Chapter 12 #2
If she ran, maybe I’d chase her. And maybe she’d like it. Maybe we both would.
The lock clicks, doorknob turning, and I’m inside, the only sounds my labored breaths beneath the mask and the squeak of Prick’s wheel.
I’m inside. I did it. I broke in. Completely sober. If I’m careful, she won’t even know I’ve been here. Not until she discovers my gift and I send her the video proof, at least.
Holy shit. Maybe I’m getting good at this stalking thing.
Or maybe any moron could figure out how to copy a spare key and enter someone’s apartment.
Her living room light is still on. Not sure if that’s forgetfulness or intentional. Maybe she believes keeping a light on will deter intruders. Either way, the illumination puts the mess on full display.
Plates and cups on the coffee table, blanket splayed across the couch, and in the kitchen, dishes in the sink, cereal boxes on the counter, trash can near overflowing. She’s been busy; it won’t hurt to clean up a little while she’s gone.
After the living room and kitchen are taken care of, I tackle the chaos of her bathroom and then check on Prick. He’s sound asleep in his tunnel, which is great because this is where I’ll film my video for her. No need to scar a poor hedgehog by letting him bear witness to that.
I turn my focus to her bed. Her sheets and fluffy comforter are bunched together like she spent the night tossing and turning. Someday, I’ll be in this bed with her. Holding her while she sleeps and listening to her soft snores after hours of making her moan.
Yep. Definitely starting to get on board with this stalker thing. Something about being in her room, witnessing the space where she makes herself come, gets my heart thudding harder.
A pile of clothes rests at the foot of her bed, freshly washed. I fold them merely as a favor for her. There’s definitely nothing in it for me. I’m not at all turned on by the bras or panties in the pile that I tuck into her top drawer.
I certainly do not stuff a pair of silk pink panties into my pocket. That would be insane.
When I find her sock drawer, my stomach drops. A pistol. I don’t know shit about guns, so I can’t tell if it’s loaded or not.
I slam the drawer shut. I hope Summer has had this gun for home defense long before I started stalking her. If she got a gun after, then she’s clearly far more afraid of me than she’s let on.
At least if she returns home, her gun is here and not strapped to her waist. I’d be safe until she grabbed it and aimed it at me, and by that point, my ass better be out of this apartment.
On her bed, I leave her new camera, still in its box with installation instructions, along with a step-by-step guide to share the footage with an app on my phone.
Her decision. If she wants to set the camera up somewhere that I can watch her undress or sleep, we both win.
Or maybe she’ll install it by her front door to monitor for intruders.
This could backfire.
But it could also be the confirmation I need. If she sets the camera up in her house, she wants me to watch her. If she uses it for home security or discards it altogether, she wants the stalking to end after all. I’ll take that as my cue to stop. If she doesn’t want this, I don’t either.
Though with blood pumping in my veins and a near-painful erection in my jeans, I’ll be pretty damn disappointed if she doesn’t. Turns out stalking is great foreplay.
For the sake of the video, I plunge the room into darkness with nothing but a nightlight in an outlet to guide my way. Unfortunately, that means I stumble around her bedroom because I don’t know the layout well enough to avoid slamming my toes into the bed or my elbow colliding with the—
“Fuck!”
I hobble on one foot, torn between nursing my stinging toes and throbbing elbow.
You can do this. All you have to do is be stealthy and sexy.
I prop my phone against the wall, no idea what angle will be the most alluring, and lean an elbow against the doorframe. If thirst traps have taught me anything, it’s that women love a good lean.
With my other arm, I reach up to grab the top of the doorjamb and tip forward.
My fingers slip over the doorframe, and I yelp before landing on the carpet in the hallway, masked face inches from my phone.
Well, shit. Gotta refilm that. Or maybe I’ll be able to edit out the falling part. End the video with the side lean.
I grab my phone and head back into her room. Inside his cage, Prick peeks out from his tunnel.
“Sorry to disturb you, Prick,” I whisper. Even though we’re alone, speaking at full volume feels too risky. “I’ll be quieter. Go back to sleep.”
I keep filming, flexing in the full-length mirror hanging on her closet door. Is this more sexy or comical? I can’t tell.
Next is a striptease. Unbutton my shirt, slide it off, then . . . wave it around, I guess? Maybe throw it at the camera? I’m woefully unprepared for this.
As my fingers pop open the top buttons, a metallic clatter disturbs the silence. I freeze.
Someone is putting a key into the lock on Summer’s front door.
Fuck.
The door squeaks open and a melodic laugh floats inside, her warm, honey voice following.
Summer is home. And she’s not alone.