Page 9 of Cursed
“Of course I did.” She refills our wine glasses. “Now, tell me more about this disaster of a presentation Alan gave yesterday. You mentioned him using clip art from 2003?”
I launch into a detailed account of Alan’s disastrous presentation, complete with his outdated looped clip art andComic Sans font choices. Jolene laughs in all the right places, and I smile along, but my mind keeps drifting back to the Hunt.
“And then,” I continue, “he actually used star wipe transitions between slides. In 2025!”
“No!” Jolene gasps dramatically, hand over her heart.
“Yes. It was like watching someone’s first PowerPoint from middle school.”
We fall into comfortable laughter, but even as I reach for another spring roll, I feel the weight of the Hunt like a physical presence in my apartment. Two weeks. Just fourteen days until I’ll be running through a maze, hunted by masked men with explicit intentions.
Jolene starts on about some workplace drama, but I find myself only half-listening. Instead, my mind replays my encounter with Landon Blackwood earlier. The deliberate way he moved into my personal space, close enough that I could smell his cologne—woodsy and expensive.
His voice plays on repeat in my head as he described exactly what would happen to me during the Hunt. Whathewould do to me. I’ve never met someone so... intense.
Most men I’ve known have been like Melvin—predictable, safe, boring. But Landon Blackwood feels like a wolf in an expensive suit, his danger barely contained beneath a polished exterior. The memory of his steel-blue eyes studying me makes my skin prickle. He looked at me like I was a complex equation he was determined to solve.
What terrifies me most isn’t his intensity—it’s how much that intensity appeals to me. How desperately I want to know what it would feel like to be the sole focus of all that power.
5
LANDON
The blue glow of my laptop screen illuminates my living room as I sip whiskey, watching her. Sadie Reynolds. For someone who works in cybersecurity, she’s surprisingly careless about her own digital footprint. I expected more resistance, more sophisticated safeguards. They are there, but they’re not as difficult to crack as I’d expect considering how advanced she is in her skill set.
“She makes cybersecurity protocols for Fortune 500 companies,” I murmur to myself, “yet uses the same password variation for ninety percent of her accounts.”
Three days of research, two YouTube tutorials, and one dark web forum later, I had everything I needed. Her Google Home system was embarrassingly easy to access. A few scripts, some basic redirects, and I was in. Not my area of expertise—I prefer my surveillance analog when possible—but I’m a quick study when motivated.
And Sadie Reynolds motivates me like no one else.
I take another sip, watching as she enters her bedroom. Her hair is damp from the shower, wrapped in a towel that barely covers the curves. She hums a tune—I turn up the volume tocatch the melody. Sounds like that band she mentioned in her last text to Jolene, the one she claimed was underrated.
My eyes follow her movements as she drops the towel, revealing smooth skin I’ve yet to touch. A familiar tightness builds in my pants as I lean closer to the screen. I palm myself through my jeans like a fucking pubescent teen.
Her bedroom is as I had imagined—minimalist, yet with carefully chosen personal touches. A vintage robot collection on her bookshelf. A framed abstract print above her bed. Three potted succulents lined up evenly on her windowsill.
She pulls on a faded university T-shirt, and I find myself strangely fascinated by this mundane ritual. Every movement, every gesture—they’re pieces of a puzzle I’m assembling. Who is Sadie Reynolds when no one is watching?
Except I’m watching. Always watching.
The Hunt is still ten days away, but patience has never been my strong suit, not with her.
She reaches for her nightstand, pulling a book from the top drawer. Even through the grainy feed, I recognize the cover—one of those dark erotic romance novels with a bare-chested man covered in ink on the front. My cock hardens instantly. I know what this means.
“Fuck,” I whisper, setting my glass down.
I’ve observed this ritual twice before. The way she settles against her pillows, how she thumbs through the pages until she finds a specific section. My breathing quickens as she shifts, her oversized shirt riding up her thighs.
No panties. Just like I suspected.
I lean closer, transfixed. She licks her finger before turning another page, and a primitive urge stirs inside me. Her lips part as she reads, and I find myself mirroring the gesture.
She’s twenty minutes in when her hand drifts downward, fingers tracing lazy patterns on her inner thigh. The booktilts in her other hand as her focus shifts. I adjust myself, uncomfortably hard now.
Her legs part wider, the shirt bunching around her waist. I can see everything—her fingers circling, then sliding inside. The book is forgotten beside her.
I’ve memorized her routine, how she starts slowly, builds rhythm, and occasionally pauses to extend the sensation. My hand moves to my belt buckle.
