Page 76 of Only for Him
And of course, I find that it is.
When did he get here? Before the evidence locker? After? Did he somehow beat me home?
I wonder if I really want to know, or if I prefer that it remain forever a mystery. Something about the way he shadows through my life like this makes me feel hunted in the best possible way.
But just when is there a “best way” to be hunted?
I inhale slowly as I close my eyes to bring back that memory of us in the evidence locker, the feeling of his chest rising and falling against my back to calm me. And then I push the door open and scan every inch.
And like always, I come home to an empty apartment.
Even if Iknowit won’t remain empty for long.
He’s changed that. Not necessarily for the better, but also not necessarily for the worse.
Where are you? What did you do?I ask, impatient. Some part of me feels that we’re so connected that he might actually answer:everywhere, anything I want.
My heart thumps in my chest.
I step out of my shoes, cross the living room, and glance at my bedroom door for any telltale sign that he might already be here, waiting. But there are none, because Roman doesn’t leave clues for me that easily.
He knows I notice everything, and he’ll make me work for it.
In the kitchen, the only sound is the leaky faucet going plip-plip. The pipes in this place are all reversed, where hot runs cold, andcold runs hot. I wonder if he’s learned that yet. I picture him filling a glass like he belongs here whenever he enters to watch me.
Stalking is probably thirsty work.
In my bedroom, the closet door is ajar. I check it, heart rate in the red. Nothing but my own scent, almost lonely without his complementing it.
Seeing myself through his eyes is addicting, and now I want to know the rest. What do I smell like to him? How do I taste? How do I sound?
I want to rewrite myself with his vocabulary.
I blink back tears at how low I’ve sunken. I feel unrecognizable to myself. Shame turns my stomach. I don’t know if I’ll ever get over what I’ve already done with him and all the ways I’ve given myself to him.
I half-expect to find him in the shower, standing like a statue, daring me to react. Lunging forward and making me come in some exciting, obscene, new way.
He’s not, but the bathroom isn’t empty.
Hanging from the towel rack is a dress bag. Black, glossy, expensive as shit. Next to it, a smaller shopping bag, something glittery inside.
My cop-brain tells me it’s a bomb.
My animal-brain wants to tear it open with my teeth.
The zipper is smooth and frictionless. Inside is a dress. A slip of black silk, just long enough to pass as legal if I stand up straight.
A dress built to sayI’mhisbefore anyone even asks.
The silk whispersminewhen I thumb it.
Alone in my bathroom, I groan.
Beside the dress is a Venetian mask, all lacquer and red and silver. It’s the same kind that they wear to orgies in movies.
Anticipation slithers down my spine and I imagine being seen and not-seen all at once, hiding in plain sight while still being on display for him.
Showing off what breed of slut he’s made me.
