Chapter 8 Serena #2
My Masked Valentine: I promise you they’re not. I don’t have limits when it comes to you.
I twirl my thumbs, my heart beating aggressively in my chest. I’ve never confessed any of my fantasies to anyone, except maybe Ker, but she’s my best friend, so she knows everything about me already.
This man is quite literally stalking me, and I’m nervous to type out a fantasy that I want him to enact. I see the irony—I do.
I don’t know where to begin. No partner has ever asked me this, and while I’ve contemplated things I might want to explore, I’ve never let myself fully wander down that path.
My phone buzzes, another text coming through from my impatient suitor.
My Masked Valentine: Tell me one
Yeah, I’m trying to figure that out.
My sex life prior to this man consisted of two boyfriends. The first relationship was in high school for, like, six months, and the other was for three years in my earlier twenties. But those relationships certainly never explored my sexuality.
The craziest thing I’ve ever done in bed is doggy style. Not for a lack of trying to explore new things, but because my ex didn’t want to.
He always said, “If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it.”
I would describe my sex life before My Masked Valentine entered the picture as efficient—well, for the guys at least. They rarely made me finish, and I was always left wanting more.
After my last boyfriend, the only action I’ve gotten in the last few years involves the toys in my nightstand.
Another text comes through.
My Masked Valentine: Stop overthinking it and just tell me one. The first thing that comes to your mind.
First of all, I can’t just not overthink it. Secondly, a lot of things that turn me on come to mind, things I’ve never even admitted to myself. He can’t just expect me to spit it out like nothing.
Taking a shaky breath, I start typing out a message, but I get cold feet and delete it. Over and over and over again until the self-loathing becomes too much to bear.
“I’m going to off myself,” I mutter under my breath in frustration–a phrase I need to stop using–and slap my phone on the bed.
I’m not actually suicidal, nor do I have any plans on ending my life, but at this moment, I think I might just spontaneously combust.
He texts me again. Picking my phone up, I read his message.
My Masked Valentine: Just stop questioning yourself and send the message. I know you have a twisted side, like I do, or we wouldn’t even be having this conversation.
My Masked Valentine: I know you like being surprised. You liked me taking you from behind, edging you, making you beg. You like being mine, in every meaning of the word.
Fuck. This man reads me like a book.
I guess if there’s one thing this odd situation gives me, it’s freedom. He’s not going to judge me for something I say when he’s probably thought or done even worse, given his track record.
His patience runs out, and as I read his next message, my heart plummets to the floor.
My Masked Valentine: Stop fidgeting. Stop slamming your phone on the bed and answer my text, Serena
Slamming my phone on the bed …
How in the ever-loving fuck does he know I was doing that?
My gaze flicks up from my phone, and an eerie awareness fills my bones as my stare shifts across the room, looking for anything out of place. My breathing quickens.
There’s nowhere he could be hiding in here, and when I grabbed pajamas from my closet, there certainly wasn’t a six-foot-plus man inside.
My Masked Valentine: Are you scared?
A second later:
My Masked Valentine: You don’t look scared.
This time, my fingers are moving of their own accord, typing at record speed.
You hid cameras in my bedroom?? What the hell is wrong with you?
Oh my God, how long?! I’m going to find them all.
Embarrassment floods my cheeks, telling me more than I care to know about my messed-up brain. I’m more embarrassed that he totally saw the dance party Freddie and I had in here last night. Oh God … and the absolute cryfest from when I rewatched one of my favorite movies.
My phone suddenly vibrates—the kind from a phone call, not a text.
He’s calling me.
My heart hammers hard in my chest. I think it may break a few ribs if it thumps any faster.
I stare at the screen, deciding if he deserves to talk to me on the phone right now after revealing that secret. I can’t help the part of me that‘s desperate to hear his voice. Another text comes through, and I decide to behave—for now.
My Masked Valentine: Answer the phone, Serena
I answer it, but don’t give him the satisfaction of hearing my voice. He deserves every ounce of brattiness from me right now. I don’t care.
But he meets me at my level, letting silence consume our call, and with every passing second, it grows deafening, until I can’t take it anymore and just snap.
“Are you kidding me?! What is wrong with you?” I scold him like a child.
He clicks his tongue in disappointment. “Such a violent tone for a girl wearing pretty red hearts on her pajamas.”
“I’m going to kill you,” I threaten him with a deadpan expression. “I’m going to find each one, and I’m going to destroy it. This is an invasion of privacy.”
He clears his throat, and I do my best to ignore that, somehow, even that can sound sexy when it comes to him.
“You can try to find them, but I doubt you’ll find them all. And any that you take down, I’ll just replace them.” Seriousness drips from his words. “But if you want to go on a little scavenger hunt, I won’t stop you.”
“You’re certifiably insane,” I mutter, scanning the room, like I’m going to magically spot something I’ve gone days, probably weeks, without noticing.
This earns me a chuckle from deep in his chest. “I’m not going to apologize for being obsessed with you. But if you really, truly want them gone, say the word, and I’ll remove them.” He means it. But he continues, humor now in his voice, “Probably. Maybe. Except for, like, one or two …”
My lips part, but nothing comes out because I’m not quite sure what to say. Deep down, I know what I want, and part of me is a little scared to admit it. That I like the thought of him watching me, studying me.
It’s like having a guardian angel—or rather, a devil—always making sure I’m safe and sound. Because I know damn well that with his eyes on me, no one could ever hurt me.
His voice cuts through my rambling thoughts.
“You haven’t said anything because you don’t want to admit how much you secretly like me watching you.
You like the adrenaline, the exhibition.
You like knowing that no matter where I am, you still consume every second of my day.
Because it’s true.” He pauses, and his voice drifts closer to the phone.
“The cameras aren’t just there so I know you’re safe.
If that’s what you want to hear, I’m sorry.
That’s a part of the reason, sure. But the other is far more selfish. ”
Freddie stretches out next to me, and Mr. Mystery coos like a proud pet parent. But the conversation resumes the same as before.
“Tell me to remove them, and I will. But tell me now.”
Biting down on my bottom lip, I will my voice to work, and finally, I muster up the faintest, “Keep them.”
He growls, “Good. Fucking. Girl.”
My breathing is shallow, and my body is eager for him, desperate. Just by the sound of his voice and the danger that comes with him.
Something sounds in the background. A man’s talking, but I can’t make out what he says.
“Fucking hell,” he mutters. “I have to go.”
“Okay, yeah—”
The call ending cuts me off.
I don’t lower the phone or move, aside from breathing and blinking as I try to process what the hell just happened. It’s like I’m changing right before my eyes, becoming someone who doesn’t hide behind every boundary and rule, but someone who chases passion and pleasure.
He makes me feel brave enough to color outside of the lines and embrace parts of myself I’ve always kept hidden.
Is he watching me right now? Or did he really have to go all of a sudden?
My phone buzzes against my ear, bringing me out of my thoughts.
My Masked Valentine: Get some sleep. It’s late, and you have to be up early. I’ll warm up your car for you. We’re supposed to be getting some snow tonight, but if it’s bad, I’ll send a crew over to clear you out.
My heart skips a beat as I read his message, my cheeks burning red. He’s so thoughtful, and I can’t help but wonder why he went down the masked path at all.
He could’ve approached me, asked me out like a normal person, and actually dated me in a traditional sense. But instead, he watched me, learned about me, dedicated endless time and effort just to win me over.
My chest swells as my stomach flutters. It doesn’t matter what he looks like, or the insane lengths he’s gone. It doesn’t scare me for some reason, and I don’t think it ever will.
But I can’t shake a feeling, one that lives deep in the pit of my abdomen, that if he was hiding cameras from me, there are certainly other things. What if one of them has to do with the reason he’s concealing his identity?
He knows I accept his unorthodox dating tactics, so what’s holding him back from removing his mask?