I see her every week. Same laundromat. Same late hour, same row of front loaders. She has been under my skin for a month. The first time I saw her was due to a blown water line. The second, a hopeful stroke of luck. After that, I make sure I’m here. I like that she likes routine.
She folds two machines down with steady hands and eyes that slide away when they meet mine in the neon-lit glass.
I load darks: socks, boxers, blue jeans. I try not to watch the line of her waist or the way her hips move when she reaches for a garment to fold. I fail. Miserably. She catches me looking. A forgotten load beeps once and quits. The air is warm and damp. My cotton T-shirt clings to my back.
I’m plugging quarters when she comes up behind me. Close enough that our reflections in the glass door merge. I stall with a quarter between finger and thumb.
“Hey,” she says. “I’ve seen you here before. My name is Cassidy.”
I turn. Her mouth is irresistible. Full bottom lip, perfect cupid’s bow. Kissable. Lush. She tilts her head back to meet my gaze. Her forehead is level with my chin. She’s more petite than I had first thought. The thought has my fingers twitching.
Cassidy takes her shirt off. No tease. Up, over her head, into the open drum beside mine. “I thought we should get acquainted,” she says, “since we’re sharing the same laundromat.”
I look at all the places I want to put my hands. Collarbone. Sternum. The hollow at her throat. Her perfect breasts, nipples pressed tight against sheer lace cups. She unhooks the bra with one hand and drops it with full confidence into the waiting machine.
I lick my lips as her areolas shrink then pucker. More than my fingers twitch.
She pops the button on her jeans. The zipper ticks down. A faint draft tightens her nipples further.
When I speak, my voice is strained. Probably because none of my blood is rushing to my brain and instead all to my…
“Evan.”
I clear my throat. “I’m Evan.”
“Nice to meet you, Evan.” She pushes denim to her ankles and bends to step out. A tiny G-string obscures the space between her cheeks. Goosebumps rise along her calves, and she raises onto tiptoes. Her thighs are lean and well-defined.
She points to her open washer. “Maybe you want to share a machine, Evan?”
I nod. My eyes run the length of her and stop at the one place still covered.
“You’d better remove your clothes then,” she says.
I do. Shirt. Jeans. Briefs. No hesitation. The decision is already made. The thought of being walked in on flashes through me and makes me harder. I look down. A bead of pre-cum shines. Cassidy sees it, and her pupils widen before she looks back up, tongue sweeping over her rosy lips.
She drops her panties in with her jeans. I toss in my clothes. Our underwear looks good tangled together.
Cassidy hops onto the washer. She turns the dial to cold, heavy soil. Slides a handful of coins into place and pushes the lever. The latch locks. Water rushes.
She parts her legs, one hand already guiding me closer.
“Let’s see if we can make good use of the spin cycle,” she says.
Who am I to argue? I’ve got plenty of quarters. Next week I’ll ask if she’d like to use my home machine.
Whoa 🥵🥵🥵