Page 180 of Dirty Discipline, Vol. 1

As I’m driving down the road, I unexpectedly see something glinting. A beam of sun hits a chrome surface in the shadows under some bushes. I know this place like my own pocket, and there’s nothing here that’s not rocks, trees, and moss. I halt, turn off the engine and kick down the support to go to investigate. Once I push apart the twigs, I see a bike I’d recognize anywhere.

Hers.

She is fucking close.

Too close… for her own good.

I spin around and look down the road, toward my cabin. Oh, you bad girl.

Keys pocketed, I let the bike stay. I’ll move quietly. I need to see how far she has taken this.

Thrill sizzles through me as I realize she’s been as aware of me as I’ve been of her. She stalked me to my home.

I hurry back with long steps as I wonder how many times she’s been here already without me noticing.

At the cabin everything appears undisturbed, and I hesitate. Am I wrong? Then I think of how easily she moves in the forest, never leaving traces, the undergrowth seemingly untouched. Of course, she’ll be just as discreet, illegally entering someone else’s home. How she doesn’t possess a better sense of self-preservation is beyond me, but I’ll take it.

There is only one door. The windows sit high on the walls at the sides and back of the house. She won’t escape.

The porch boards creak beneath my body weight. I hesitate and hold my breath while I listen. The next moment, I jolt as music suddenly comes on inside. A slow, sexy blues, a lonesome guitar sliding the scales, almost weeping of loneliness and lost opportunities. My life in a song.

Fuck. She’s got some nerve, but it makes this a whole lot easier. I pull open the door and glide in, closing and locking it behind me as sweet-hot adrenaline trickles through my chest, moving lower to settle raw arousal in my loins. Suddenly, the music stops. It’s silent. So silent I think she’s heard me, then there’s a slight thud and she begins to hum. I’m not sure if I should be amused or annoyed, or fucking pissed, even. This chick is snooping through my private property while happily humming as if nothing’s wrong. Who taught this girl right from wrong? Oh, I know. No one. I wouldn’t expect anything else from her hare-brained mom, and then living sheltered, moving from state to state. No wonder she’s more wild than tame.

Which gives me an irresistible idea.

I don’t give a fuck about the stuff inside. Some clothes, a few books, a few utensils for cooking. The actual valuable things I have—bank stuff, memorabilia, and so on—lie in a safe back in L.A. And I haven’t even thought about those in years.

But she doesn't know that.

I reach behind me, unlock and open the door slightly, then slam it shut again, making sure to lock it. The humming stops. I grin as I, as noisily as I can, pull off my boots and toss them aside. Leather jacket hung up, I then saunter inside to search for my nosy little rascal.

A quick overview of the living room indicates no one. I kneel and check under the couch. Nothing. Kitchen is tiny, and there’s no hiding space inside the cupboards. This leaves closets, bathroom, and bedroom. My smirk spreads as I find no one in neither closets nor bathroom. I head to the bedroom, excitement threading through me. She’s trapped herself completely.

It’s my turn to hum, but I only do it for the effect, to temporarily make her think she’s safe.

Then I look under the bed, grinning on the inside while I put my most stern expression on my face. Her eyes widen and she gives out a little squeak.

“Who the hell are you?”

I reach for her, but she scrambles back and appears on the other side.

“Please. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—”

“Now, how can you not mean breaking into a man’s house?”

She blushes. “I…”

“I?”

“I’m…”

“I’m?” I repeat, the taunt dripping. “Do you know what I do to little girls who break and enter?”

She shakes her head, mute.

“Come here.” I crook a finger and beckon her to me.”

“No.”

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