Page 1 of Wicked Fortune

ONE

The dream is always the same.

My parents have gone out, and I’m trapped in my own living room, held tight in the prison of the monster’s arms, my back pressed against his chest.

I whimper, but I don’t yell. I know the rules. The monster reminds me of them every time he comes. I’m eight and I know how to follow rules. I’m a good girl. I do what I’m told.

But I don’t want to do this at all.

I whimper again, and the arm around me tightens. My captor whispers words in his monster language, but I squeeze my eyes closed and try not to hear or feel or even exist.

It doesn’t work.

I don’t want to be here. Downstairs. This close to the monster.

I don’t want to be in the house at all.

Mommy says there aren’t really monsters. That there’s nothing bad hiding in my room or lurking under my bed.

She’s right about my room. But not about the monsters.

I open my eyes, and hot tears snake down my cheeks. “I want to go,” I whisper.

Except I don’t. I say it only in my head, because I’m not supposed to talk. He told me the rules. And when a monster gives you rules, you have to follow them.

I start to squeeze my eyes shut, and that’s when I see him.

My eyes go wide as I gape at the man. He’s dressed all in black, his body flattened into the shadows on the staircase. I don’t know him. I don’t even know the monster holding me. Not really. I only know Celia, my babysitter, who invited the monster into the house. Who brought him last time, too, and the time before that. She says it’s only a game, but I don’t like how he touches me. I don’t want to play that game again.

But this time, the Stair Man is here, and he’s looking toward me, and I don’t know what to do. I want to call out. Maybe the Stair Man will help me. But before I can yell, he puts a finger to his lips, and little tickles of hope dance in my belly.

I don’t let myself believe, though.

It happens fast, as things sometimes do in nightmares and memories. One minute the monster has me in his grip. The next, I’m clinging to the Stair Man as he uses bad words and a voice like a knife to tell Celia and the monster to get out. To go. And to never, ever come back.

The words are like music, and my body wants to burst from the warm wash of joy that spills through me when the icy terror finally slithers away.

Tears clog my throat as the Stair Man carries me up the winding staircase. “He won’t be back. Not ever.” The Stair Man’s voice isn’t sharp now. It’s as soft as Mr. Quack, the yellow stuffed toy I’ve had for as long as I can remember.

I cling to him, and that’s when the tears finally flow. Fear. Relief. A whole wash of emotion that feels too big for my small body.

The Stair Man makes shushing noises as he tucks me into bed with Mr. Quack, then whispers that it will be okay.

I believe him. Then he turns out my light and leaves, but I’m still not scared. He’s there, somewhere in the house. He saved me from the monster. He’ll stay to watch over me until my parents come home.

I roll over and try to sleep, but I can’t. My body aches. My breasts are swollen. I feel a needy pressure between my legs. I’m Aurora and I did sleep after all. I slept for years. I had to. How else could I catch up to the Stair Man?

I’m no longer in my little girl nightie. Now, I’m all grown up in a lacy camisole with matching panties. He’s with me, and I realize the Stair Man isn’t a Stair Man at all. He’s a cat, with feline cunning and grace. With eyes that see right through me, and a tongue that works magic on every inch of my body.

I try to see his face, but I can’t. Not really. No matter how hard I look, he’s always in soft focus. All I can see are deep green eyes and a taunting smile.

“Please,” I whisper. Those gorgeous eyes narrow, and I fear he’s going to ease away from me. That he’ll disappear from my bed, from the house, from this city. From me.

But then a flash of heat fires behind the green. I barely have time to breathe before his mouth finds mine. Before his hands are stroking me, undressing me.

His lips tease over my bare belly, sliding down until his tongue is dancing along the elastic of my panties, then lower and lower until I’m arching up. Until my hands are fisting in the sheets, and I’m trying not to scream as he brings my body to life, sending heat racing through me only to pool back between my legs until I’m shattering beneath him, crying out for him, gasping from the power of the orgasm that has almost broken me.

I reach for him, trying to pull him down. I’m weak with longing. Ridiculous with need. I feel as though I’ll die if he doesn’t ride me hard. If he doesn’t take me over again and again and again.