25. The Pucker Next Door

I pop my head out of the stairwell, scoping down the hall to be sure no one is around to see me do this weird naked-ass walk of shame.

There's nothing wrong with the human body. Especially my six foot four, two hundred and twenty pounds wall of solid muscle I work fucking hard to sculpt between hockey and the gym.

Besides, this is supposed to be an adults-only apartment building, and I'm sure anyone over the age of eighteen has probably seen a naked guy at least once in their life.

The mature women down in the common room playing cards certainly are of a certain age and have probably seen more than their share of asses and cocks. And I give them full credit today for their best efforts to get a view of mine.

But that's a story for another day.

Right now, I need to get from this stairwell down to my door at the opposite end of the hall wearing nothing but a—book.

I step onto the cold tile floor, closing the door behind me with a soft click. Take a deep breath in. Position the book in front of my cock. And run.

It's all going great, brilliant in fact. I sprint like hell, thank you for hockey conditioning, and countdown the door numbers… Two, four, six, all the way to my door, reaching number twenty on the left at the end.

The doors have a unique feature of an alternate key code to punch in. Which comes in handy just in case your keys are in the pocket of the shorts you were wearing before the grannies playing cards in the common room stole them.

But again, that's a story for another day.

I'm halfway through the ten-digit code. And who the hell decided we needed ten of them? When all of a sudden, door number nineteen directly behind me opens.

The gorgeous woman who just moved in today—who I wasn't creeping on at all through the peephole of my door this morning—gasps.

I'm assuming she isn't expecting the view of my ass to greet her, especially the first time we meet.

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