But she won’t get far.
I won’t let her.
An hour later, I’m standing in front of her apartment with a baseball cap on, a knife in my pocket, and lockpicks in hand.
My pulse is thrumming with excitement, adrenaline flooding my veins. The anticipation is almost too much to bear. It takes every ounce of self-control not to break down the door and fuck her into submission.
No, this has to be done right.
This has to be done perfectly.
When the lock clicks, I slip inside, the darkness swallowing me whole. The apartment is quiet, the air heavy and still. I move silently, the familiarity of the space heightening my senses.
I’ve spent so much time here. In her life. In her head.
I creep down the hallway to pause outside her bedroom. The door is cracked open, the light spilling through. Geneva is sitting on her bed with a glass of wine in her hand, staring at a computer screen like she wants to murder it. I almost laugh. She’s so adorable when she’s pissed.
When Geneva shifts on the bed, I duck into the hallway bathroom and wait for her to pass me. She does, making her way to the kitchen, presumably to refill her wine glass. Leaving the bedroom empty.
I slip inside, my heart pounding as I step into her personaldomain. It’s been a while. A quick scan reveals the usual items. A rumpled bed, a pile of books, a laptop, and that stuffed elephant which means a lot to her.
I walk to her nightstand, reaching out to stroke the soft fur. There’s something about the way she clutches it when she sleeps, like a child holding on to a security blanket. It’s oddly endearing, especially coming from a strong woman like her.
Her soft footsteps reach me, and I quickly duck into the closet, leaving the door cracked so I can watch her.
She’s back a moment later, her glass full and her gaze fixed on the computer screen. She doesn’t notice me. Yet.
Her sultry voice hits the air, and my dick gets hard. It’s Pavlov’s Theory; Geneva has trained my cock.
“Psychopathy is a condition defined by control,” she says.
I smile, watching her from the shadows as her voice carries through the room. The way she speaks—articulate, controlled, so damn authoritative—it makes my pulse race. The wine in her glass trembles in her hand, a faint, telling sign that she’s not as composed as she wants to be.
“Psychopaths thrive in environments where they can exploit weakness. They adapt, manipulate, and control with alarming precision,” she says, reading aloud.
Talk dirty to me.
Geneva pauses, her lips pressing into a thin line. The silence stretches, and then she exhales, taking a generous sip before setting the wine glass down on the nightstand.
She runs her fingers along the edge of her laptop absentmindedly, and I notice the subtle shift in her body. The way her shoulders relax. The way she presses her thighs together.
She’s not thinking about the keynote anymore.
My smirk fades, replaced by something darker. I lean forward, the crack in the closet door just wide enough for me to catch the flush creeping up her neck.
Oh, Doc. What are you thinking about?
She tilts her head back, closing her eyes for a moment. I don’t miss the way her breathing changes. It’s slower, heavier. She grips the comforter and her lips part on a groan. Of sexual frustration.
Heat coils low in my stomach, and my cock hardens painfully. I know what’s going through her mind. It’s written all over her.
She’s thinking about me.
At least, she better fucking be.
Geneva shifts, sliding her hand down to her pussy, and I bite back a groan. A shudder of pleasure ripples through her, and I catch a soft sound, a barely audible sigh that makes my blood roar in my ears.
That’s right, Geneva. Keep going. Don’t you fucking stop.
