I’d done this before. I wasn’t some naïve virgin, waiting for my wedding night.
There was a part of me that needed this aspect of the arrangement done. Steven promised he would have proposed by fall. I knew I would have said yes then, since I’d said it now.
But there would’ve been more steps before the walk down the aisle. Like getting to know one another better—and sex.
I sipped the sickly-sweet bubbles and tapped the toe of my stiletto against the carpet. It took a bribe to gain access to the hotel room, then an hour to prep the space. Steven had no idea what was waiting for him. It could be a couple more hours, or thirty seconds before he walked through the door.
Candles, music, and booze set the stage. My costume was a black satin robe over a matching bustier and panty set that complemented the high heels. I was the actress, ready for my performance.
I hoped it was good.
I prayed we had chemistry.
Otherwise, it might be too late to back out of the wedding.
“But at least I’ll know,” I whispered.
And really? What was the worst thing that could happen? I would be responsible for my own orgasms for the rest of my life? Lots of women were.
I winced. Maybe I could train him. Admit how dark my fantasies could be? That was the best part about reading romance novels. They were literally a roadmap for couples to explore their wants, needs, and desires.
Plus, Steven already read some of the tamer books he knew I liked.
“So, it will be good,” I breathed.
Sitting on the coffee table, I dangled my heel in the air. The first day of trial went well. I was high on the feeling that this would be the showcase to set me up for the promotion. We had a strong case, and I’d been instrumental in finding a key precedent that gave us an edge.
The door to the hotel clicked. All thoughts of work snapped out of my head, and I leaned back, waiting for my body to thrum to life at the prospect of some good old-fashioned sex.
The anticipation didn’t come. The arousal didn’t flare hot. Nothing happened.
Well, that wasn’t exactly true.
Two figures pushed through the door. One was slumped over, arms dangling at his sides. Once they cleared the threshold, he was tossed like a sack of vegetables to the ground.
The other stood tall, claiming the room with one look as the door fell closed behind him.
His face was hidden behind a thin ski mask, which I couldn’t remember the proper name for right now, because I was too busy jumping to my feet with a stifled scream.
“What did you do?!” I pointed at my fiancé, who was face down and not moving.
The masked man tipped his head to the side, studying me from the narrow rectangle around his eyes. “Don’t you know better than to accept drinks from strangers at the bar?”
“Yes!” I wailed, scrubbing my hands through my hair.
“Apparently, he didn’t.” The masked man gave Steven a hard kick in the ribs.
I choked on a sob. What kind of mind-scrambling, psychological games did he have in store for me tonight? This was real. This was happening.
There were no sleeping pills, late nights, and copious amounts of alcohol to make me question reality. No vanished social media posts or deleted texts. I was positive that I wasn’t dreaming.
My fingers pinched the skin behind my neck…just to be sure.
The sting was undeniable.
The masked man—my very own stalker—was standing not ten feet away from me, and the energy that vibrated off him was a tangible threat.
“You don’t even look surprised,” he mused, voice soft. Seductive.Sinful.“Like some part of you knew I’d come.”
