Chapter 29 Good Morning to My Home Invader
AMANDA
I wake up slowly, stretching my arms over my head like I’m auditioning for the world’s most luxurious hotel commercial, rolling onto my side as I blink against the morning light filtering through my blinds.
My body feels heavy, telling me I’ve been sleeping well. Which is unusual, because I’m normally a terrible sleeper who tosses and turns. But I don’t think too hard about it as I reach for my phone, unlock it with a swipe, and immediately regret being conscious.
Notifications. Emails. The usual digital assault on my tranquility. And—
A text.
CHAD
Good morning, baby doll.
I let out a sleepy groan that probably sounds like a dying walrus, muttering to myself as I drop the phone onto my chest like it’s physically offensive.
“Stupid, attractive stalker. I’m not texting you back until you take off that stupid helmet.”
Ping.
I blink, lifting the phone again with the speed of someone who’s just realized they might be losing their mind.
A new message.
That’s a little harsh, don’t you think?
My stomach drops straight into the earth’s core.
What the actual fuck?
I stare at the screen, my pulse kicking up. That’s… a coincidence, right? I didn’t actually just get a response to something I only said out loud in the privacy of my own bedroom—
Ping.
Another text that makes my blood run cold.
Can’t you see me?
A slow, creeping chill spreads through me as my breath hitches in my throat. My fingers tighten around the phone hard enough to crack the screen. I don’t move right away. I don’t even breathe as my eyes flick around my room, scanning every corner, searching for something that shouldn’t be there—
And then I see him.
A dark figure lounging in the corner of my bedroom.
I scramble up so fast I nearly launch myself off the bed, yanking the blankets to my chin. My heart is pounding so hard that I’m surprised it doesn’t just burst right out of my chest.
Chad. In my seashell chair. Watching me with that damn helmet still on like he was born wearing it.
“What the hell are you doing here?” I demand, my voice coming out as a weird combination of breathless shriek and complete disbelief.
My phone pings again, because apparently this nightmare is interactive.
I was in the neighborhood.
“So you just decide to break into my apartment? Like a criminal?”
Baby doll, clearly I have access. And the only thing I intend to break is you.
A full-body shiver runs down my spine. Heat curls in my stomach despite every rational part of my brain screaming at me to stay mad, call the police, and possibly move to a different state.
But instead, I let out a long sigh, rubbing a hand down my face.
“Okay, fine. Since you’re here and I’m apparently too emotionally damaged to call 911.” I lower the covers, because honestly, I’m past being afraid of men at this point in my life. “Might as well make yourself useful and make me breakfast.”
Anything for you, baby doll. I’ll go prep breakfast. You get ready for the day.
I narrow my eyes at my phone, then peek over at him. He’s still in my ridiculous chair, still looking entirely too comfortable for someone who just committed multiple felonies.
“You know I have to work, right?” I mutter, rubbing the sleep from my eyes and trying to pretend this is all totally normal. “Like, actual employment where people expect me to show up and be functional?”
Yes, baby doll. I know your schedule. Don’t you worry.
I throw the blankets off me and swing my legs over the edge of the bed, stretching in that dramatic way that definitely gives him a nice view of my legs.
I can feel his gaze on me—probably watching the way my nightshirt rides up my thighs—and I absolutely refuse to give him the satisfaction of reacting.
Make sure you wear a dress.
I blink at my phone. Then at him. “Why? Are we going somewhere special? Is that part of your signature?”
Just be a good girl.
I huff, flopping back onto the bed with all the drama I can muster. “Ugh. I hate when you say that.”
His helmet tilts slightly, like he’s amused by my tantrum. Smug bastard.
I get up and go through my morning routine, deliberately not rushing just because I know he’s waiting for me. Because I’m nothing if not petty when the situation calls for it.
My shower takes exactly as long as it usually does. Makeup applied with the precision of a routine perfected through the years. Hair styled in loose waves that look effortless but actually require seventeen different products.
I step into my closet and stand there for a solid minute, staring at my options.
I could wear pants. Just to be difficult.
Just to see what he’d do if I completely ignored his mysterious fashion demands.
Or, better yet, a romper. That’s like the ultimate rebellion.
A built-in bodysuit of defiance. For a second, I actually consider it, because the thought of his frustrated reaction is almost too good to pass up.
But for a reason I don’t care to examine too closely, I find myself reaching for a dress instead.
A soft black wrap dress that hits mid-thigh and makes me look like I have my life together.
I stare at myself in the mirror, noting that I didn’t even glance at the hot-pink options that usually call to me first. Always pink.
That’s my thing, my armor, my signature.
But today? Today I’m reaching for black without thinking about it.
I tell myself it’s just because it’s easy.
Comfortable. Professional. Definitely not because I liked the way he told me what to do. Not at all.
By the time I walk into the kitchen, I can smell the coffee brewing, which is honestly the best thing that’s happened to me all week.
Chad stands by the counter, holding a fresh mug in his gloved fingers like some caffeinated peace offering.
He hands it over without a word, and I take it without hesitation, sighing in relief after the first sip.
“Okay,” I mumble, immediately feeling more human. “I take back at least half of my complaints about you being a creepy stalker.”
I’ll take what I can get.
I smile and glance around the kitchen expectantly. “All right, where’s this breakfast you expertly prepared? I’m expecting something impressive since you broke several laws to be here.”
He reaches over to the counter, picks up a granola bar, and hands it to me. I stare at it. Then at him. Then back at the granola bar like it might transform into something more substantial.
“Seriously? That’s it? A granola bar?”
Baby doll, we both know you don’t eat breakfast.
I hesitate, because dammit, he’s absolutely right, and I hate when people know me that well.
“Okay, yeah,” I admit, unwrapping the bar with perhaps more aggression than necessary. “That’s annoyingly accurate.” I take a bite and make a face.
Want me to get you something else? There’s a place down the street.
I take another sip of my coffee, shaking my head with a rueful laugh. “No, as you said, I don’t eat breakfast. I just liked the idea of making you sweat.”
Baby doll, there are much more enjoyable ways to make me sweat.
I bite back a smile, refusing to let him see how much that stupid line affects me. “Gross. I have to go to work now, so I guess you can go back to whatever mysterious cave you live in. Thanks for the coffee and the mild heart attack.”
I’ve got one more surprise for you.
I pause mid-step, giving him the most suspicious look I can manage. “Okaayyyyy… and what exactly does that involve? Because my tolerance for surprises is pretty much maxed out for the day.”
Close your eyes.
I cross my arms, raising an eyebrow. “Please tell me this doesn’t involve any more abandoned buildings.”
Ping.
I sigh dramatically. “I can’t read that with my eyes closed, genius.”
Then his hand comes down over my eyes, large and warm, completely covering them.
He’s close. Too close. His body presses against my back, solid and heavy, the scent of him wrapping around me like an intoxicating cloud, leather, smoke, and masculine, a hint of metal that makes me think of danger.
And then I feel it, his breath against my cheek, warm and real.
No helmet.
He took it off.
My body goes tight, every nerve firing like I’ve been struck by lightning. His lips brush against the shell of my ear, and his voice, low, dark, absolutely sinful, whispers words that send a shiver straight through me from head to toe.
I don’t even have time to process what he’s saying before his other hand trails up the inside of my thigh.
A gasp catches in my throat.
Oh, fuck. Oh, this is really happening.
I should pull away. I should say something, do something—but all I can do is stand there, trembling like a leaf, as his fingers move higher with excruciating slowness.
Not nearly fast enough.
I can barely breathe, my legs shaking, my heartbeat hammering loud enough in my ears it’s probably audible to my neighbors.
I’m already soaked, already wound up from just his presence, just the teasing brush of his hand, and he hasn’t even really touched me yet.
His fingers press higher, finding the edge of my underwear.
He slides something inside me.
The vibrator. The one he had delivered to my work. The one he must have fished out of my purse when I wasn’t looking, because apparently privacy is just a suggestion to this man.
A choked whimper leaves my lips before I can stop it. My hands fly out, gripping the edge of the counter like it’s the only thing keeping me upright as my body clenches around the smooth, foreign intrusion.
It’s slow. Careful. Too careful.
And it’s not nearly enough.
I want him to touch me. Need him to touch me with his hands, not some piece of technology.
But he doesn’t.
He just holds me, caged between his body and the counter, his breath warm against my ear like he’s memorizing this moment.
Now I know why he wanted me to wear a dress.
“Be a good girl and keep those eyes closed,” he murmurs, his voice rough in a way that makes my knees weak. I swallow hard, my breath still uneven, my body still clenching around the vibrator he just slid inside me. His hand stays over my eyes for what feels like an eternity, and then it’s gone.
The warmth of his palm disappears, and I can’t help myself.
I crack one eye open, desperate for even a glimpse.
He’s already turned away, his back to me, broad shoulders shifting under his jacket as he moves with that fluid grace that’s been driving me crazy.
And for the first time, I see something other than that damn helmet.
Dark hair, cropped short and perfect.
It’s just a quick glimpse of the back of his head before he tugs the helmet back on and the mystery returns, but fuck.
It only makes me more curious. More desperate to know who he really is.
Before I can think too hard about it or do something stupid like demand answers, he turns back around, phone already in his hand like he’s been planning this entire sequence of events.
Then his gloved fingers wrap around mine. I should pull away. Should say something snarky about being perfectly capable of walking myself downstairs like a functioning adult.
But I don’t.
Because I like the way his hand feels around mine. And that should terrify me, but instead it just makes me want more.
He tugs me toward the door, leading me out of my apartment, through the hallway, and into the elevator like this is our daily routine. Neither of us speaks, but the silence isn’t uncomfortable. If anything, it feels charged.
When we step out into the lobby, I glance around, half expecting someone to notice. To question why a man in full black riding gear, helmet and all, is walking me out of my building like he does it every damn day.
But no one does.
His fingers stay wrapped around mine as we push through the front doors, stepping into the cool morning air that feels like a reality check I didn’t ask for.
I’m driving you to work.
I blink, immediately yanking my hand out of his like I’ve been shocked back to my senses.
“Um, absolutely not.” I cross my arms, giving him my most stubborn look. “I’m walking, thanks. I’m not getting my hair messed up for the entire day on that death trap you call transportation.”
He doesn’t text back. Instead, he pulls his phone out, taps something on the screen.
The vibrator buzzes.
A gasp gets stuck in my throat as the sudden vibration pulses inside me.
My knees almost give out. My fingers tighten around my bag strap until my knuckles go white.
My nails dig into my palm hard enough to leave marks.
But I don’t give him the reaction he’s clearly waiting for.
Instead, I force myself to smirk and keep my outward composure like I’m in complete control of this situation.
“Have a good day, babe.”
I step forward, leaning in close enough to smell that intoxicating scent of leather and danger, and plant a big, pink lipstick kiss right on his visor. Then, without another word, before he can turn the damn thing off or make me lose what’s left of my dignity, I turn on my heel and walk away.
Like I’m not completely falling apart with every step.