RILEY
I’ve wanted to f**k my neighbor Damien since the night he fixed my bedroom window last summer and I caught him staring at my legs like he wanted to spread them right there on the ladder.
There. I said it. No pretty excuses, no pretending it’s just a harmless crush. I’m nineteen now, and for over a year this man has lived in my head rent-free, turning me into a dripping, aching mess every single time he so much as looks in my direction. He’s thirty-five. Divorced. The quiet, intense architect who lives alone in the sleek modern house next door. Tall, broad-shouldered, with that hint of silver threading through his dark hair at the temples and eyes that see way too much. He’s known me since I was sixteen — back when I was still the shy girl who blushed when he waved at me over the fe
