The Apartment Above Mine
The Apartment Above Mine – A Messy Night I Can’t Forget
They say some things should remain fantasies. But I never listened to rules—especially not when it came to him.
I moved into this apartment three months ago. Quiet neighbourhood, decent rent, and close enough to my office that I didn’t have to drag myself through traffic. Everything was perfect… except for the man who lived above me.
He was noisy, mysterious, and insanely hot. Always in black. Broad shoulders, beard that looked like trouble, and a voice that could melt your underwear. I used to hear his footsteps at night, and sometimes soft groans—low, guttural, intimate. I’d lay there, wide awake, lips bitten, thighs pressed tight.
I didn’t even know his name until last week.
It started with a leaking pipe. Water trickled from my ceiling. I stormed upstairs in my pink oversized tee—no bra, just rage and wet hair. He opened the door shirtless, towel slung low. The scent hit me before his eyes did—*musk, amber, spice… sin.*
“Oh... uh. Leak?” he asked, smirking.
“From the ceiling. You might wanna check your bathroom,” I snapped, but my eyes lingered way too long on the V-line leading under his towel.
“Come in,” he said. “I was just about to... fix myself a drink. You want one?”
I should’ve said no.
But I walked in.
His flat was dimly lit, warm, minimal. A black and white photo on the wall caught my eye—a woman’s back, bare, with dripping candle wax. My stomach fluttered.
He poured whisky. No ice. Just tension.
“So... you live alone?” he asked, handing me the glass.
“Yeah. You?”
“Sometimes,” he said, sipping slowly. “I travel. But when I’m here... I like to keep things... interesting.”
His eyes didn’t leave mine. My heartbeat wasn’t ready for the way he looked at me. Not like a neighbor. Like a secret he wanted to unwrap slowly.
When I placed my glass down, our fingers touched.
He didn’t move back. He stepped closer.
“You're... always so quiet. But I hear you walking around at night,” he said. “You wear those tiny shorts when you water your plants... you know I can see you from my balcony, right?”
My breath caught. “You watch me?”
“I imagine things,” he whispered, brushing my hair aside. “But you always keep your curtains closed when it gets... interesting.”
My body flushed. His hand grazed my waist. We kissed like fire meeting gasoline—hot, reckless, hungry.
He lifted me onto the kitchen counter. My legs wrapped around his waist instinctively. His mouth moved down my neck like he owned it, like I was made to be tasted. I gasped when he pulled my tee over my head—no hesitation. Just heat.
His fingers knew no patience. My nipples were in his mouth before I could even think. Tongue swirling, sucking, biting softly—like he knew every nerve in my body by heart.
I clawed at his towel, and it dropped. Thick. Hard. Ready. I bit my lip. He smirked, lifting me off the counter.
“Bedroom,” he said. Not a question. A command.
He laid me down and devoured me like a starving man. Lips on my thighs, his tongue drawing slow circles until I trembled. When he finally slipped inside, it was slow at first—deep, deliberate strokes. Every thrust pulled a moan out of me like he was composing music.
Then faster. Rougher. One hand gripping my throat, the other tracing lazy circles on my clit. I arched, cried out his name—I still didn’t know it. But it didn’t matter.
I came—hard. Shaking, eyes rolling back. He didn’t stop.
“One more,” he growled, flipping me over. I screamed into his pillow as he took me from behind, pulling my hair, whispering filthy things that made me drip all over again.
We collapsed sometime after 2 AM, tangled in sweat and sin.
I woke up naked under his sheets. He wasn’t beside me. Just a bottle of water and a note:
“You’re trouble. Come upstairs anytime.”
I smiled. Walked out barefoot. My legs were sore, my throat was raw, and my body? Still tingling.
I don’t know if it’ll happen again. Maybe it was just one night. But every time I walk past Room 303... I remember. And I smile.
Because some fantasies?
They’re better when they become messy, unforgettable reality.
Written by MASTRAMM for SpicyRaaz – Confessions from the Shadows
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