Dear anonymous Literotica fan - thank you for kind words last January. They were deeply appreciated and inspired me to keep writing-including this story. Look for future work under the pseudonym Sugar Stone.
*****
He was a beautiful man.
Ask Petra if you don't believe me. She was there. It was unseasonably hot, time was short on the van rental, and the lobby was stuffed with boxes headed upstairs. We were maneuvering my floppy double mattress into the lift, and Petra was losing her patience. "What's this stuffed with? Bricks?"
"Here, take the bottom," I said. The elevator's 'up' button chimed and lit. "Whoever's upstairs is probably losing their minds."
The stairwell door groaned open behind us. We turned and there he was, pale-skinned, with sandy brown hair and a full, well-groomed beard. He wore tortoiseshell glasses. His grey henley shirt showed off a strong, compact body and a ruff of chest hair.
He was short. I easily had four inches and twenty pounds on him. I've always said big girls and small men should get together-we try harder-but I've flirted with enough to know I'm not on a short man's radar. To them I'm just an obstacle between them and a girl their own height-like petite, gorgeous Petra.
He smiled at us. "Don't mean to interrupt."
"Sorry," I said. "Moving day."
"No worries." He gestured to the elevator. "Just wanted to make sure it wasn't broken again."
"It breaks?" asked Petra.
"Sometimes. But not today, I'm sure." He crossed his fingers for us. "Can I help with that?"
"No, thank you," I said. "We've got a handle on it."
Clearly we did not have a handle on it, but he didn't push. "Good luck to you. I'm Blake. I'm in 506 if anything comes up."
"I'll be right across the hall, then," I said. "I'm 503. Anna."
"Pleasure to meet you, Anna." He opened the stairwell door. The stiff piston on the back squeaked outward, bumped a stack of picture frames and sent them sliding. Catlike, Blake jumped out and caught them.
"Stabilized," he said. "Sorry about that." He headed up the stairs. "Welcome to the building."
"Thanks."
I turned back to the double mattress. As we walked it backward, Petra mouthed, "He's cute."
"He's small," I muttered.
Petra cringed. Too late, I realized how nasty I sounded. I whirled toward the stairwell. The old stiff door was still hanging open.
"Oh, God," I whispered. "I'm an asshole."
Petra patted my shoulder. "Basically, yeah."
#
That night, after I returned the van and pledged Petra gratitude for life, I got cleaned up and baked brownies in my pajamas. I played my Netflix queue for a little background noise. It was my first time living alone.
I left a tin of brownies outside Blake's door with a note-I was too much of a coward to knock: "Hope this makes up for hogging the elevator. Anna"
The next morning there was a note on my door: "Thanks! They were great. Blake" His handwriting was wild and messy, and in the margin he drew a stick figure of himself eating the brownies. I was so excited I squeaked.
For whatever reason, I didn't throw the note away. For whatever reason, I left it on the counter. For whatever reason, I thought about him all day at work, and I thought about him all night, and I thought about him in bed while I slipped a hand down the front of my pajamas and imagined it was his hand stroking my clit to life, his gentle finger slipping inside, his two hands working me into a back-cracking climax that left me gasping.
#
The next time I saw him was later that week, again in the lobby. It was just after work and the sun hit the clouds sideways and made everything look dreamy and pink. He was standing at the mailboxes, sifting through his mail. He wore beat-up jeans and a white T-shirt stained with oil.
"Hi, Blake!" I said. I could tell I was smiling too big and talking too loud, like a beauty pageant contestant.
"Evening," he said. His smile was natural, his voice was soothing, and it put me at ease. That kind of calm was a gift. "How was the rest of the move?"
"A pain. But good. I can almost lift my arms again!" I demonstrated.
He laughed. "Some people pay a lot for that kind of workout."
"Well, some people are masochists."
He hit the elevator button.
"Thanks again for the brownies," he said.
"Oh, sure. You made me feel welcome. Not everyone would do that."
"Well." He blushed. It was gorgeous. He looked up at me over his glasses and steepled his eyebrows. Good God. The air between us turned electric. My hand lifted off my purse strap as if it were going to reach out and touch him of its own accord. I wanted to cup the back of his neck and pull him in close, crush myself against his firm body and slip a hand down the front of his jeans.
His lips parted as if he were about to speak. Then the elevator arrived with a chime, and Blake shut his mouth and stepped in. "Going up?"
"Ah." I pretended to check my handbag. "You go on. I think I left something in the car."
He nodded. "'Night."
"'Night."
The lift closed. I stood there a moment, hot-faced and unsteady. Surely I wasn't imagining that. Surely there was something there. I glanced at the stairwell. There's no way he could hear me say "he's small" and still want anything to do with me. Perhaps he hadn't heard it at all?
Fishing in my pocket for a coin, I stepped into the stairwell. I let the groaning door shut until it was only a foot ajar. Then I threw the coin into the lobby. It bounced four times-ping ping pa-ping!-and clattered to a halt-kickikakickiakee. I heard every sound.
Fuck.
#
The next time I saw him, he was working on his Nissan in the dim underground garage, his eyebrows drawn down in frustration. The sight of him nearly made me drive over my wheel stop. He wore dirty jeans and a tight gray T-shirt. I wanted to bite him.
He lit up when he saw me. "Evening, Anna. Unpacked yet?"
"I wish." I unloaded a pair of boxes from the trunk. "Work is kicking my ass." I pointed at his Nissan. "Speaking of, could you use a hand?"
"Do you mind?"
"Sure. But I should warn you I know nothing about cars."
"Fair enough. I know just enough to be dangerous."
