing, before I say, “You know what?”

“What?” he asks.

I don’t even know your name, I’m about to say. But instead, I fall asleep in his arms to the deep, jagged edge of Mick Jagger’s voice.