Latibule, noun
A hiding place, a place of safety and comfort.
I couldn’t get Bebe off my mind. I knew the gift I’d sent her had been a bit over the top, but I couldn’t help myself. She’d looked so perfect lying there. And I realized I was falling for her.
I recognized the warning signs as alarms went off inside my head every time I thought about her. This was dangerous, this could be the real deal. But I was getting attached—something I never let myself do. But this time it seemed inevitable, Bebe’s taste, her scent, her fucking image plastered all over my thoughts, even when I tried to fight it. I couldn’t resist her anymore, and the magnetic pull she had on me was getting to be too much. I needed to have her in my arms, and soon, or I knew I’d fucking lose it.
But it was impossible. How the hell was I going to do that? I couldn’t have her over in my apartment, and I certainly couldn’t go over to hers. When this went up in flames, and it inevitably would once she realized just how fucked up I was, I would end up hurting and alone, just like I always did.
Even though I knew all this, I found Bebe impossible to resist. And I knew that I wouldn’t be able to keep my hands off her. I watched her get up, receive the flowers, and leave the apartment. I watched and watched and watched, but the place remained empty in the evening, and it made me fucking anxious. I wanted to know where she’d gone. To keep tabs on her seemed so important now, as if I was scared she’d get hurt the second she stepped out of my vision.
I had a call scheduled with Dr. Halen that day, but I hastily asked her to change it to the next day. Her assistant had replied, and I was grateful for that. I really didn’t want to explain myself to my shrink, because I had no idea in hell what to say. That I was obsessed with my neighbor? Practically stalking her already? That I’d sniffed her fucking cardigan like it was my drug of choice? No, Dr. Halen would never understand this side of me. She’d just say it was another obsession and write it off as unimportant.
By the time nine p.m. rolled around, I decided I’d waited long enough. I fired off a text.
What are you doing?
Twenty-five minutes later, there was still no reply to my text, and it made me irrationally angry. She was avoiding me for some reason, even though we were both starting to realize something serious was developing between us. And here she was, just pushing me away so insistently, it had me wondering whether I really should give up.
My mouth set in a thin line as I got up from the sofa, impatiently pacing the room. Something strange filled my body, an aching desire to go back to her apartment. I’d seen one of the windows had been open earlier, and I knew I could probably get in using the fire escape.
I shook my head to get the thought out. I was acting crazy, like a damn stalker. But the need to smell her again, to go through her shit, was so strong. Without thinking, I shrugged on a dark hoodie and forced myself to stand in front of the door leading to outside.
I was shaking, the mere thought of leaving my apartment so soon after already being out made me terrified. Terrified of the outside, just like I always was.
But then my body moved of its own accord. I stepped forward, opened the door, calmly locked it behind me and took the stairs two at a time. By the time I reached the lobby, my heart was pounding in my chest and I felt bile rising in my throat.
The doorman nearly blew a coronary when he saw me, and I gave him a reassuring smile that ended up shakier than I would have liked.
“Mr. Reilly,” he said, his voice shocked. “Are you alright?”
“I’m okay,” I smiled. “Just need to pay someone a quick visit.”
As I stepped into the night, fighting every single instinct in my body screaming at me to get back inside, I practically ran to the other side of the street. I looked around to make sure no one was around, then climbed the fire escape as fast as I possibly could.
And then I was standing outside of her window, blood pumping through my veins, and my head telling me I was fucking insane. But I couldn’t stop, the thought of going back to my apartment suddenly crippling. I swung a leg inside and pulled the window up, and then I was in.
The whole damned place smelled of her: sexy fucking roses and sugar mixed into a concoction that was wreaking havoc on my senses.
Her clothes lay discarded on the floor, and I couldn’t help myself. I picked up a shirt, covered in lipstick stains and smelling so much like her I could have fucking cried on the spot. I’d never wanted someone this much, craved them, unable to resist her body, everything she’d touched. I was acting like an addict and I didn’t even give a shit. I would’ve done anything to find her sleeping in that bed. I’d take her in my arms and kiss those rosy lips, not just dream of doing it.
I walked around with her shirt clutched tightly to my chest. Every single thing in that apartment sung to me, telling Bebe’s story, even if she didn’t want it told. Everything spoke of her personality, of her amazing mind.
The fact that she drank the cheapest coffee, the instant variety, not out of one of those fancy espresso machines, made me grin.
Her toothbrush was a kid’s one, pink and princessy and so fucking perfect I laughed out loud in the bathroom.
She had a closet full of clothes. It seemed like there were two extremes—extremely sexy, tight little dresses for going out, mixed with comfy loungewear. It was adorable.
Her fruit basket was full of too-ripe bananas, and her fridge was stocked with varieties of yogurt I didn’t know existed. It looked like she lived on cheap coffee and yogurt. Ridiculous.
The urge to take care of her awoke inside of me, yearning to cook for her, to make her proper stuff to eat. To let her know she couldn’t live like this, filling her belly with booze and God knows what else and eating a yogurt here and there. I could’ve made proper food for her… I was a good cook, and I wanted to, fuck, I wanted her to come over, so I could spoil her with fettuccine alfredo with fresh cream, make her a salad that would blow her socks off, make every kind of dessert—possibly with yogurt—to make her regret eating like this. Make her regret not being mine… Make her want to be mine.
I went through everything.
Her toiletries—insane amounts of hairspray—her cutlery drawer, I even looked at the brand of her toilet paper. I wanted to know every fucking thing about the gorgeous Bebe Hall.
But there was one bit I’d missed, or avoided on purpose.
I stood in front of her lingerie drawer, the one I’d skipped when I was looking through her closet. God, I wanted to see. I wanted to see everything she wore under those outfits that drove me wild.
I opened it, slowly pulling it out until her smell hit my nose hard, roses and sugar, always roses and sugar. I wanted to bury my fucking face in her underwear. I wanted to steal all of it, take it home, and drive myself wild by getting off with her panties around my dick—my dick that was now straining in my pants. I felt like a madman because she turned me into one. And fuck was I desperate for more.
I reached into the drawer with shaky fingers, bringing out a lacy pink bra. I imagined her tits in it, filling out the lace perfectly, the mere thought making my mouth water.
I pressed a lacy cup against my nose, inhaling her intoxicating scent. Fuck, it made me want her more than anything in the whole world. I would turn my life around for her. I’d stop being a mess, I’d sort my life out, I’d let her be all mine, I’d do it all, just for her… I’d do anything to call her mine.
Pressing the bra to my chest, I leaned against the chest of drawers and exhaled slowly. It was starting to hit me that I was out of my apartment, out of my safe place and out in the open.
The walls of Bebe’s apartment suddenly felt threatening, like they were closing in on me and threatening to crush me.
I leaned my palm against the doorway and tried to breathe the way Dr. Halen had told me to, slow, steady breaths. It was half the fight, or so she claimed, but I couldn’t bring myself to be calmer about the situation. Bebe was everywhere in her apartment, her presence cloying even without her actually being there. And suddenly it was all too much.
I stuffed the pink bra in my pocket and closed the drawer, stumbling over to the fire exit. I left the window ajar as I managed to get outside, my legs shaking and my chest heaving. I needed to get away from all this shit, away from Bebe for one second, because I couldn’t think straight with her all around me. I was too consumed by lust and the need to make her mine.
I climbed the fire escape clumsily, my legs feeling heavy as fuck as I got down on the street. A group of women was passing, and one of them winked at me as I made my way back to my building with my breath coming in short, scared rasps. I was a fucking mess. I could barely even walk, and the thought of facing the doorman just so I could get back home seemed too daunting to even think about.
Instead, I chose the fire escape again, this time making my way home quicker and more efficiently. I’d left the window in the white room ajar, and I half-fell, half-climbed through it, taking deep, labored breaths as I collapsed on the hardwood floor. I tried thinking calming thoughts, but of course as always with these damn things, I failed miserably. I couldn’t stop it, the fear, the panic, and the adrenaline settling in, the intoxicating mixture dizzying.
It took several excruciatingly long minutes to feel human again, and when I could finally trust myself enough, I picked myself off the floor and walked through the door into the living room.
“Hello, Miles.”
I looked up with a start.
She stood in front of me, all business-like in a tight pencil skirt and a white blouse with a bow around her throat. She looked just like the photos.
“Dr. Halen,” I said. “What the fuck are you doing in my apartment?”