Page 16 of Wicked S.O.B.

I wait with bated breath as the message bubble ripples.

Quinn: “Almost” risks driving me to the point of insanity. I think you ought to know this. And prudently do something about it.

Me: I thought we reached a sound agreement this morning?

Quinn: My cock was firmly lodged in your beautiful cunt. My reasoning can be sustained only up to a point. I have further demands.

Me: My break is over so I shall have to address them when we meet.

Quinn: Be prepared to spend a considerable amount of time on your knees.

I’ve spent more than half of the last fifteen hours being fucked out of my mind, but that doesn’t stop the deep, insane longing that shoots through me when I read his reply. I’m like a hopeless addict, my thighs already clenching, my nipples shamelessly erect, and my pussy wet.

Still, I summon enough power to respond.

Me: We’ll be in public the next time we meet.

I grimace at my idiocy the moment I hitSEND. Sure as shit, his reply tells me I’ve just waved a red flag.

Quinn: Is that a challenge, Elyse?

Me: No, just an observation.

Quinn: Doesn’t change my intention to have you naked and on your knees.

Oh God. Does he intend to fuck me in the car? At the piano place?

The students who left the room to take their breaks begin to filter back in. I glance down quickly to make sure my nipples aren’t giving their own tutorial, and take several deep breaths to get myself back under control.

Me: I have to go. ILY.

Quinn: I don’t know what that last one means. Use your words.

I roll my eyes in exasperation.Me: I. Love. You.

Quinn: Better. I look forward to hearing you say it in person with my cock between your gorgeous lips.

Me: I won’t be able to speak then.

Quinn: You’re capable of driving me insane without saying a single word. You’re intelligent and resourceful. You’ll manage. See you in ninety minutes. I love you too. BE WET. X

I bite my lip to suppress a moan as my gaze fixes on the last outrageous instruction. No problem there.

I hastily put away my phone when the instructor walks back into the room. I force myself to concentrate for another half hour before I grab my purse and mouth my intention to leave to the instructor. I told him I’d need to slip out when I got to class this morning. He nods and waves me away.

Since I don’t know whether Lionel is still waiting out front or returned to pick up Quinn, I head for the back stairs and exit at the rear of the building. It’s not the smartest idea, but I know from previous occasions that there will be enough people at this time of day in the quiet alley having a smoke to allay any immediate fears for my safety. I slow my steps and peer around the corner when I reach the end of the block. Lionel and the town car are nowhere in sight. I exhale in relief and head for the busy intersection that’ll take me to Detective Schultz’s precinct on East 51st.

A few blocks later, I sense his presence behind me. Fear grips my spine for a freezing moment as my nape tingles and my knees weaken. A moment later, despising the fear threatening to take over, I push it down and turn around. I stare at the rush of pedestrians coming at me, but not a single one of them looks sinister enough to be a cold-blooded stalker. But he’s there. I can feel him watching me.

Someone bumps into me. A muted curse follows.

I turn back around and continue walking. I’m no longer convinced this is just in my imagination. But who the hell is interested enough to fucking stalk me?

The question darts through my mind as I hurry the five blocks to the 17th Precinct. The sight of police cars and invasive cameras make me yearn, for a moment, for the tattered baseball cap that was part of my disguise when I was on the run last year. Not all law enforcement people are trustworthy. Clayton was not only the chief pimp, but he was also the sheriff of Getty Falls, the town where I grew up outside Fresno, California. He had every cop in his pocket. Well, almost. The man who became instrumental in taking Clay down eventually turned out to be his own power-hungry deputy.

Still, my gut tells me I can trust Ellen Schultz. She didn’t so much as blink last year when I requested a restraining order against Quinn, one of the most powerful men in New York.

I push my shoulders back and head up the short steps into the precinct. Minutes later, I’m shown into an empty, single-windowed office holding only a desk and two chairs and offered coffee. I refuse the coffee and try not to look as terrified as I feel.

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