Gemma slips behind the kit, and I slide my stool back as she steps in front of me. And when she sinks to her knees, I gulp.
“What can I do?” she asks, her hands cupping around my calf muscle.
I groan when she starts massaging the sore limb. “This is a start.”
A gleam of silver catches my eye when she smiles, and my eyes widen.
“You put in your tongue rings,” I notice.
Her brows flicker in an agreeable motion. “Honestly, they were going to close up if I didn’t,” she says. “Good timing.”
I want to laugh; however, her hands working my legs turns my smile into a curse. I brace my hands on the stool and lean back, trying to keep my happy noises in check.
“Do you know what you can do for me?” I say after a few minutes.
“What?”
“You can take me on that date,” I say.
I swear her cheeks darken with a blush, and she chuckles nervously. “What—you want a long walk on the beach? Candlelight picnic with flower petals scattered around the sand?”
“That actually sounds nice,” I say, grinning.
“Well, I’m glad you approve because that’s what I did,” she says.
Her gaze lifts to meet mine, and I tilt my head in a questioning way. “What?”
She takes my hands into hers, stands, and leads me toward the glass sliding door that opens up to the ocean-front balcony.
There’s a blanket on the sand near the surf line. Candles are scattered not just on the blanket, but in random places on the sand. A basket sits on the blanket, and everywhere I look, random flowers dot the ground.
Gemma’s body brushes against mine from behind, and I feel my eyes flutter at the warm proximity.
“Aw, you like me,” I say, leaning slightly into her.
Her nose brushes my cheek, lips land softly on my skin.
“Obsessed with you.”
My breaths shorten at the whispered, raspy way she says it, halfway convinced she could speak in my ear like that and make me orgasm within seconds. I’m dumbfounded at how, with such little motion, she has me thinking about that mask scratching my face… how I succumbed to her shadow so easily—how I want to concede now.
My knees weaken, eyes close.
It’s her.
Every time I think about it, my anger wanes a little more. Honestly, I’m more thankful that my stalker wasn’t some random stranger out to get me.
That’s fucked up, yet I don’t care. With her, all the usual creepy things don’t seem so bad.
I turn around to face her, and when I do, I stammer at the sight of her leaning through the threshold, strong arms flexing as her fingertips grip the frame above her head. Her dilated hazel eyes wander deliberately over me, and I flex my knees to stay upright.
Fucking hell.
This is pathetic, isn’t it?Is this normal?
I can’t even find my way out of her stare, and I’m not sure I want to. I’ll stay in this pit if it means I don’t have to worry about the outside world invading my space.
“Do you want to shower first?” she asks, straightening slightly.
