Chapter 15
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
HER
Iwatched him walk away, my lips tingling and my heart thumping in my chest, and pressed a fingertip to where I could still feel him on my mouth.
The skin plump and bruised. And the next thing I knew, I was following the path he’d taken up the stairs.
Down the hall, stopping in front of the bathroom.
The carpet was wet, tinged pink, and squished under my bare feet.
But I crept forward anyway. Pressing an ear to the door and listening as the pipes creaked and groaned when he turned on the shower, the spray hammering against the glass enclosure before it was muffled by something stepping in front of it.
Then the splashing of water. Cascading and dripping in all directions.
I didn’t know why I was so curious, why I was standing in the middle of my hallway instead of running out the front door.
Except I knew exactly why. I wasn’t afraid, and not because I didn’t think he would hurt me but because I didn’t care if he did.
Running was much more terrifying when you didn’t have anywhere to go, nowhere you’d rather be.
I took another step and the door seemed to shift with the movement, cracking open just enough to let me peek inside.
My attention glued to the image of him stroking himself.
The taut muscles of his arms flexing and bulging, his eyes closed and his free hand leaving a bloodied streak against the glass.
My bathroom was a crime scene in the making between the tub and the shower stall, and just like a crime scene, I couldn’t look away.
Each heavy breath making mine shorter, lighter, until I was gasping.
Each groan making me squeeze my thighs tighter together, my teeth nearly cutting through my bottom lip.
I always knew there was something wrong with me, some sexual dysfunction that left me averse to sex since…
just for as long as I could remember. Trauma-induced aversion, asexual, decreased libido, hypoactive sexual desire disorder…
Each therapist called it something different, likely thinking changing the label would change my mindset.
It didn’t. I accepted sex would never be for me, and I was fine with that.
You couldn’t miss what you never enjoyed in the first place.
Something was different now, though. Something shifted. Dr. Reagan would tell me it was the life-or-death experience, facing my mortality, if I were to tell her what I’d done. What I’d failed to do.
But I would never tell her. It wouldn’t matter if I did, because she’d be wrong. That wasn’t it. I wasn’t suddenly reinvigorated. I wasn’t struck dumb by the thought of dying.
I was enthralled by the idea of getting closer to it, as close as I could get to death.
Teetering over the ledge, not knowing or caring which way I would go.
Because both prospects were just as thrilling.
Like standing in the middle of traffic and waiting to see how long it would take for one of the cars to hit you.
And that’s who this man was. What he was. Death. I’d felt it when he kissed me. As warm as it was spine-chilling. I had one foot in the grave and one suspended over his shoulder until he decided to drop me.
I could also feel this pressure in my lower stomach (that was new) a flutter of something wet and warm and intoxicating as I continued to watch him.
The water droplets tracing the raised lines of his tattoos, the veins of his forearms—which I could hit with a needle from a mile away—the thick meat of his thighs.
I honestly didn’t know if I was even attracted to men before him.
But I was certainly attracted to this man.
To the piece of him he switched between cradling in his hand and choking the life out of it.
Twisting his thumb over the top before jerking his palm down again.
I was hypnotized. Frozen to the spot. As afraid of getting caught as I was unable to stop myself from peeking.
I was a freaking peeping Tom, one of those guys who peered into windows at night and watched unsuspecting women get undressed.
And as much as I knew it was wrong, I didn’t care.
I didn’t want this feeling to end, the intensity of actually feeling something.
Guilt was still better than the nothingness.
I could live with guilt. I had lived with it for such a long time, but I couldn’t live with nothing.
Before I realized what I was doing, my fingers were dipping into my PJ bottoms. Skimming over my lower abdomen, inching lower and lower.
My panties were soaked, covered in a way I’d never experienced alone or with anyone else.
I brushed my thumb over the outside of my labia, and my legs nearly gave out from under me when I accidentally grazed my clitoris.
I was more than turned on. I was close to freaking achieving orgasm.
What I thought one should feel like. I let out a small whimper, which had the man on the other side of the door snapping his neck in my direction.
His eyes meeting mine. Dark, unforgiving eyes.
Eyes of a murderer. Eyes I wanted above me as he did unspeakable things to my body.
Instead, he just kept staring, not moving his hand. I didn’t move mine either. Until he stepped out of the shower stall, stalked forward, and slammed the door closed in my face.