Page 10 of One
Chapter 3
MICHAEL
An hour later, I’m inside the shop at the corner of my apartment block. My eyes swipe up and down the chips aisle in search of the extra-large bag of sour cream and onion flavor—can’t do series marathons without proper junk food. Two bottles of ginger ale are already in my red basket, with a bag of M&M’s. I’m followed by Mr. Polinisky’s hawk-like gaze. The many mirrors strategically positioned around the convenience store help him keep an eye on the customers while remaining behind the counter. He has grey bushy eyebrows, a round belly, and a permeant suspicious expression on his gruff face.
I hear the ringing sound of the bell over the door announcing a new customer. I’ve finally found my chips and am tossing a couple of bags in the basket when I feel eyes on me. And I’m not talking about the Polish owner’s. I look up and spot the slightly distorted image of a man on one of the round mirrors. He’s wearing a black jacket as dark as his hair. The stylish grey sunglasses prevent me from knowing what he’s staring at. But the uneasy sensation of being watched is still making the hair on my forearms stand. Just as I’m about to walk toward the counter he appears in front of me.
He’s pulled the sunglasses off and his eyes are the greenest ones I’ve ever seen. His stare roams over my face… greedily, and a weird sensation hits me for a second. But it goes away quickly when I notice his plump lips, smooth olive skin, high cheekbones, and perfectly styled wavy hair. He looks familiar, and is the most beautiful man I’ve ever seen. And judging by his glamorous, casual biker style clothes, a rich Mr. Hottie as well.
The jacket is definitely made from lamb skin—if that’s even a thing—and his soft-looking light-wash jeans and expensive brown boots give him a bad boy vibe. Fashion is the last thing on my mind, but I can distinguish a pair of high-priced boots from Target ones. He’s standing there like Hamlet’s father. Still staring unblinkingly, his deep, serious gaze wanders over my features, making me feel a smidge self-conscious.
I kick my eyebrow up at him in a silent ‘what is it?’,since words are stuck in my throat. But he remains silent, that extremely acute look zeroed in even tighter on me.
“Can I help you?” My tone is a bit condescending, but his deep scrutiny is unsettling me.
His eyes slide down over my open brown jacket, light blue polo, and khaki pants in such an intense way that has me, and my neglected cock, obviously take notice. He’s very handsome, and I’m only human.
Mr. Hottie finally opens his mouth. “Are you a serial killer?” There’s not a hint of hilarity on his face.
My mouth goes slack, but I’m still able to utter a, “What?”
I’mthe serial-killer? He’s the one crowding my personal space, measuring me up like… prey. And, crazily, I don’t move away.
“Your clothes.” He gestures at them, and my head lowers down to fucking look. Again, fashion is not high on the list of essential things in my life. But being compared to a damn serial killer? WTF?
“Would I admit that if I was?” I reply sassily, tangled with annoyance. And there’s nothing wrong with my… okay, slightly boring clothes.
He cocks his head in an almost animalistic, curious way. His jade eyes study me closely. “Probably not. But serial killers are usually eager to… share their work.” Why does every word he’s saying sounds like it’s a double entendre? Because I’m fucking sick.
Wait. Is he a cop? No, too high-class. A serial killer aficionado? That doesn’t scare me as much as it should. “Touché.”
“Oh, I will.” He bites his lower lip and gives me a blazing look, like I’m a piece of juicy steak he wants to sink those teeth into.
What’s happening? I didn’t just imagine that, right? “Pardon me?”
Displaying his perfect white teeth, he suddenly smiles, but it looks more predatory than anything else.
“You must know your haughty voice is boner-inducing. You’re flirting with me.”
He takes a step forward and I feel like I’m on an episode of The Twilight Zone—the one where the human is abducted and fucked all night by an alien. Yes, please.
“Come again?”
“Mmm, not yet. But I will make you again, and again, and… again,” he says deliberately slowly. His sensual purring makes me shiver. Desire like I’ve never felt before runs down my spine, but I hope I’m good enough at hiding it behind a trembling smirk. I move the plastic basket in front of my growing dick, placing it in the small space between us.
“D-does that line ever work?” I scoff. I already know it does, because it’s fucking working on me. But although I’m not against one-night stands with gorgeous, charming dudes, I still don’t want to be too easy. Look too eager. His hand grabs the shelf near my head, and he comes impossibly closer, pushing his body against my basket more forcibly. I feel the sting of the metal handle sinking into my hip.
“Can’t conceal the hunger in your eyes.” He smirks back, and damn that crooked tilt of his lips must have hooked and sunk into a lot of prey. Me included. But I’ll try to keep this unfazed pretense for a few more minutes…seconds. My pride is, unfortunately, demanding it. “Or hide the hard interest inside those horrific pants of yours,” he continues.
His hand grabs my wrist, and, at the contact, fucking sparks rush down my arm. His eyes bore into mine, taking my breath away. His grip tightens, and I know something is about to happen between us when somebody yells, “Don’t you fucking move!”
My body turns stiff as a board and I tilt my head to the left, looking at the person standing behind Mr. Hottie’s muscular shoulders. There’s a man with a nylon stocking stretched over his face, which makes his nose oddly flat and his features impossible to detect. And he’s holding a gun. He keeps waving it between us and Mr. Polinisky, who’s still behind the counter.
“Hands up,” he then orders us. The bushy owner begrudgingly lifts his heavy palms near his head, while Mr. Hottie has yet to move. His body is still facing me, giving his back to the robber. He only turns his head toward him. I can see an annoyed expression on the perfect profile of his face.
“Are you deaf? Hands up!” the robber yells at us, making me flinch.
His voice is muffled by the nylon wrapping his face, but I can understand him well. I try to shake off the fear that floods me, just enough to place the basket on the floor and raise my hands. But Mr. Hottie’s grip on my wrist has tightened, and I’m able to lift only one palm up. He turns slowly toward the robber, keeping his body partly in front of mine. One of his hands goes up, while the other slides down to lace his fingers through mine. And although the gesture is too intimate for two perfect strangers, it’s also comforting.
