And I do everything he tells me to. Slowly, deliberately, loving the way it makes his voice go ragged and his breath speed up. I become a breathless wreck too, whispering his name like a prayer.
But he doesn’t touch himself. Not once. I hear the raw need in his strained voice as he tells me I’m his good girl, so beautiful, so perfect. And yes, I might be a strong woman with my own agency, but I like hearing him say those words. Sometimes, they’re dirtier than the profanities he whispers as I arch my back from the mattress.
I don’t know why he keeps holding himself back, but his restraint makes me feral. It makes me tease him, more and more, testing his boundaries.
I end up getting myself so worked up thinking about it, that after lunch, I take a run on the beach, needing an outlet to work off this buzzing energy that rushes through me every time I hear his name.
It’s a warm fall day, the sun is high in the sky, but the temperatures have dropped from their summer high to a much more relaxing low sixties. I pull on my sneakers, swipe a hand over my messy bun, and step out of the lighthouse and head toward the cliff, taking the steps down to the golden beach below.
The beach is almost empty. The summer travelers – the out-of-towners, as the locals call them – are few and far between. It’s the quiet season, the lull between the summer crowds and the winter visitors looking for the kind of magic you only find during the holiday season.
I jog along the shoreline, trying to plan my next scene, but my mind keeps drifting to Asher. To the dirty things he whispered last night. Maybe I should just skip to the sex scene. Get it all out on the page.
Sometimes being a writer means you can fulfil all your fantasies, if only in your imagination.
The breeze from the ocean scrubs my skin, drying the perspiration on my face and neck. By the time I make it back to the lighthouse – three miles later – all I can think about is a long, scalding shower and a cool drink. Kicking off my running shoes, I drop my keys in the bowl by the front door and peel off my running gear, heading straight for the bathroom on the first floor.
The room is tiny. Small enough to fit a toilet, basin, and shower. Every room in this lighthouse was specially designedby Autumn. The shower is round with a little porthole window looking out over the ocean. The white tiles are in a brick-style, and there’s a built in bench with a wooden seat below the modern light-up rain style shower, which I turn on, closing my eyes and luxuriating beneath the firm spray.
It's heavenly. Hot enough to sting in all the right places, pounding against my skin like therapy. I lather up slowly, letting the suds slide down my thighs as the steam curls around the tiny room like a cat.
Then I hear a loud buzz.
I freeze, blinking water out of my eyes. Was that the doorbell? It can’t be, nobody ever rings the doorbell here. I don’t have any deliveries or packages, or even mail, coming here. It all goes to the hotel to be picked up at leisure.
I wipe my face with the palm of my hand, glancing at the bathroom door, but the sound doesn’t repeat. Maybe it was a mistake. Or the wind. Turning back to the shower, I rinse the shampoo from my hair, then reach for the conditioner.
And that’s when I see it.
A spider.
No, spider isn’t a good enough description. This thing is a massive, eight-legged monster dangling from the corner of the shower like it’s auditioning for a horror movie.
My heart immediately starts to pound. I can deal with dragons in my writing. With blood and gore and even snakes, when I have to.
But spiders are my nemesis. There’s a reason I have exactly zero of them in my books.
“Oh hell no,” I whisper, backing away. My hand grasps for the shower door, but I hit the bench instead. My calves catch on the wood, my feet skid forward, and I flail like a failing backup dancer before slamming my head against the glass.
Stars explode behind my eyelids as I land in an ungainly, compacted heap, on the shower floor.
And then I feel it.
A light, horrible tickle against my shoulder. The spider.
I open my mouth and unleash a scream so bloodcurdling it could shatter glass. What I don’t expect is for the spider to say anything.
But it does. It says my name. So clearly that I think I must be hallucinating – either dead or on my way there, and the road to hell is filled with arachnids.
“Francie?” it shouts again.
I thrash, trying to bat it away, and catch the blurry outline of the shower door as I scramble to my knees. The eight-legged demon is still winning. I’m soaked, disoriented, and naked, but I manage to push the door open, which gives way too easily, making me sprawl half-in and half-out of the cubicle like a slippery, shrieking disaster.
Then a bang echoes through the house.
The front door. It takes a second for me to register that someone is inside.
Footsteps thunder down the hallway, fast, heavy, and furious, and then the bathroom door crashes open.
