Chapter 17
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Mina
The live is gone before I get the chance to investigate whether I saw it correctly. Did that really say Jack? Was that the same piece of shit who’s been giving me a hard time?
For a moment, I sit there, staring at the blank screen. What if . . . what if Leo really did find out that it’s me he’s been texting, and he’s told the rest of the guys?
No.
No.
He wouldn’t. I know him.
With every passing day, and every flirty message Leo sends, I have a harder time believing he intentionally shared my message with his friends.
I can’t even reconcile the possibility. He strikes me as too private to do that.
Something must have happened. Maybe he got hacked, or he shared it with a single person and it all got out of hand.
I mean . . . Leo doesn’t seem like the type to care two shits about that kind of message.
But also, it wasn’t like it was a screenshot. Someone took a picture of his phone.
I shuffle out of the lounge and into my bedroom, unceremoniously dropping onto the bed to bury my head in the pillow.
This is all a fucking disaster. I’m in love with a man who doesn’t know who I really am. He will. One day. But how many different situations do I need to be in to get myself there?
I lie in the same position until my neck starts hurting. Which part of my upbringing turned me into the type of person who does . . . literally every illegal thing I’ve been doing?
Breaking and entering. Cyberstalking. In-person stalking. Theft. Catfishing—while not technically a crime, it’s definitely ethically unsound.
It’s the mommy issues. Gotta be.
Patting the bed and locating my phone, I open up my message thread with Leo.
Not only am I a stalker, apparently I also have the easiest trigger points because all it takes is seeing his name at the top of the screen, and it’s like I’ve been transported back to his house, hiding beneath his bed, watching as he gets himself off to a video I’m telling myself is somehow of me.
My eyes drift shut, recalling the moment with perfect clarity. The hitches in his breath, the rustle of clothing, the tensing of his abs, how the black ink glowed beneath the low light. Then, the sensations. That, I don’t need to imagine.
That . . . Yes, doing that will make me feel better.
It’ll make me feel closer to him.
My sweats are on the floor before I can think better of it, and my fingers are pressed against the thin material of my panties. My lips part on a silent groan when pressure hits my clit. I raise my hips slightly as if my body is making demands by itself.
In the back of my mind, Leo is whispering the words I saw commented in the live. His voice would be raspy and . . . commanding. Yes, that’s the type of person he’d be in the bedroom. He’d take control. Call all the shots.
My core tightens as I rub my fingers in circles, shoving the darkness of his bedroom away in my mind’s eye so I can see him—all of him. How his cock would look in his hand, the dark hair leading down from his stomach, the moisture beading at his tip.
What I wouldn’t do to have his cum on me. It’d be like the ultimate display that I’m his. To feel him warm my skin, to go about my week knowing there’d be traces of him on me.
It’s the most intimate form of claiming. Yet something I won’t experience for a long, long time, unless . . .
I snap upright, zeroing in on the towel folded up on my dresser.
Leo’s towel.
The one he came into.
There are traces of him on there.
I could . . . no. It’s wrong. Gross, even. Weird, potentially. I can’t—
Fuck it.
I’m already going to Hell. I might as well have a good time before then. I’ll get my fill of Leo one way or another. If not in this life, then I’ll track him down in the after.
I snatch the towel up and roll it into a log shape, and as if my guardian angels are looking out for me, it’s folded perfectly so I can still see the residue atop the fibers of the gray fabric, and holy fucking hell if that doesn’t make me slightly feral.
Something so unsavory shouldn’t do this to me.
Something so . . . depraved shouldn’t make a bead of sweat trickle down my spine.
I shouldn’t want to do this. I shouldn’t be imagining a life with someone who doesn’t know I exist. And yet, I set the towel on the bed, then straddle it.
The moment it hits the apex of my thighs, I’m done for. I know I am. There’s nothing in this universe that will drag my brain into a reality where it’s just me in my bedroom, with a dirty towel I stole.
I picture it’s him under me. Tell myself the pressure against my sex is his own. Convince my brain that his hands are on my hips, grinding me against him. And that necklace he sometimes wears hits his chest every time he thrusts into me—a necklace that looks just like one I own.
So I ride him. I drag my pussy up and down the rolled-up towel, saturating the material of my panties. My breasts sway with every move, and I fucking love it—but nowhere near as much as I’d love the real thing.
My head tips back, and I sink my nails into the towel as I ride him. A quiet moan builds in my throat that grows louder with the passing seconds. His name is a broken groan on my lips that ends in a muttered curse of frustration.
I need more.
I need him to fill me.
God, I just—fuck. Please.
Need coils low in my stomach, burning as hot as my sticky skin. I rip my sweatshirt off, but it hardly does enough to stop the sweat from building beneath my shirt. I’m panting. Muttering. Groaning. Needing that edge to get me to the finish line.
The chime of my phone renders me frozen. It’s not Mom’s special ringtone. I hesitate before grabbing it, hands trembling from the sudden wave of adrenaline. The device slips from my fingers, and because I’m generally incompetent, I answer it before meaning to.
And I guess I was mistaken. My guardian angels aren’t watching over me.
For the first time since Leo and I started talking, he’s calling me.
And I just. Fucking. Answered.
My body solidifies into stone, and I basically black out, unsure what to do. It takes far too long for me to realize I should bring the phone up to my ear.
“H—” I clear my throat, tasting ash. “Hey, Leo. I-is something wrong?”
Something has to be wrong. Why else would he be calling me? Did he discover my real identity? Or find out I’ve been sneaking into his house? Has he called the cops on me?
Fuck. What if he wants to meet up?
I’m not good at thinking of something on the fly, especially when I’m about two seconds away from screaming because Leo Duval is talking to me on the fucking phone.
Need I mention that I’m currently getting off on his cum towel? I feel that’s highly relevant to my inability to process what’s happening right now.
My breaths come out too hard to be normal, but I can’t do anything to stop it. The cardio I’ve been doing is only half the reason for it.
What if he decides he doesn’t like talking to me anymore?
What if my voice is too nasally for him?
Or I don’t talk in a tone he likes? I’ve done that to people before.
Spoken to dudes on dating apps, and after I finally meet them face-to-face, I block them because they talk too slow or monotone, or they don’t have diverse sentences, so everything about them is predictable.
What if Leo thinks I’m like that? There’s no other way for me to get back in.
“You’re ignoring me. Why?”
This time, it’s the shock that has me frozen. Firstly, what is he talking about?
Secondly, dear fucking God. My core clenches at the sound of his voice. I’ve watched every video that’s publicly available, and he doesn’t sound like that in a single one of them. Voice deep and gravelly, tipped with malice and irritation. In his interviews, he’s always subdued and professional.
Not now.
It’s the type of voice I’d imagine muttering in my ear as he takes me from behind.
Maybe I’m telling myself what I want to hear, but he sounds strained. Is he . . . ? Am I hearing things, or are his breaths as heavy as mine?
Without meaning to, my hips push down against the towel, and the pressure? Unreal. This is more like it.
I can almost believe that this is just like it was in his room, where we’re both touching ourselves in private.
Swallowing the thickness in my throat, I stutter the words out. “N-no, I’m not.”
I’m literally fucking him right now. Sort of. Not that he’d know about it. Would he approve? Honestly, he’s a man. So probably, yeah. Egotistical bastards. But I’m me, so maybe not.
But do I want Leo to know? Would it be so bad if he did?
Yes. Bad. Very bad.
“You haven’t texted me back in eight hours. You answered the phone, which tells me you’re alive. But the fact that you never responded means you’re avoiding me.”
I blink.
Wait. He’s serious.
He— I’m going to cry. Or scream. Or both. He cares about me. He noticed I wasn’t replying.
Better yet, he missed me.
Dare I say he may even like me.
A stupid, dopey smile splits across my face, and damn if it doesn’t make me a teensy bit hornier. I clamp my teeth on my bottom lip, grinding my core against the towel. “Maybe I’ve been busy.”
Shit. Was that too breathy? I think I sounded too breathy. I’m a lusty whore right now.
“You’ve been busy before and texted me just fine.” There’s a hint of smugness to him that I can’t place the reason for.
“Okay. Then I was playing hard to get.”
Am I flirting? I’m totally flirting. Out loud.
With Leo motherfucking Duval.
Stay calm, Mina.
“I’d be careful if I were you.”
“Oh?” I’m about to pass out.
“I’d advise against that. I’m a bad day away from hunting you down and having my way with you.” He drops his voice low. “A word of advice? You won’t like me when I get impatient.”
“Why?” My throat bobs. I’m shaking everywhere. “What will you do?”
“The men in your books look like a fucking joke compared to what I’ll do to you.” Books? Like the ones I read? “So you better not leave your door unlocked. Someone might come in.”
Note to self: call a therapist after this.