Prologue

Three Months Ago

Emil

Change sucks. I know I’m not the only one who feels this way. Most creatures in the animal kingdom operate on schedule. Routine. Humans are no different.

This human especially.

“Goddamn it,” I mutter, stubbing my toe for the third time as I navigate my new kitchen. Who the hell thought putting an island in such a small space was a good idea? “Hate this. Hate moving. Hate unpacking. You’ve got it easy, Arthur.”

My hermit crab doesn’t respond.

“No, really. You didn’t have to give up any of your cushy rocks, whereas my entire world got upended. And now I have a giant boulder where I don’t want one.”

I glare at the island as I stick some mixing bowls inside a cabinet next to the fridge.

“And before you say it, I know we didn’t have a choice. We had to move,” I grumble. “Asbestos is no joke. Doesn’t mean I have to be happy about it.”

Arthur still doesn’t respond.

“And look at that. I’m having a one-sided conversation with a hermit crab. Again .”

I sigh, wondering how it came to this. Actually, scratch that. I know exactly who’s to blame for the fact that I now converse with a crustacean on the regular.

“This is all Alex’s fault,” I moan. I never would have brought Sir Arthurpod home if it weren’t for my coworker, who took one look at the hermit crab and declared him my perfect companion.

I don’t know what that says about Alex’s opinion of me.

I don’t know what it says about me that he was maybe right.

“Probably that I’m a lonely soon-to-be grad student who craves even the smallest sliver of attention and companionship despite my fear of abandonment and, subsequently, true intimacy?”

I let out another sigh. Psych major for the win.

Folding the last of my moving boxes, I head out into the living room, stopping to set the cardboard on the pile to be recycled. Arthur is burrowed into the coarse sand at one end of his terrarium, only the top of his spiral shell exposed. Probably wasn’t even listening to me. I check his water, adding a bit to top it off, and then head for my new bedroom. I try not to cringe as I step inside the unfamiliar space. Unlike Arthur, I couldn’t carry my home with me on my back. The walls in here are white and undecorated, there’s a single window on one side of the room that looks onto the neighboring building across the alley, and the bookshelves are unorganized and half bare.

This time, I do cringe, unable to leave my textbooks piled on the floor as they are. I stack them on the shelves, ordered alphabetically by subject matter and then author, and only once they’re resting in their proper place do I let myself fall into bed.

It’s late, it’s been a long day of moving, my coworkers who helped me are gone, and I should get some rest. Or …

My eyes catch on my open nightstand drawer, and I roll that way, peering inside. Snatching the lube, I roll back and make quick work of unbuttoning and pushing down my pants.

Perks of living alone, aside from my hermit crab, of course : no need for closed doors.

My head hits the pillow as I wrap a wet hand around my dick. It doesn’t take long before I’m fully hard. Rucking up my shirt, I squeeze and roll my nipple while I brace my legs wide, giving myself leverage to fuck up into my fist. Unlike at the studio, I don’t bother making a production out of it, but a groan still escapes my throat as heat pools low in my stomach with each pass of my cock through the tight ring of my hand. I lick my thumb before rolling it over my nipple again, the wet warmth sending a zing down my spine. In no time at all, I’m coming apart, ropes of cum painting my bare abdomen and chest.

Spent—and sticky—I pull in a breath. And then another. My body rolls in an aftershock.

“Well,” I mutter, glasses sitting askew on my nose. “Suppose that’s one way to christen the place.”

The letter comes the next day.

“What are you?” I ask, staring at the innocuous white envelope taped to the outside of my apartment door as if it will magically explain itself. Probably a flyer from a local business.

I snag it off the surface and continue inside, my arms laden down with grocery bags from my early-morning shopping run. With my curiosity getting the better of me, I leave the food on the counter and open the envelope.

I pull in a sharp breath as I read the handwritten scrawl on the carefully folded paper. Not a solicitation. Not a professional one, at least.

Hey, neighbor.

Fun fact. If you go into your bedroom and look outside, you’ll notice there’s a window one floor up on the building next to yours. The blinds are black. Second fun fact—someone looking through said window has a perfect sightline to your bed.

First of all, bravo. Quite the finish.

Second, I promise I didn’t mean to catch the show. But, well, there you were.

So here’s me, letting you know you may want to close your curtains next time. Or not. Honestly, I would not be upset to catch that again.

Welcome to the neighborhood.

-C

“Holy shit,” I whisper, my pulse sprinting so fast I’m left dizzy. My neighbor saw me jerking off .

I should be embarrassed—mortified, even—that I put on an unintended peep show. But I’m not. At least, not in the way I know I’m supposed to be. All that almost-shame is curling tight in my gut, heating my veins and making my fingers tingle in anticipation.

Did they like what they saw?

Do they really want to see it again?

This is where, logically, that shame should come. Because I don’t regret it. I’m thrilled to have been caught. And I’m so damn horny all I can think about is that “or not” in regards to closing my curtains.

There’s a reason I work in porn. And it has nothing whatsoever to do with the money.

Forcing a calming breath through my body, I put away my groceries before walking into my bedroom. My adrenaline is still high, pulse pounding, but my steps are even as I approach the window. Sure enough, there are a few windows on the building next to mine that I didn’t notice yesterday. Probably because they’re so far to the side I can’t see them except from a certain angle. But in the case of one particular window—the one a floor above mine—that angle happens to line up perfectly with my bed, exactly as C indicated.

A wave of heat rushes through me.

Can they see me right now? The blinds might be cracked open; it’s hard to tell. Are they watching? Waiting for a reaction? Waiting for me to snap my curtains shut?

I don’t know what possesses me to do it, but I grab a sheet of printer paper and a marker, and I scribble my number in thick print. Then, I slap the paper against the windowpane.

My heart beats heavily as I wait. Chances are they aren’t even there. I’m being ridiculous. And yet, less than a minute later, my phone pings. I drop the paper and grab the device from my pocket. A text waits.

Unknown: Hey, Specs.

“Holy shit,” I whisper again.

I adjust my glasses and change the contact to “C,” and then I type out a response. Maybe it’s because of C’s own bluntness in their letter or that nearly irresistible offer of “or not,” but instead of being polite or appropriately apologetic about what they saw, I decide to throw caution to the wind for once in my goddamn life.

What’s the harm? I don’t know this person. And they don’t know me; not really.

There’s safety in anonymity, even if it’s only an illusion.

Me: I’d say I’m sorry, but I’m not.

C sends me a grinning emoji that immediately sets me at ease.

C: Never asked for an apology. Does that mean you’re going to leave those curtains open?

There goes my pulse again.

Me: You really want me to?

C: Is that a serious question? That was hot as fuck. I’ll watch you anytime, Specs.

My thumb hovers over my screen before I type back.

Me: How old are you?

C: Perfectly legal.

They send a wink, and I blow out a breath.

Me: I’ll leave them open.

C: Lucky me. When’s the next show?

Holy shit. Am I really going to do this?

Me: Tonight?

They send a frown.

C: Working. I’m free now, though. What’s your refractory period like?

I huff a laugh. I’m a twenty-three-year-old with a high libido and a penchant for being watched. My refractory period is damn near zero if there’s an audience involved.

Me: I’m good to go. Wanna watch me fuck myself with a dildo?

C sends a skull and crossbones emoji, and I grin at the implication that they’re dead from that response.

C: Specs, I can honestly say I’d love nothing more. Show me what you’ve got.

Fuck .

Inhibitions nonexistent in the face of my single greatest weakness, I set my phone on the bed, check to make sure I’m standing in a spot where my neighbor can see me—even though I can’t see through their blinds in return—and drop my pants to the floor. My pulse hammers as I drape myself over my bed, reaching into my nightstand for lube and the biggest dildo I have.

I’m well aware that, in a sea of humans, I’m a fairly average fish. I’m average height for a guy, not overly thin but not bulky either, I have plain brown hair and eyes, a decent smile, and I wear glasses. Frankly, I blend into the crowd.

But when there are eyes on me, none of that matters. There’s not a high I’ve discovered that’s better than this . I know nothing about C. I don’t know their gender. Whether they’re my age or sixty. I don’t even know if they find me attractive or only see me as a free source of porn. Ironic, really, considering my job .

But none of it is important. All that matters is that they see me. That they’re watching.

A shiver rolls down my spine as I kick off my socks and underwear, uncaring where they land. I get on my hands and knees before bending low, putting myself on display.

My phone pings.

C: Look at you, Specs. You like this, don’t you? You like showing off.

You have no idea .

I don’t respond, instead bringing lubed fingers to my ass as every fiber of my being vibrates in excitement and heady want .

Funny, just yesterday I was lamenting this change in location and the upheaval of my comfortable routine. But less than twelve hours later, I’m wondering if maybe this move was the best thing to happen to me. It’s no secret my life is predictable. Some would even say boring, apart from my job in porn. I go to classes, I study, I eat, and I sleep.

And I’m happy with that. I like my life; I do.

But sometimes, even when I’m stubbornly rebelling against it, I know change can be a good thing. And this change? Maybe even great.

After all, what more could an exhibitionist want than a willing voyeur right outside their bedroom window?