Page 38 of Scaredy Cat
“Such a perfect thing, aren’t you?” He rests my legs back on the table, and seconds later I arch my hips as he helps me pull my leggings back on, to my surprise. Even in the dark, he’s surprisingly quick and graceful at it, and next he adjusts my bralette and hoodie, until no part of me is against the roughness of the wood below me.
“Thank you,” I breathe, politeness winning out at the sweet, affectionate gesture.
“For the best orgasm of your life?”
I scoff and roll my eyes, even though he can’t see. “No, asshole. And that’s pretty arrogant of you, don’t you think?”
“Not at all.” He leans over me again, catching my lips with his as his hand cups the side of my face. “Listen closely, Persy, because this is how it’s going to go now.”
My heart stammers in my chest, making me tense under him, suddenly worried that he’s actually going to stab me. “A-are you?—”
He snorts. “Calm down. Just breathe with me. You’re fine.” One hand runs down my side until he can hold on to my hip again. I move, arching my hips, and feel his arousal through his jeans again, though he doesn’t seem like he’s planning on doing anything about it. Like making me come was really all he came here to do.
“I’m going to put my mask on, then I’m going to un-cuff you. But you arenotgoing to get up and start something with me. Okay? You’re going to count to fifty once you can’t hear my footsteps anymore, and then you’re going to get up and go home.”
That’s not what I expected him to say. I want to argue with him. I want to see his damn face. But he still has a knife, and I don’t trust him. Especially not when what I want is clearly opposed to the plan he’s put in place.
“Tell me you understand.”
“I understand,” I say automatically.
“Good girl.” His weight vanishes and I hear his boots in the dirt a moment later. There’s a sound like him searching the table for something, before he huffs and moves back. A second later, the light from my phone moves, and when I follow it, I see that he’s holding it in one hand, and peering at a little keyring held up close to his wolf-skull mask with the other.
“It is a cool mask,” I observe begrudgingly, eliciting a chuckle from him.
“I’m glad you like it. You’re the reason I went to so much effort to get something unique.” He puts the phone down near my face, making I look away and squint from the bright light. My hands sag a second later, free from the cuffs, but he grabs them with one hand, squeezing my wrists.
“Don’t get up,” my stalker warns, and I can feel his eyes on my face. “Don’t make me do something you won’t like.”
I nod in response, pretty sure he can see thanks to the bright white light so close to my face. He squeezes lightly, then lets go, and I can hear his steps move toward the door as a low whistle fills the barn with its sagging, creaky walls.
“Wait?” I sit up, the word a question, though I don’t make any move to get off the table or grab my phone.
Unexpectedly, he waits, though I definitely didn’t expect him to.
“What color are your eyes?”
The silence stretches between us, just as heavy as the darkness. For a few long moments, I’m sure I’ve pissed him off and that he’s going to rush back over here to stab me. Before I can come up with an escape plan, however, his voice breaks the silence, sounding almost surprised as he says, “Green.”
I nod, even though he’s not looking at me. “Thank you.”
The silence continues, and his stillness, but then I see the silhouette of him shaking himself, and when he starts walking again, his steps are a little slower, like he doesn’t quite want to leave. “Good night, Scaredy Cat,” my stalker calls over his shoulder once he reaches the barn doors. “And remember, don’t go anywhere until you count to fifty for me.”
“I…I won’t,” I make myself say. “Scouts’ honor.” That earns me a snort, and seconds later he’s gone, vanishing into the complete darkness outside that also swallows up the sound of his footsteps and prompts me to start my mental countdown before I hop down and make my way to my car.
16
Even with theintention of sleeping in until at least noon—despite never having slept that late in my life—once seven am rolls around, my eyes feel like they’re being pried open and held there by some masochistic impulse in my brain.
“All I want to do is be lazy,” I grumble, but I’ve already thrown my feet over the side of the bed, and my heels are pressed to the faux-hardwood floor beside it. My toes curl against the hard, slick surface, and I reach up to run my fingers through my thick, auburn hair. God, I'm exhausted.
For a few seconds, I glare at my computer and my charging, color-changing headphones that pulse dimly in the early morning light. I could be productive now, write my article on Mill House, and take a break for a few hours before diving into admin work. That would make me feel accomplished, at least, and I wouldn’t feel so guilty for not doing much else with my day.
I deserve a day off.
My mind flickers back to the night before. To my stalker pinning me on my back, where Jeremy Lane killed his wife. It’s impossible for menotto remember his mouth between my thighs, and the way he coaxed my orgasm out of me like he did so a thousand times before.
It’s definitely not fair for him to be so good at that, or to magically know my body so well.
