Meet the Characters | Adam x Leo
It all starts with a window... 👀
Leo's life in New York has just become a little more interesting since Adam moved into the apartment across the street. What began as curiosity soon turned into a steamy affair.
Leo
🎨 25, a passionate artist with a love for both creating and curating.
🖌️ His work is shown in galleries and exhibitions across the city, but lately, he’s been more focused on the view from his window than his next brushstroke.
👀 The apartment across from his now holds his attention, especially the tall, confident guy that’s become the unintentional muse to his obsession.
Adam
💼 28, a finance bro who looks like he should be on a sports magazine cover.
🏙️ First time in New York, just unpacking and getting settled into his sleek apartment.
🏢 By day, he's buried in numbers, making deals, and climbing the corporate ladder in the world of finance. But when he’s off the clock, it’s all about the gym and the body he’s built.
💪 Adam's not your average guy in a suit; he’s a contradiction, and maybe that’s what makes him so irresistible.
Part 1: I Watched Him Unpack
I’ve lived in this apartment for just under two years. First floor, tiny-ass bedroom that doubles as my art studio. The rent’s criminal, the walls are thin, and my window?
It looks directly and I mean directly into the building across the alley. Just glass facing glass. A few feet of air between us. If I leaned out far enough, I could probably knock on my neighbor’s window with the end of a paintbrush.
But it’s New York. You get used to the lack of privacy. Most people keep their blinds drawn. You stop caring. You stop watching.
Until today.
I was sitting on my stool, brush in one hand, coffee in the other, half-listening to Cigarettes After Sex and avoiding the canvas in front of me. I was debating whether to commit to color or throw the whole thing into the abstract void when I saw movement.
Across the alley.
A guy. Stepping into the apartment that mirrors mine.
New tenant.
He walked in like the room already belonged to him—broad-shouldered, tall, wearing a black denim jacket over a white tank that clung to his chest like it wanted to be peeled off. His sleeves were pushed up, showing thick forearms. He carried a cardboard box like it weighed nothing.
And just like that, I was hooked.
I don’t know how I never noticed that apartment was empty before. Maybe the blinds were always down. Maybe I was too wrapped up in my own shit. But now I couldn’t look away.
He was hot. Like, annoyingly hot.
Messy hair, designer stubble, body built like a guy who never skipped leg day. Gym bro energy with a killer physique. The kind of guy who belongs in some ad for expensive cologne, looking pissed off in the rain.
He set the box down on his bed. Stretched. Rolled his shoulders. And still hadn’t noticed me. But I noticed everything.
The way his tank lifted to show off the V of his hips. The curve of his ass in his sweats. The way he moved—like his body had weight and he knew exactly how to carry it.
I shifted slightly on my stool, brush still in hand but no longer moving. My cock stirred in my shorts. Just watching him unpack. Just watching him exist.
That was my first red flag.
I’m not new to attraction. But this was different. And he was just across my bedroom window. Curtains wide open, like he didn’t give a damn who was watching.
Like he wanted someone to watch.
I stayed completely still. Let the tip of my brush drip violet paint onto the floor. I didn’t care. My eyes were locked on him. This gorgeous hot stranger who had just accidentally walked into my little world and turned it inside out.
He peeled off the jacket next. Tossed it onto the bed. That tank hugged him in all the right ways - tight around the chest, loose around the waist, showing a flash of hip as he moved. My throat went dry. I wasn’t even pretending to work anymore.
He looked around, pulled his phone out, tapped something, then tossed it onto the mattress. Then he dropped his pants.
Just like that.
Underneath, a pair of dark grey trunks. Tight. And I swear to god, the outline was unmistakable. My cock pushed up against my waistband. I didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. He didn’t look my way. Didn’t close the curtains. Just sat on the edge of his bed and ran a hand through his hair like it was the most casual thing in the world.
I should’ve looked away. I didn’t.
I watched his thighs part slightly. Watched him lean back on his bed, legs still on the floor, arms stretched behind him like he was cooling off. That body? He didn’t get it by accident. He looked like he played rugby. Or maybe boxed. Or maybe he was just born a walking fucking thirst trap.
And me? I was fully hard now. Sitting there in my room, sweaty, horny, and shamelessly staring at this god of a man across the window. My hand hovered over my crotch, barely touching myself. I wanted to see where this was going.
His hand brushed over the front of his briefs.
And he didn’t stop.
At first, it looked casual. A little adjustment. A light touch. But then his fingers lingered.
Curled. Palmed. Slow, deliberate pressure across his bulge like he was easing himself into it. I couldn’t look away. His legs widened even more. He slid down slightly, letting his hips angle toward the ceiling as he kept stroking.
The bulge in his trunks grew. Thick and rising, outlined clearly now as he tugged at himself in lazy, practiced strokes. My mouth was dry. I slipped my hand into my briefs without thinking, wrapped my fingers around my cock, already aching, already leaking.
And then he stood.
Just like that. In one smooth motion. Legs wide, chest rising and falling, broad back flexing as he adjusted his stance.
I held my breath.
His hands dropped to the waistband of his briefs.
And I swear—
He hooked his thumbs in.
Paused.
Then started to drag them down, slow. Inch by inch. Just over the swell of his ass. Just low enough for me to lose my mind.
The outline of his cock shifted. Heavy. Thick. Tugged forward by the stretch of fabric.
My heart thudded in my throat.
Was he about to—
No fucking way.
Day one.
The hot neighbor across the window.
And I was about to see his cock.
Hell of a welcome to the building.
----------
And just when I thought it couldn’t get any better,
he stood up… and reached for the waistband of his underwear.
His hands moved to the waistband of his dark grey trunks, and just like that, they were gone. One slow, deliberate pull, dragging the fabric down over his thick thighs, the outline of his cock straining beneath the fabric until it finally slipped free, bouncing slightly as it stood tall and proud in front of him.
He wasn’t shy about it. My Neighbor's cock, thick and flushed, hung heavy between his legs. My mouth went dry. I couldn’t stop staring. His movements were slow, controlled—like he was letting me take it all in, letting me see exactly what he had to offer. He cupped himself for a moment, like he was savoring the feeling of being completely exposed.
Long. Thick. Loose at first but heavy, already rising. Veins like brush strokes—clean, strong, beautiful. Definitely a shower. Or in his case, a shower that was still growing.
Fucking art.
I should’ve grabbed a sketchbook right then. He should’ve been my subject. Lit by the soft glow of a desk lamp, framed in the boxy symmetry of his new place. His hand brushed along it—just once. Like even he had to admire it.
Then he sat back down on the bed.
No rush. No performance. Just casually draped himself across the mattress, pulled a pillow under his head, and adjusted the way his vest clung to him. Rolled it slightly up his torso. That’s when I saw them—abs, ridged and faint, carved with ease. The vest bunched around his chest, his skin flushed from the heat or the work or maybe the fact that he knew what he was about to do.
Left hand held his phone.
Right hand wrapped around his cock.
He started slow. No urgency. Just a few long strokes as his thumb rolled lazily over the tip. I mirrored him instinctively. Slipped my hand into my own trunks and tried to match his rhythm. I could barely see the screen on his phone, but whatever it was, it had him focused. Like he was sinking into it.
His grip shifted. His hips moved slightly. That thick length swelled in his palm with each pass, fingers tightening just below the head, dragging back down. He was stroking with purpose now, still slow, but heavier. Bolder.
I was hard as hell. Rocked slightly on the edge of my seat, breathing shallow, my brush forgotten in a little blob of violet paint on the floor. My cock ached in my grip. I didn’t blink. Didn’t move.
He adjusted his grip again. Switched pace.
I did too.
I couldn’t tell if this was real or some sick fantasy. He looked too good. That body, those legs slightly spread, his stomach tensing subtly every time he hit the base. His eyes flicked down to the screen again. His thumb moved like he was scrubbing forward in the video.
Then, suddenly—he stopped.
Mid-stroke. Just let go. Cock standing there, hard and heavy, glistening slightly from the way he'd been working it. I froze. My hand still wrapped around mine. Mouth dry. Not breathing.
He stood up. Again.
Still watching whatever was playing on his phone with one hand, he dug into one of the open boxes nearby. His cock bobbed with each step—fully erect, flushed, beautiful. I couldn’t look away.
He pulled out a towel and a clean pair of trunks. Tossed his trunks on to the bed like he wasn’t done. Like he’d be back. Then, he peeled the vest off over his head in one quick motion and threw it on the mattress.
And he walked away.
Just walked.
Out of frame.
Out of sight.
Cock still fully erect. Swinging with each step like he didn’t even care. Like it wasn’t the centerpiece of the show he just abandoned.
What? No. No way. The good part. We were right there.
I sat there fully hard, pissed off, chest tight like I’d been edged by a ghost. He didn’t even hesitate. Just left me there hanging, with my cock out and heart pounding like a pervert in the middle of a gallery opening.
Minutes passed. Still nothing. My window was just… empty. A blank rectangle. The worst painting I’d ever stared at.
Frustrated, I let go of myself and reached for my brush again. Tried to get back to painting. Like that was even possible. I was mid-stroke—on the canvas, I mean—when I saw motion again.
He was back.
This time, with a towel around his waist. Hair fully wet, darkened and messy, sticking to his forehead. He looked fresher. Relieved. Like he’d just… finished. In the shower. Goddamn it.
He tossed his phone onto the bed and took a few steps toward the window.
Then he looked at me.
Not a smile.
Not a smirk.
Just stared. Straight through the glass. Into my room. Into me.
And then, he laughed. Just a little.
The kind of laugh that said:
Yeah. I know you were watching.
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