The best thing about working the night shift is that my sleep schedule’s totally fucked.

Okay, I know that sounds not-great. But hear me out here.

When I’m wide awake, the rest of the world is sleeping peacefully. No telemarketers, no door-to-door dildo salesmen, and next to no traffic out on the streets.

Sure, it’s left my skin alabaster pale from lack of sunlight, and it’s made dating kind of a clusterfuck…

When I was a little girl, I totally grew up dreaming about becoming a mommy someday—but that’s looking like a fat fucking chance now. The only prospective mates I’m going to meet on this schedule are night security guards, janitors, and the delivery boys at my favorite Chinese place—and let’s not kid ourselves, babes.

I’ve totally tried.

But so far, nothing’s clicked.

I guess that’s the price I have to pay for DJing NYC’s naughtiest late-night radio show.

On the bright side, Sinful Selections is a total hit with my fellow vamps working the graveyard shift here in the city. I play cool, dirty rock music from midnight to six a.m., sleep all day, and grab an order of General Tso’s at New Kum Den before I head back to work and do it all over again.

There’s another bright side to being up all night after the sun goes down, too: when I have day off, I have the laundry room of the Bradford all to myself.

So when I forget to wash clothes for two weeks, I can do laundry in just my bra and panties when I have to.

And tonight? Yeah, tonight, I don’t even have a bra or panties clean.

But hey—no one else is up at this crazy-ass hour, so it’s not like it matters. And there’s something kind of novel about doing laundry completely in the nude.

That is, until he walks through the door.

Dark brown hair. Green eyes. A nose like a Roman general and a chest like…fuck.

Have I seriously forgotten what a man’s chest actually looks like, or is it actually that good?

His shoulders are so broad beneath his lab coat that he has to turn slightly just to fit through the laundry room door, and his slacks…

Let’s just say that it’s obvious he’s got a lot going on in the pants department—and his package fucking doubles when he finally notices me.

At first, though? At first, he’s obviously in total man-on-a-mission mode. He’s got his laundry hamper tucked beneath his arm as he heads straight for a washer, not even bothering to look up at he enters.

Which is kind of awkward, because there I am, standing barefoot in front of my dryer, watching every item of clothing I have on-hand tumbling around, still soaking wet.

Not that he notices. No, whatever he’s thinking about, he’s thinking about it so hard that he doesn’t seem to be aware that other people even exist right now.

As far as he’s concerned, he’s in the Bradford’s laundry room totally alone—which becomes apparent when he shrugs off his lab coat, unbuckles the belt around his waist and starts to pull his shirt up over his head.

I should have fucking bolted then. I’m as much of an exhibitionist as the next ho, don’t get me wrong. But being totally nude in front of a total stranger, while kind of hot, isn’t exactly how I want to introduce myself to my neighbors.

In fact, I’m about to bolt. I’m about to do the quickest runner up to my apartment that I’ve ever done in my life. Like going streaking, but without the security guards at Yankee Stadium chasing after me for once.

But then I see them.

His abs.

His gorgeous, perfectly sculpted, Roman statue abs.

They’re the kind of abs that, once you see them, you actually can’t bring yourself to look away.

He has hairy arms, a hairy chest—a sexy happy trail leading the eye down his rock-hard stomach and disappearing beneath his unbuckled belt.

I could lick ice cream off of abs like that.

Hell, I want to go pick up my dinner order from New Kum Den and eat it off those abs in lieu of a plate.

My mouth is salivating just thinking about it.

My pussy is practically drooling, for fuck’s sake.

There’s a beautiful, perfect moment where his face is totally obscured while he pulls his t-shirt over his head, and I can’t decide whether I want to touch myself or just tackle him right there while he’s caught off guard.

Instead, I just stand there. Staring. Like a total fucking perv.

And like, look. I’m a tall, leggy bleach blonde with D-cups and a bubble butt. Usually I’m the one being perved on—not the other way around.

First time for everything, I guess.

Kind of like how, when he finally gets his shirt over his head and actually sees me gawking at him, I bet it’s the first time he’s been so startled that he gets an erection.

“Holy—” he says, freezing up and getting hard all at once.

If this was a porno, this is the point where the bang music would start playing.

Instead, he just stares back at me for a second.

And I stare at the way his dick is threatening the structural integrity of his slacks.

“Fuck,” he finishes, and then—thank god—he laughs. “Uh…shit, sorry. Looks like, ah…”

“We had the same idea?” I ask, a little smirk playing on my lips.

Because seriously. He’s gorgeous. He’s a modern Adonis in a lab coat.

Or, I guess, out of one—since it’s currently on the floor.

He stoops to pick it up and holds it out to me like a peace offering.

Personally, I’d rather he offered me that dick…

But I just wave it away.

“Nah, man,” I tell him. “It’s cool. Don’t let me compromise your load.”

“I’d say it’s already compromised,” he laughs.

I can practically feel his gaze gliding up and down my body. The way it lingers, he might as well be feeling up my tits.

And all things considered…I don’t think I even mind.

Actually, I think I’d like that.

I’d like that a lot.

“Sabrina.” I lean across the row of washers that separates my side of the room from his and offer him my hand to shake. “You must be new here. Normally, I’m the only one who does her laundry at four a.m.…thus.”

I nonchalantly gesture to my tits and watch his Adam’s apple bob up and down in his sexy throat as he takes my hand.

“Rainier,” he says back. “I’m…ah, fuck. I’m sorry for intruding. Honestly, I didn’t mean…Should I go?”

He’s trying really fucking hard to keep his eyes off my tits now, and I’m trying really fucking hard to stop imagining how they’d feel pressed up against his hunky chest.

“It’s okay. I’m just waiting on the dryer. I’ll go.” I try to pull my hand away—not that I want to—but he still has it held tight in his.

Rainier’s skin is warm. His palm is slightly calloused. And it takes him just long enough to let go of our handshake that I have a chance to realize how fucking wet I am right now.

“Seriously,” he says, pushing his lab coat into my hands before he lets me move away. “If you’re leaving…put this on. Who knows what kind of creeps might be lurking in the halls at this time of night.”

“Flashers, voyeurs and perverts, am I right?”

He smiles at me as I shrug his lab coat over my shoulders. “I hope I didn’t ruin your night, Sabrina.”

I can’t even help it. I wink at him as I turn to leave.

“Actually, I’d say that you made it a lot better.”