I swear I wasn’t trying to be seen.

Okay… maybe just a little.

It was early, maybe 7:30, and the spring sun had just started heating up my garden. I’d thrown on a black lace robe—thin as tissue, practically see-through—and padded outside barefoot with my coffee. No bra. No panties. Just me, the birds, and the soft dirt under my toes. It’s how I like to start my Sundays: quiet, warm, and deliciously indecent.

The robe was one of those that drapes off the shoulders if you so much as breathe too deep. So when I reached up to trim a rosebush—pop—there went my left tit, out for a little sun of its own.

I smiled. Didn’t fix it.

The fence between my yard and Mr. Thompson’s is waist-high and mostly for show. He’s retired, very polite, and always waters his front lawn in the mornings. But lately, I’ve caught him lingering. His hose dribbling onto the sidewalk, his sunglasses slipping down his nose just enough to get a better look.

I pretended not to notice. Bent a little lower. Tugged at a weed near my strawberries, letting the robe part right down the center. I felt the air kiss between my thighs.

That’s when I heard the cough.

I turned slowly, letting the robe slip a little farther off my shoulder. There he was, standing just on his side of the fence, pretending to be shocked. His cheeks flushed bright red beneath his sunhat. He was holding his mug like it might protect him from me.

“Morning,” I said, all innocence. “Beautiful day, isn’t it?”

He nodded, a little too fast. “Yes, um—gorgeous.”

“Mm,” I purred. “I thought I’d get a little sun. You don’t mind, do you?”

He opened his mouth, then shut it. I took a long sip of coffee, letting the steam rise between us. Then I turned around and walked deeper into the garden, swaying just enough. The robe fluttered. I knew he could see everything.

Let him.

He wasn’t the only one watching, either. I’ve seen the curtain twitch in the Andersons’ upstairs window more than once. And the teenage boy across the street suddenly started taking up “jogging” every morning. Poor thing nearly tripped last week when I bent over to adjust the hose.

They all pretend not to look. But I know they do.

Sometimes, I leave my windows open when I shower. Just a little. Sometimes, I stretch a little too long on the porch swing in a tank top and no bra. I like giving them something to wonder about. Something to ache over.

Back in the garden, I knelt by the basil and let the robe slide fully off one shoulder. Then the other. My skin tingled under the sun’s warmth. I cupped my breasts in my hands and gave them a soft squeeze, pretending to adjust. I exhaled, slow and sultry, right into the breeze.

Mr. Thompson cleared his throat again and shuffled back toward his house.

Poor thing. He’s going to be thinking about this all day.

As for me? I just smiled and rolled onto my back in the grass, robe open, completely on display. I watched the clouds drift by, one finger lazily tracing a circle on my belly. Maybe I’d let my hand drift lower. Maybe I’d wait until sunset. Maybe I’d do it again tomorrow.

After all, if you’re going to be the hot neighbor… might as well make it worth watching.

All eyes on me! – Cassidy

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