Next door, quietly, in her own way — her home, her rules

We met on localmilfs.com, where the lines between innocence and sensuality blur with every click. It was just a usual evening, scrolling through profiles — more out of boredom than hope. But when I saw Emily’s picture, something stirred. A simple selfie in the kitchen, but her gaze said: “come if you dare.” I messaged her. She replied within five minutes. And two days later… I was already at her place.

She lived two floors above me. I had no idea such a woman lived literally above me.

She invited me in that evening. She opened the door wearing a dark red satin shirt barely reaching her thighs. She smelled like something between vanilla and… something sharper. Perfume, sex, and something dangerous.

- Come in, but take off your shoes and… leave all expectations at the door, - she said, closing the door with the latch.

The living room was dim, candles gave off warm light, and lazy jazz played softly in the background. I sat on the couch, but before I could say anything, Emily sat on my lap.

No words. Only her fingers slowly traced my neck.

- Say something? - she asked quietly, her breath right by my ear.

- No, - I replied. -I’m listening.

She smiled with satisfaction, as if she had just won a bet. Her hands were confident. She slid my shirt off my shoulders like she’d known me for years. She kissed calmly but with growing intensity, leaving a warm trace of her tongue on my neck.

Her lips were soft but assertive, and when she started kissing me deeper, more intensely, I felt I cared about nothing but her. She straddled me, feeling through the thin fabric of my pants how much she had aroused me.

- You know what I like most? - she asked, biting my earlobe.

- Show me, - I whispered.

She slid off my knees, leading me to her bedroom. The room was minimalist, with a wide bed covered in dark sheets, and on the sides — candles and fans to ignite the senses.

She stopped in front of the bed and slowly unbuttoned her satin shirt. Underneath, she wore nothing.

She was like a scene from a movie you watch alone at night and don’t want to fast-forward or pause.

I stood behind her, kissing her neck, sliding my hand down her waist to her round hips. She took a breath, and her hand guided mine to where she was already warm and wet.

- Touch me like you might wake up any moment and not be sure if this really happened, - she whispered, placing my hand exactly where she wanted it.

Her body arched to the rhythm of our breaths. Slowly, deeply, without hurry, but with a tension rising like a wave. She was in control but gave it up when she wanted.

On the bed, on her stomach, from behind, from the front — she knew how to move, how to grab me with her thighs and pull me deeper, how to bite her lip at just the right moment.

She wasn’t quiet. But she knew when to be a whisper.

And when we lay next to each other again, her hair on my chest, she asked:

- Could you get used to this?

I smiled.

- I can be very neighborly.