She can’t…
What did she just call me?
“What?” I breathe, though the words sound like they belong to someone else.
Her laugh sounds from beneath the mask once more. I can’t take my eyes away from the bodysuit, the red wig, the way she’s creasing her fingers on my thighs in a claiming way.
How did she recognize me?
She reaches her gloved hand to my cheek, and this time, I suck in a jagged, unexpected breath. The brush of her fingersignites my skin. I swear the air is somehow thinner knowing she isn’t just some stranger.
It’s her.
It’s fuckingher.
My goddamn stalker.
God, I can’t breathe.
Is that cold sweat on my forehead? Why is the room spinning?
It’sher.
“Did you think I wouldn’t know you in this pitiful little excuse of a costume?” she asks deliberately, twirling my hair around her finger.
I don’t know how to reply.
Because somewhere buried deep within me is an excitement brewing beneath the fear, and I wonder if I was hoping for this. The thought of her being in the crowd never even crossed my mind tonight even though I should have known it would be a perfect opportunity.
Though, I can’t say it would have stopped me from doing exactly this.
It’s her.
God, it’s her.
She leans closer, and air wholly escapes me as I close my eyes. The points on her mask rake over my cheek, the scratch making the hair on the back of my neck stand. My mouth drops. I inhale her scent, hoping to catch something distinguishable, yet it’s masked by sex and sweat.
Still, somewhere in my memory, I remember cinnamon. Passed out in the passenger seat, the hum of the sports car engine vibrating beneath me.
I haven’t been this close to her since that night.
“My Bedlam… I’d know you in complete darkness,” she tells me. “The smell of your hair, the shape of your body, the gripof your fingers, the way you sway your hips… You’re mine, Rockstar.All mine.No one will ever know you the way I do.”
I try to gulp down the lump in my throat, but I’m paralyzed.
Because I know she’s right about at least one thing: she does know me better than anyone else.
If my dead body was mangled and lying in a morgue, she’d be the only true person able to identify me. It might be by a fraction of skin, a strand of hair, a single nail… She has me memorized. I’m imprinted on her soul just as she is on mine, as sick and dark and twisted as that reality might be.
I should be running, pushing her away, shouting for help, and screaming danger.
Yet, it’s all I can do to draw my next breath.
“I’ll be seeing you,” she whispers.
And as she releases me, as she turns and stalks her way to the door, leaving me sitting on the cold bathroom counter spent and confused and sweating with arousal and horror, I try to keep myself steady, to not shake and bend and break the way my insides want to.
Did I seriously just fuck my stalker?
