Chapter 8
When the door is shut, I press my back against the wood surface and remind myself to breathe normally. Meanwhile, Kraken scrambles off the couch to come twine herself around my legs and let out pitiful meows I’ve yet to learn the meaning of.
They better not be requests to see her daddy.
Daddy. Ugh.
Sammy Reyes knows what I look like. He knows where I live.
I bet the guy could do a quick search and find out what my real name is.
What would he do with it?
Well, an asshole would find out where I work during the day, realize that my nights at The Jewelry Box would get me fired from said day job, and proceed to blackmail me into doing whatever he wanted.
I won’t let him.
But the second after that panicked scenario and furious response play through my head, they drift away.
The idea of Sammy threatening me seems so outlandish.
Is this me giving him a hot guy pass?
Our society tends to go easy on traditionally attractive people when they do shitty things. Like showing up uninvited at the house of a woman he barely knows.
Is that what I’m doing?
No. I don’t think so. It’s not Sammy’s panty-dropping face that has me dismissing blackmail as a possibility.
His actions don’t track with that dark response. The way he talks to me, the way he messages me, all come off as light-hearted. I’ve rejected Sammy plenty, but he’s never gotten pissed off about it. Never gotten surly or vindictive.
Maybe a little pouty, but even that has an air of playfulness.
Nothing the guy has done or said up to this point gives me asshole vibes.
But that doesn’t mean I’m ready to hand over my social security number to the Squid. I was just starting to get comfortable sharing innocent texts with him about Kraken. Only began to consider making eye contact with him once his ban from the club ran out. I thought I might even be generous and say hello to him in person.
I was not prepared to meet him on my front stoop.
Especially not with him dressed in jeans, work boots, and a tight blue Henley. Sammy looked ready to work on the construction site he claimed to own next door.
And damn the gods, that look worked for him as well, or even better than, the business wear he normally has on at the club.
Kraken meows another plaintive wail I decide means, “Feed me, bitch!”
“Fine. Fine,” I mutter. “I’ll fill your bowl.”
For a tiny fluffy ball, she goes through a good chunk of food every day.
After dumping kitty kibble in her dish and refreshing her water, I unpack my groceries and try not to imagine Sammy Reyes sweating in the heat of the day. I definitely don’t picture the way his golden-brown hair would drip with perspiration, or how his shirt would cling to his salty, damp skin when he tried to drag it off at the end of the day.
After a few deep inhales, I realize I’ve been standing at my kitchen sink, staring at the sponge for far too long as my mind made up tantalizing scenarios about the sexy, intrusive Squid.
Fuck the Water Elemental for getting me wet.
The space between my legs suddenly feels achy and tender, and I’m reminded how long it’s been since I had sex. A few years now. After college, I kind of lost interest. Once I decided I would fuel my magic without the help of a romantic partner, the urge to search for one faded away.
I still touch myself plenty, but it’s been a few days since that, too.
Kraken is wholly focused on her food, so I leave her alone in the kitchen and close the door to my bedroom.
I just need to take the edge off. If I’m not horny, then I won’t think about him in any capacity.
I can forget him and get a jumpstart on Monday’s emails.
In the bottom drawer beside my bed, I keep a small collection of vibrators. Different kinds to add a little variety to my nonexistent sex life.
Briefly, I consider the large blue one, knowing the clit sucker will get me to a fast explosive orgasm. But I’ve also screamed a time or two when finishing that way, and I don’t want to risk being so loud that a certain Squid across the street hears.
Fucking hell dimensions. He’s not even a minute walk away. He can probably see my bedroom window from that vacant lot—though not inside since I have the curtains drawn against the heat of the sun.
Still, knowing he’s right there, wanting me, spikes the arousal in my body. I grab a simple vibrating wand and toss it on my bed. Stripping fast, I climb onto my mattress and shove a pillow between my legs as I kneel. Then I start my toy, close my eyes, and treat myself to illicit fantasies of Sammy Reyes.
I pretend I forgot to close my curtains. That he wanders over and spies me through the glass. That he braces his hand on the windowsill and unzips his fly with the other, pulling out a hard cock that’s leaking for me.
A groan spills out of my throat, and I turn up the speed of the vibrator.
“You love to watch me, don’t you?” I whisper to the imaginary man but knowing it’s true of the real one. His lust finds its way to me on the stage every Tuesday.
But he doesn’t know that I like to watch, too.
My hips rock, and in my mind, I make his hand move faster on his ruddy dick.
Goddess, if he pulled it out in the club while lounging in the VIP section, I wouldn’t even think to call security on him. I’d probably forget to dance and crawl to the edge of the stage so I could get a closer look.
I’m fucked up, both wanting him to respect my privacy, but also wanting him panting after me.
But this is my imagination, so I push morals aside.
“Show it to me,” I mutter, as if Sammy can hear me, and in my fantasy he does, slipping his other hand into his pants to pull out his balls and palming them along with his hard strokes.
The heated, frustrated need in my body tenses into an almost unbearably tight bundle.
Then I remember his delighted grin when he stood in front of me moments ago.
I break apart with a whimpered moan, pleasure mixed with confusion shuddering through my body.
Why do thoughts of him do this to me?
But I try not to let guilt come into my mind as I ride the last waves of my orgasm. I won’t shame myself for what turns me on.
But that doesn’t mean I want it to be real.
Right?