Her scent hits me first, and I know it by heart. Vanilla mixed with coconut. My heart skips a beat, restless energy sparking under my skin, and I let out a low groan to fill the quiet.
She left the room a mess, and it makes my eye fucking twitch, but I push past the ache to clean because I feel like being a nosy bastard and looking through her things.
Her clothes are tossed over the chair in the corner: her ripped black jeans, her sexy little sheer tights, her distressed, oversized, grunge band tees, and her tiny tank tops that drive me crazy when she wears them. Her jewelry’s scattered across the dresser, tangled chains and chunky rings gleaming in the lamplight.
I pick up a silver Cuban link necklace, roll it between my fingers, then set it right back in the exact spot, because if she comes home and thinks I went through her stuff, I’ll never hear the end of it.
Turning around towards the bed, my eyes land on a sketchbook splayed open on the bed, pages full of half-finished tattoo designs; sharp lines, delicate shading, little flashes of the way her brain works.
I flip a page and whistle low. “Damn, dollface,” I mutter, tracing one of the designs with my finger.
Tossing the book back onto the comforter, I pace around the room. My chest feels tight because everywhere I look, it’s her; her mess, her sharp edges, her softness.
My girl bleeds into every corner of this place, and I can’t get enough of it.
Stopping in my tracks, my eyes land on a sheer black cloth. I walk over, crouching down in my closet where she shoved her things, running my fingers over the sheer fabric.Tucked half-under a hoodie in the back of the closet is a white mask with a black hood.
Cheap, plastic, and unmistakable.
Ghostface.
His face scares me, but fuck, why am I turned on about the thought of wearing this for her and chasing her?
I freeze, barking out a laugh, the sound bouncing off the walls. “Oh, baby,” I mutter, pulling it free. “You have no idea what you’ve just done.”
I hold it up, the hollow black eyes staring back at me. The memory flashes through my head; We were having a drink at Reed’s bar when I asked her about her favorite scary movie. She said Scream, told me that Ghostface was hot.
I’d nearly passed out.
Now, I’ve got the mask in my hands.
I tug it on, grinning behind the plastic, as I look at myself in the mirror. Black sweatpants hang low on my hips, loose enough to reveal the sharp definition of muscle at my waist. Every feature of me is exposed: broad chest, chiseled abs, tattoos running down my right arm.
Damn, I look hot as FUCK.
My pulse is already racing, my chest vibrating with adrenaline, because I know she’s due home any second.
I stalk downstairs, plant myself against the wall by the front hallway, and wait.
Oh, I’m going to have so much fun with this. She’s going to be a fucking puddle when she sees me looking so smoking hot.
The lock clicks, and my adrenaline spikes.
AHHHH.
I press my shoulder into the walland force myself to stand perfectly still, chest bare, the mask hiding the grin stretching across my face.
The door swings open.
She steps in, hair tousled, tattoos glowing under the soft hallway light, with her bag slipping off her shoulder. She looks exhausted, mumbling under her breath as she kicks the door shut with her boot.
She rummages through her bag as she slowly looks up, her eyes landing on me.
I’m so fucking hot, dollface, I know.
“Oh, what the fuck!?” she yells, her green eyes going wide. Her purse flies out of her hand—whack—bouncing off my chest, and before I can react, her tiny fist connects straight with my throat.
“Ghhkkk—fuck!”
