Amy Smart Naked: Fire Escape Strip Tease at 1 A.M.
Amy Smart Naked and the Flat That Wouldn't Cool
The apartment had become an oven, and Amy Smart had been slow-roasting in it ever since her shift wrapped. She was twenty-seven, a bike courier with legs like braided cable and a back knotted into ropes, and she had dragged a bag of lukewarm burritos up four flights before shutting the door behind her with the heel of one boot. The air conditioner jammed in the window clattered like a bug in its death throes and pushed out nothing but tepid spittle. So at one o'clock in the morning, three nights deep into a heatwave, she did the only sensible thing: she flicked the latch, forced the sash upward, and clambered out through the gap onto the fire escape still wearing her work clothes.
The metal grate still carried the day's heat. Underneath her, the street burned orange in the sodium light, a bus exhaling somewhere two blocks off, salsa bleeding out of a ground-floor radio. Amy sat with her legs dangling between the bars and dragged the courier jersey off her back. It peeled away tacky, stained dark along the spine, and she let it fall through the window without a glance. Beneath it was a grey sports bra worn soft as a dishrag. The night air raised her skin in goosebumps, then her body settled, gleaming and damp, and she tipped her head back and simply breathed.
The Man in 4B Gets a Front-Row Seat
She had spotted him within ten minutes. Fourth floor, the window opposite, no lights on, just the silhouette of a man leaning into the dark with a beer bottle hooked over two fingers. Amy knew him by sight — tall, quiet, forearms like a welder's, forever hauling groceries or a bike pump, forever nodding at her on the stairs and never once managing more than a grunt. Now he was staring openly and making no effort to hide it.
Shyness had never been her problem. When she reached behind her back and unclasped the bra, she took her time, letting the straps travel down her arms, and the cups dropped away from small, firm breasts whose dark nipples had already tightened in the breeze. She draped the bra over the rail like washing and stayed there bare to the waist, ribs flaring with every breath, a thin silver chain stuck to her collarbone. The shorts followed. She raised her hips, worked them down her thighs, and flicked them off one ankle at a time until she was down to plain black underwear and a pair of tan lines, all of it shining.
Amy Smart Naked: A Slow Strip on Warm Metal
She gave him a proper show. Thumbs hooked into the waistband, she drew the underwear down an inch, then another, letting the elastic snap back against her hip. She twisted away, reached for the cigarettes she had left on the sill, and lit one with her chest bare and smoke drifting past her face. When she finally pushed the underwear down her legs she did it standing, one hand braced on the rail, and stepped out of it naked as the day she arrived, her backside to the gap and the entire city spread out beneath her.
His window scraped upward. 'Something out there will eat you alive,' he called, voice dry and low.
'What, the mosquitoes?' She turned and leaned back on both elbows against the rail, cigarette between two fingers, and let him take in all of her — flat belly, the dark patch between her thighs, the long muscle running down the front of each leg. 'Are you coming over, or do you plan on staring at me through the screen like a creep?'
He was across in ninety seconds. Down his own ladder, over the gap, up hers, and he landed on the grate with a clang that set the whole structure shaking. Close up he smelled of cold beer and clean sweat, and his hands were warm when they closed on her waist. She grabbed a fistful of his t-shirt and hauled him in, and the first kiss was wet and clumsy and half a laugh, teeth colliding, her cigarette almost singeing his ear.
Hands, Mouths, and a Creaking Grate
The shirt came off and she pressed into him, breasts flat against his chest, the scratch of his stomach hair, and he walked her backward until the rail dug into her spine. His mouth travelled down her throat, across her collarbone, closed over a nipple, and she made a low, unflattering, entirely honest sound she would deny afterward. Her fingers found his fly, shoved his jeans down over his hips, and when her hand closed around his cock it was hot and thick and already wet at the tip. She worked him slowly, thumb dragging across the head, and watched his jaw clench.
'Condom,' she said. 'Wallet. Go.' He fumbled it out of his back pocket and she rolled it on herself, one hand on his shoulder for balance, the fire escape rocking under them like a deck. Then he lifted her by the backs of her thighs, she locked her legs around his waist, and he drove into her in one long grind that snapped her head back against the rail. The grate shrieked. Below, some dog lost its mind entirely.
He took her slow and deep at first, then harder, and she rode it with her heels dug into his backside and her nails in his shoulders, sweat stinging her eyes, the whole city thrumming beneath them like machinery. She came with her mouth wide and nothing coming out, thighs clamping, and he followed a few strokes later with his forehead dropped against hers. They stayed that way, breathing like they had sprinted there, the metal cooling under their bodies and the sky paling at the edges.
Grey Sky and a Standing Invitation
'Same time tomorrow?' he asked.
Amy laughed into his shoulder. 'Bring a fan.'
What she had worn when the scene opened was full courier kit — jersey, sports bra, shorts, boots — every piece of it soaked through from a summer shift. What she wore when it closed was nothing at all, and she stayed out on the grate with him long after the cigarettes were gone, the two of them sprawled on warm iron above a waking street, in no particular hurry to climb back through their respective windows.
