Page 28 of The Invite
A second later, she proves me correct by pulling out a photo frame from beneath the piles of garments. A deep breath rattles her spine as she gazes at it, her fingers tracing whoever it is.
Leaning against the wall, I study her with my arms crossed over my chest.
Who could it be? Her parents? Siblings? Relatives? Ex-boyfriend?
Because in my search into her background, it was too boring and clean-cut. What I’m seeing here is telling a different story.
Just who are you, NessaDavenport?
Several minutes pass before she recovers enough to put the picture face down on the bed. Carrying a bunch of her clothes, she disappears and I hear the telltale sound of a cupboard opening and closing. She repeats the trip once more, putting away the last of her garments.
When she returns, a plain white robe hangs off her arm. My senses sharpen as she throws it on the bed. I gaze at her hands grabbing the hem of her shirt and pull it over. Her breasts, in a plain pink bra and as perfect as I imagined, bounce under the force. Silken hair flies everywhere before falling in messy waves.
I straighten from the wall and step forward, drawn to her milky flesh.
Her nipples poke like diamonds against the thin material of her bra. I tear my gaze away from them and follow her palms roaming down her flat belly to the top of her low-waisted jeans.
Unbuttoning them, she pushes it over her curvy and more-than-a-handful ass. Matching pink panties leading downto a set of long legs are revealed as she lowers the denim to her feet.
A sensual sight to behold.
Her skin is a canvas that I want to paint in blue marks with my teeth, red imprints from my hand, pink welts from the lash of my belt, and black from my charcoal-darkened fingers.
Until her body is a vivid kaleidoscope.
Until everyone stares at her and knows she’s my muse.
Leaving the tee discarded on the bed and her jeans on the floor, she grabs the robe and goes into the adjoined bathroom. I don’t hear the lock click.
You should lock your doors, little prey.
The whooshing noise of the sliding shower door echoes, followed by the spray of water hitting the tiled floor.
I enter the bedroom, the rug concealing my steps, and I pick up the frame. Turning it over, I stare at the well-dressed power couple and a shy, smiling little girl in the middle standing in front of a large vintage painting on the wall behind them.
Huh, so Little Miss Nessa comes from money.
Why is she lying about it, though? And why would she take a low-paying school teacher’s job in a small town, even if it is at an elite private school?
The man wearing a gray suit in the picture has his lips pressed together in a firm line while the woman is smiling reservedly but it doesn’t reach her eyes.
Perhaps my little prey is more interesting than I initially thought.
Instead of placing the picture where she left it, I place it on her nightstand. On the bed, I leave the gift I brought for her.
She showers, heedless of my presence, while I fold the clothes she took off and place them neatly on the armchair in the corner.
I leave the room just as the water shuts off, a grin playing on my lips.
A few seconds later, she reenters the room, a cloud of steam billowing around her ankles. She doesn’t immediately notice the small changes in the room as she dries her wet hair with a towel, humming a tune.
Two more steps in and the towel drops from her hand.
My grin grows into a full-blown smile.
Remaining glued to the same spot, a full-body shudder racks her frame as her gaze lands on her cracked but still working phone which I found in the woods. Her neck twists toward the picture frame in its new place, and she staggers back a step. Slowly, her eyes sweep around the room and freeze on her neatly folded tee and jeans.
Before your fight-or-flight instinct kicks in, paralysis is what cripples one’s body, making you defenseless. One always assumes the former will occur first.
