My eyes followed the slow, deliberate path of her movements. She worked one button at a time until it was completely opened in the front. She turned her back to me then, taking her arms out of the shirt and letting it fall to the floor. The fabric slid off her shoulders like she was shedding the polite version of herself, the one who said please and thank you. It was playing out just like it had last night. Then she unbuttoned and unzipped her jeans,slowly, before stepping out of them on the floor. She was taking her time. This time she left her bra on, but instead traced her hands down her own body, fingers catching the waistband of her underwear. She tugged them as she walked towards the window, and she didn’t hurry. Her hips rolled, lazy, like she knew I was tracking every inch and wanted me to feel how far away she really was, how untouchable.
And then the light vanished. Curtains drawn with a sharp, efficient sweep of her hands.
“Fuckyou,” I snapped before I realized I’d said it. The word ripped out of me, raw, dragged over gravel. I was used to having control over my mouth, my hands, my trigger. She took all three like it was nothing.
My breaths came short, and I pressed my thumb into the side of my jaw until it hurt. It didn’t help.
She was playing with me. How was this the same girl that only hours ago had been terrified for her life? How stupid did youhave to be toteasethe guy you thought might still want to kill you?
The burner phone was already in my hand before I could second-guess myself. She picked up after two rings.
“Hello?” Her voice was soft with feigned innocence, dripping down the line like honey.
“What are you doing?” I asked. My voice sounded wrong in my own ears, frayed at the edges.
Her voice was soft, almost amused. “You watching again?”
“Yes,” I said, and the word felt bigger than the context, heavier. “Always.”
“Is everything okay? You sound…” she trailed off, invitation hanging there.
“You’re really gonna do this?” My voice was gravel and heat. “You know I was watching you. What kind of game are you playing at, here?”
“You didn’t have to watch. I was just getting comfortable.”
She sounded so confident when she wasn’t an arm’s length away, like the distance emboldened her. The phone gave her cover. Made her braver.
I gripped my thigh with one hand, muscle bunching under my fingers, trying to ground myself in something that wasn’t her.
“Hey,” she said, her own voice taking on the same edge as mine.
“Yeah?”
“Look.”
I peered back over the wall at the window, rising just enough to see over the concrete, my muscles coiled tight. She had opened the curtain again. The sight hit me like a recoil. The room was dark now, so her body was silhouetted by the glow of something. A night light, television, or a fishtank, maybe. Something faint and blue. She looked like she was underwater.
She had taken her bra off sometime between me calling and now. For a second, my brain blanked; training, instinct, everything white-noised by the clean, unapologetic line of her. She was soft where my world was hard, and it made my mouth go dry. Her head tilted to the side, pinning the phone between her shoulder and her ear as she slid the underwear down her hips, slowly enough that I knew it was for me. I adjusted my position, tension crawling up my spine. My jeans felt too tight, every inch of me strained and coiled.
“You’re playing a dangerous game,” I said quietly.
“You said I should trust you. I can, can’t I?”
She was baiting me. I knew it. I hated how much it was working. How weak it made me feel to have my composure yanked out from under me by a girl with shaking hands and more courage than sense.
I tried to tell myself I needed to just look away, but I couldn’t.
Her voice dropped to a whisper that poured straight into my ear. “Are you hard right now, Halo?”
The question hit me like a strike to the ribs. I had been interrogated, tortured, shot at. No one had ever managed to peel me open likethis. I’m rarely at a loss for words, but I had to convince myself that she had actually asked me that.
“Answer me.”
I leaned back against the wall, heart knocking against my sternum. My hand dropped to my thigh again, then lower, palm grazing the tense, honest proof pressing against my jeans.
She didn’t need an answer. Not a verbal one.
A soft breath from her – the smallest exhale – slid through the line. It landed like approval.
