I’d seen her around the building for weeks—third floor, opposite my door. Dark hair in a messy bun, always in yoga pants and an oversized T-shirt, carrying grocery bags that looked too heavy. We’d nodded hello, exchanged “buenos días” once or twice. Her name was Ana. Romanian, I later learned. Moved in for a short contract job.
Tonight, the hallway light was out. I was fumbling with my keys when her door cracked open.
“Hey… you got a light?” Her voice was soft, a little hoarse. She held up a dead bulb. “Mine blew.”
I stepped inside. Her place smelled like coffee and vanilla. One lamp glowed in the corner. She wore the same T-shirt, no bra, nipples faintly visible through the cotton. My pulse kicked.
“Balcony bulb too,” she said, nodding toward the sliding door. “Can’t sleep anyway.”
I changed both bulbs. When I turned, she was closer, wineglass in hand.
“Stay for a drink?”
One glass turned into two. We leaned on the railing, city quiet below. Her shoulder brushed mine. Static. She set her glass down. “I’ve seen you watching me in the elevator.”
Heat crawled up my neck. “Hard not to.”
A small smile. Then her hand was on my belt, tugging me inside.
She pushed me against the wall, dropped to her knees. Jeans down, cock out. Her mouth was warm, wet, eager—lips sliding, tongue swirling, taking me deep until I hit the back of her throat. I groaned, fingers in her hair. She hummed, eyes locked on mine, hand stroking what she couldn’t swallow. Spit slicked my shaft; her rhythm perfect. I nearly came, but she pulled off with a pop.
“Not yet.”
She stood, peeled off the T-shirt, then the panties. Bent over the couch, ass up, looking back. “Drawer. Lube.”
I grabbed it. Coated my fingers, then her—slow circles, one finger, two, stretching. She pushed back, moaning. When I pressed my cock against her tight ring, she exhaled, relaxed. I eased in—inch by inch—until I was fully seated. She gasped, clenched, then rocked.
I moved. Slow at first, then deeper, harder. One hand on her hip, the other sliding under to rub her clit. She came fast—shuddering, pussy dripping onto the couch. I followed seconds later, buried deep, pulsing inside her.
We stayed like that, breathing hard. Then she laughed—low, surprised.
“Guess the light wasn’t the only thing that needed fixing.”
I cleaned her up with a towel from the bathroom. We ended up on her bed, tangled, balcony door open. By morning, she was asleep on my chest.
The bulb still works. So does the memory. |
