7. Marie
7
MARIE
The shower scalds my skin, but I let it.
It feels good to stand under the hot spray, washing away the fear, the adrenaline, the dirt, and the grime of the night. I scrub harder than I need to, as though if I just work at it long enough, I can erase the lingering shakiness in my legs and the tightness in my chest.
Crow is gone. The guys made sure of that.
The thought brings a strange mixture of relief and longing. Relief because I’m safe. Because my dad hugged me so tightly when I came up to him outside that I thought he might never let go. Because Sam, Hugo, and Trick followed me home and didn’t leave until my dad had checked every lock on every door twice.
But longing…because of them.
The way they stepped in without hesitation, the way Sam’s fists flew, the way Hugo held me against his chest like I was something precious, the way Trick smiled even in the heat of the fight—it’s everything I’ve ever dreamed of.
And that’s the problem.
I rest my forehead against the shower tile, letting the water beat against my back as my mind spirals. Because tonight wasn’t a fantasy. It was real. Too real.
I’ve spent years turning them into characters in my stories, twisting the rough, untouchable edges of Sam, Trick, and Hugo into the kind of men who leap off the page. Men who would burn the world down for the women they love. Men who are confident, reckless, passionate, and loyal to a fault.
But tonight, they didn’t just feel like the men in my stories. They were.
Sam’s steady voice as he demanded answers from Crow. Hugo’s unwavering strength as he kept me close. Trick’s boldness, his refusal to take the situation too seriously even when things got dangerous. They were my dreams come to life.
And as much as I hate to admit it, that’s what’s been stuck in my head since I got home. Not the fear, not the danger, but the way they looked at me. The way they made me feel. Like I was theirs.
“Marie? You okay?”
My dad’s voice pulls me out of my thoughts, and I jump slightly, shutting off the water. “Yeah, Dad,” I call back, loud enough for him to hear through the door. “I’m fine.”
“Just checking,” he says, his voice softening. “Take your time, sweetheart.”
I listen to his footsteps fade down the hall, guilt tugging at me. My dad’s been hovering since the second I got home, his worry etched into every line of his face. I hate that I scared him, hate that I let myself get into a situation where someone had to rescue me. I hate even more that some part of me…loved being rescued.
Sighing, I step out of the shower, wrapping a towel around myself and heading to my room. My laptop is sitting on the desk in the corner, exactly where I left it, and just the sight of it makes my fingers itch to write.
But not yet.
I dry off, pull on a pair of soft pajama shorts and an oversized T-shirt, and sit cross-legged on the edge of my bed. My hair is still damp, but I don’t care. My mind is racing, my thoughts colliding with each other in a way that’s impossible to untangle.
I try not to think about how they looked tonight—Sam’s busy hands and sharp jaw, Hugo’s quiet intensity, Trick’s easy grin—but it’s useless. They’re burned into my mind, just like they’ve always been.
I’ve wanted them for as long as I can remember, and it’s not the kind of desire that fades. They’re the reason I started writing in the first place.
When I was sixteen and still in Boston, I wrote my first romance novel on a whim. It was terrible—clunky dialogue, stiff characters, a plot that fell apart halfway through—but it didn’t matter. What mattered was how it felt to write it. How it felt to take the pieces of my impossible crush and weave them into something tangible.
I turned Sam into Smith, a brooding firefighter with a heart of gold. Hugo became Hudson, a ruthless and wealthy businessman who would do anything to protect the people he cared about. And Trick? Trick was Tex, a charming rogue who always had a smile on his face, even when the world was falling apart around him.
They weren’t exactly the guys, of course. I changed details, added flaws, made them into the kind of men who only exist in the pages of a book. But at their core, they were Sam, Hugo, and Trick.
And writing about them was my escape. It still is.
Now, years later, writing isn’t just an escape—it’s a job. A secret, exhilarating, totally inappropriate job that I’ve somehow managed to keep hidden from everyone in this tiny town.
Under the pseudonym Cat Blackstone, I’ve written nine spicy romance novels. Nine books filled with tension, passion, and just enough angst to keep readers hooked. They’ve done well too—better than I ever expected. Enough to earn me a decent side income and a small but loyal fan base.
The only person who knows is Julie, and even then, I didn’t tell her until she accidentally caught me writing on a break. “Marie,” she said, her eyes wide with disbelief. “You’ve been writing porn this whole time and didn’t tell me?”
“It’s not porn ,” I hissed, snapping my laptop shut.
“Then what is it?”
“It’s…romance.”
She laughed so hard she cried, but to her credit, she’s kept my secret.
And now, as I sit at my desk and open my laptop, I can’t stop myself from doing what I’ve always done when my feelings get too big to handle. I write.
I start with the scene in the parking lot, but I change the details just enough to make it mine. In the story, it’s not Marie backed up against her car. It’s Scarlett , a feisty librarian with a secret past. And it’s not Crow threatening her—it’s a nameless villain with a knife and a cruel smile.
But the men? They’re still Sam, Hugo, and Trick.
I let my fingers fly over the keyboard, pouring everything into the words. Smith steps out of the shadows first, his voice low and commanding as he orders the villain to back off. Hudson moves in next, his hands steady as he pulls Scarlett away from danger. And Tex? Tex is grinning, his confidence unshaken as he throws the first punch.
The words come easily, each one pulling me deeper into the story, deeper into the fantasy of what it would be like if they weren’t just my crushes. If they were mine.
Smith’s hands linger on Scarlett’s waist, his dark eyes filled with worry. Hudson’s voice is soft as he reassures her that she’s safe now, his touch a silent promise. And Tex—always Tex—is quick to crack a joke, his grin lighting up the darkness.
I know it’s ridiculous. I know that no matter how many words I write, no matter how many books I publish, these stories will never be real.
But as I lose myself in the world I’ve created, it doesn’t feel ridiculous. It feels right.
Hours pass without me noticing. By the time I glance at the clock, it’s past midnight, and my fingers ache from typing. I save the document, leaning back in my chair with a satisfied sigh. The book isn’t finished—not even close—but it’s a start. A messy, unpolished, entirely self-indulgent start.
And for now, that’s enough.
I close the laptop and head back to bed, pulling the covers up to my chin. My body is exhausted, but my mind is still racing, replaying the events of the night.
I know I’ll see them again tomorrow.
And when I do, I’ll smile and act like everything is normal. Like I didn’t spend half the night turning them into heroes in a story that will never leave my hard drive.
Because that’s what preachers’ daughters do. They keep their secrets.
After an hour, though, I can’t stay still. I’ve been kicking at the sheets, wishing it was the guys touching me instead. When I close my eyes, I see them. Serious Sam, taunting Trick, and heroic Hugo. It’s impossible to sleep. There’s only one way out of this.
My pajamas have got to go, so I yank them out of the way. I reach over the edge of the mattress and shove my hand between it and the box spring to find my battery boyfriend. I have privacy at home, but keeping him hidden is safer. Thankfully, it’s a good one that’s virtually silent.
I, however, am not.
My pillow muffles my sounds when I start face down, ass up. This position usually gets me going fast, especially when I’m wound up like tonight, but no joy. What’s wrong?
I huff at myself and turn over in the dark of my room, but moonlight pours in through the open window. Not that I worry about anyone seeing me—our place is practically surrounded by the swamp. The only things watching me are the alligators and mosquitoes, and I’m pretty sure they don’t care.
The toy slides around my wetness until I hit the spot that makes my body clench. I give in to that sensation, the vibrating pulse in my clit. In my head, it’s Trick’s pierced tongue, a particular fantasy of mine. I’ve always wanted to know what a piercing could do for me.
I imagine Sam’s rough hands on my tits and Hugo kissing my mouth as Trick works between my thighs. Heat flashes through me like a forest fire sparking dry kindling. The three of them?—
“Oh, shit.”
I sit up fast, shoving the toy under the blanket. Is it Crow? Did he come back? My pulse spikes in fear. I squint into the dark, where there’s movement between the knobby cypress trees and saw palmetto. A tall figure—not Crow.
He steps into a pool of moonlight, and I can’t breathe. It’s Trick. Trick saw me fucking myself with my toy.
Why the hell am I even more turned on right now?
I don’t know what to say. There are no words in my head, just the pulse between my thighs, urging me onward. And then I notice something odd.
Trick’s jeans are open. His hand, moving back and forth as he looks at me. We lock eyes—his piercing blues like those of a wolf eyeing prey. He gives me a subtle nod, glancing down between my legs.
He wants me to do this. He wants to see me touch myself.
I’m inclined to give this man whatever he wants from me.
Slowly, I lie back, my body throbbing for this. I don’t think about the lines I’m crossing or the rules I’m breaking. Actually, I’m not sure that’s entirely true—being bad is part of what’s getting me off.
I turn the toy back on as I watch Trick touch himself. I can’t see everything from here, but his tight expression and the movement of his hand in the shadows tell me enough. My fantasy has evaporated. No need for a fantasy now.
I have the real thing. Safely. At a distance.
But he’s here, and he clearly likes what he sees.
Maybe it’s that acceptance, that encouraging nod, or maybe it’s just his eyes on my naked body, but I’m slick and panting in no time at all. I can’t look away from him, from the lust in his eyes. The way he can’t seem to look away either.
He staggers closer, and for a beat, I panic. But I remember the wall between us when he slaps a hand on the wall next to my window for balance. He’s so close that I can’t see what he’s doing anymore, but he can see every part of me through the screen.
He must know it when I’m right on the edge. As soon as I’m there, he gives a sharp, commanding nod, and I explode. I snatch my pillow and put it over my mouth to muffle my sounds, because I cannot stay quiet after this. My core tightens, releases, and tightens again with every wave of my climax.
When I shove the pillow aside, he’s still there.
This isn’t a fantasy. Not anymore.