I watched him through the steamed-up glass door as he slid the soap over his chest. His abs. His hips.
Then…he touched himself.
Slow at first. Then faster.
I should’ve left.
But I couldn’t. I was fixated on how he handled his cock. How it grew in his hand.
When his hand started jerking hard, I gasped, and he turned, catching me spying on him. He just grinned and kept on going, but I panicked and bolted.
I’d never told anyone.
But he’d ruined me that summer. No guy had ever lived up to Sage Lockwood. I would daydream about him kissing me, of me touching him like he’d touched himself in the shower.
No man since then had lit me up like he had. Because it was alwayshimI saw when I kissed someone. Those dark eyes. That raw power.
I had never thought another man could have that effect on me. He was an illusion, after all. A fantasy I’d built up inside my head.
But now? There was another shadow in my brain.
Mr. Man in Black.
His eyes had blazed beneath that scowl, sending fire to my core and tingles between my legs. Apparently, “dangerous badass” was my type. I found myself wanting a possessive alpha male like the ones I’d been reading about in my books.
Lord help me if I was ever actually taken by a man who feared nothing, least of all torturing a woman with the darkest of pleasures.
Why did he look at me like that?
Like I’d already been claimed.
My thighs clenched, heat pooling low in my belly.
What was wrong with me?
I’d just watched a man get murdered, inches from my face.
And here I was, fantasizing about my high school crush…and some mafia man who oozed violence and domination.
Sleep finally began to drag me under, messy and slow.
In the twilight between reality and dreams, he was there.
Watching.
Always watching.
The aroma of coffee hit me first.
Not freshly brewed. Old, dark roast. Strong. Comforting.
Glancing at the clock, I blinked against the light and sat up, groggy. My body ached like I’d been hit by a bus, and even though I’d slept until noon, I didn’t feel rested. I’d spent most of the night tossing and turning, waking every so often unsettled.
The worst dream had come right before dawn.
The man from the club who had run up onstage and tackled me had a gun in his hand this time. He pointed it at my chest. I tried to wriggle out from under him, but my legs were pinned beneath his bulk. I could see the bullet coming in slow motion, the way some people who’d been shot claimed they could—and then he was gone. Ripped away. The man in black yanked the gun away and shot him point-blank in the head. Then he scooped me up like I weighed nothing and started running. He ran and ran, but I didn’t know where. I woke up before we got anywhere.
The smell of coffee called my name.
