Page 34 of She Gives Love a Bad Name

But when he returned, I heard him. His low moan drew me to the door. From this angle, I could see him on the sofa. A peek through the crack made my heart stop—Grant with his hand wrapped around his cock, his head thrown back in tormented ecstasy.

A gasp lodged in my throat. My mouth watering, I watched, frozen like a statue as he stroked himself. My arousal grew with every soft moan. Grant came, his satisfied groan echoing in the small space.

How I wanted to go to him. To tease him. To make him come again...this time at my persuasive touch.

Without acting on my impulses, I returned to bed and buried myself beneath the sheets. My heart beat loud in my ears.

Even though I was frustrated with him, I couldn’t throw myself at him in a desperate attempt to ease the ache between my thighs. Instead, I slid my fingers along my slick folds and urged myself to a quick but unsatisfying completion while imagining Grant’s impressive cock pushing into me.

When I woke, the apartment was empty. Of course, it was.

For the past four days, he’s left me to fend for myself. I cleaned the whole apartment out of pure boredom, music blasting from MTV the first two days. Yesterday, I lost myself in endless hours of daytime drama on television.

He always comes home just after I’ve eaten and fallen asleep. He must have some kind of sixth sense. I tried waiting up last night but fell asleep on the couch. He did wake me when he came home, but if I had confronted him then, I would’ve made an ass of myself climbing him like a needy little kitten.

Part of me wants to resent him for abandoning me to the confines of his apartment and my own devices. Even though I know I’m safe, I hate feeling trapped and isolated. No one knows where I am. Or if I’m even alive.

A shiver wracks me. Must be the guilt sliding along my spine at the thought of my roommates freaking out when they realize I’m not coming home. Have they reported me missing yet? I wish I could send them a message to let them know I’m okay, not to worry. But there’s little chance Grant will let me talk to anyone.

There’s no way the killer identified me. Right? He can’t possibly know who I am. The police haven’t named me as a person of interest...have they?

I turn on the morning news. The old man’s murder is the lead story on every network. There’s a ton of speculation but nothing substantial. No leads. Curiously, there’s not a single mention of a witness.

Is Grant keeping me a secret?

Chewing on my nail, I watch for a few minutes before changing to another station. After an hour, I’m certain of it. Grant hasn’t revealed he has a witness to the murder of Lionel Madison.

That means the murderer and Grant are the only two people who know I was there.

The realization strikes like a lightning bolt. I really am safe here, even if he leaves me alone all day to fend for myself.

A knock at the door makes me jump three feet off the couch. Clutching my hand to my heart, I peel myself from the sofa and cautiously approach the door.

“It’s Claude.” He pauses, and I hear him shift. “I’d unlock the door with my key, but my hands are full.”

After my heart resumes its normal rhythm, I unlock the deadbolt and open the door.

“Morning.” Claude shifts the box in his arm and smiles before crossing the threshold.

“Good morning.” I close the door behind him.

“What’s that?” I reach for the box, but he pulls it away and heads for the kitchen.

He sets it on the counter before facing me. His grin is infectious and instantly brightens my mood. “Groceries. I need to make sure you’re not dying from neglect.”

I lean against the kitchen counter. “How chivalrous of you.”

Claude shrugs and reaches into the box. “I also brought you some books.”

“Please tell me it’s Stephen King’s newest one.”

“It’s notSkeleton Crew, but good to know I brought something you like.” He hands me copies ofThe Dark TowerandThe Talisman. I snatch them from his grip and hug them to my chest.

“You’re a fucking godsend.” Cradling the books, I stroke the spines with reverence. “I haven’t read these yet.”

“They’re pretty good.” Claude shoves his hand in his pocket. “I love Stephen King.”

“Me too.” I set the books aside with a loving glance at the covers before turning to the groceries in the box. “Which one is your favorite?”

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