CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
Brett
One Year Ago
Somehow, I manage to stay away from the office for an entire week. Although I’m still obsessing about whether I’ll hear back from literary agents, my schedule is light enough that I can work from home and get some much-needed space from everything—and every one . I even remote in to the weekly meeting, where I can lurk like a voyeuristic phantom in the ether and stare at everyone in the conference room through the camera feed in the ceiling.
Is this what it feels like to be a stalker? Except, in my case, no one cares…
Colson sits in the same place he does every week, but this time next to an empty chair, across the table from Alex. I’m shocked that Abby doesn’t take the opportunity to sit in my usual seat, since she thinks Colson’s such a doll . And when the meeting ends, I close the Teams window and disappear back to the secrecy of my house, miles away.
But it doesn’t last.
I know I have to go back. I can’t stay away forever, especially when I get an urgent email at 6:30 the following Monday morning from Dave that there’s a problem with the server room keypad and we’re at the brink of a major security incident and multiple breaches of contract unless it’s fixed by close of business today. In other words, I need to execute checklists with maintenance and security because the hardware on the doors hasn’t been replaced in over a decade. And I’m the lady with the lists who signs the paperwork.
I need to keep my head in the game. I still have a job to do, and I can still do that well, regardless of what’s happening around me. And that’s what I’m marinating on while I make my way to the second floor, clutching the shoulder strap of my tote in one hand and holding my blue and white striped maxi skirt above my ankles with the other. But as soon as I round the corner, who do I see, but Colson Lutz.
He’s standing against the wall, adjacent to my closed door, staring straight down the hall at me. One of his hands sits at his vest, his thumb hooked over one of the Velcro straps, while the other hangs at his side, holding a white paper coffee cup by its black plastic lid. The same type from the break room.
I don’t know why I’m surprised. This is his detail, after all—his turf. Just like it used to be mine. I half expect to open the door and see him already inside my office, just hanging out like he always does. The fact that he’s waiting outside the door like a normal person seems too weird—too polite—for him.
When I come to a halt in front of him, he pushes off the wall, responding to my disinterested demeanor with a slight smile. He looks me up and down, lingering at the bottom of my skirt covering my platform Espadrille sandals.
“You get taller?”
Fucking asshole.
I exhale with exasperation and open the door. I don’t even have to look at him to know he’s probably eating this up. And I’m sure that’s what he’s doing for the next three hours while someone from maintenance repairs the keypad above the door handle, discovers they don’t have the correct part, leaves to procure said part, comes back, actually repairs the door, and only then do Colson and I begin executing the security checklist.
There’s minimal talking, throughout. I try to distract myself by sending awkward texts to Barrett. She tries to remain serious and offer moral support, but I keep cracking jokes. I can’t help it. It keeps me sane and breaks the tension—for me, not Colson. I’m not sure Colson ever feels awkward about anything. He’s usually too busy making everyone else uncomfortable.
When he walks back into my office from testing the keypad next door, I set down my phone and try to compose myself after nearly descending into a fit of laughter from Barrett’s latest GIF. Colson rounds my desk and leans against the metal cabinet behind me, watching as I refresh the monitoring program that records who goes in and out of that room.
“Is it fixed?” I ask as I wait for the window to refresh.
“Yeah, it’s fixed.”
But an error code in red text keeps populating the line next to the time stamp.
“It’s still throwing an error. You could get in, right?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Piece of trash,” I mutter in frustration, closing out the browser and pulling up my Teams chat, “it has to be the software. I’ll IM Tony and see if he knows what to do. ”
I finish typing my message to Tony, who manages the system, further frustrated that the yellow icon next to his name indicates he’s idle and won’t respond immediately.
“You can go now,” I say without looking up from my screen.
Colson crosses his arms in my periphery and glances out the window, “I don’t have to be on north side until 2:00.”
I should’ve IM’d Dallas instead of Tony and asked her to come get her brother out of my office. Or, better yet, I should IM Nate and tell him I’m in danger and he’s the only one who can help me.
“Sorry,” I shake my head with a bitter laugh, then my smile abruptly disappears, “ get out. ”
“Get out?” Colson’s voice hitches with curiosity.
“Yes,” I spit over my shoulder, “leave, before I go to HR.”
He shifts his weight and drops his hands to the edge of the cabinet, “I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”
My head slowly swivels toward him, “ Oh? ” Now, the thought of him threatening me evokes aggravation rather than fear.
Colson shrugs with indifference, “You’ll just make April jealous. If you’re going to brag on me to anyone, you could pick someone better. She’ll tell everyone, and I know you wouldn’t like that.”
He’s not wrong, and I hate that I agree with him. April’s the worst HR rep I’ve ever met. She has a horrible habit of making snide comments about people that are hilarious, but totally break any shred of confidentiality that exists. She’s the reason everyone found out that the head of finance got arrested for assault in the parking lot after the Christmas party last year because she started referring to him as “Fisticuffs” at the all-staff meetings.
I don’t want to know what she would do with this nonsense.
“I don’t need this from you,” I hiss, spinning around in my chair, “I don’t need you watching me, I don’t need you touching me, and I sure as hell don’t need you gaslighting me and telling me I’m not seeing what I’m seeing!”
Colson shakes his head, “I never said you’re not seeing what you’re seeing. I believe you.”
“Then why are you acting like you haven’t been the one texting me and breaking into my car to leave me creepy gifts?”
“So, I was right,” he cracks a smile, “you do have more admirers.”
I press my mouth together, biting back a frustrated grunt, which only makes Colson smile. Maybe I was wrong when I told Barrett he’s too honest for his own good. Maybe he’s just a liar, after all, because he’s certainly lying about this .
“Yeah, well ,” I glare up at him from my chair, “I thought about a few things you said. So, I finally told Barrett about you.”
The corner of his eye twitches with curiosity, “ What did you tell Barrett about me? ”
For a split second, there’s a glimmer of hope that I’m the one making him uncomfortable.
“Everything,” I reply flatly.
Colson presses his mouth together like he’s trying not to smile, “And?”
“She said I need to find a therapist to deal with your emotional abuse and then talk to HR and the police.”
He ponders this and, after a few moments, looks more disappointed than concerned, “Is that all she said?”
I stare at him in astonishment. I imply that he should be in prison and he sounds disappointed that Barrett wasn’t more impressed. Granted, there’s no way I’m telling him everything she said. But perhaps he was hoping she’d want to evaluate him and see how many pathologies he qualifies for. Maybe he collects them like shot glasses.
“And you’re manipulative,” I continue, “and you say or do disturbing things when you know I can’t leave.”
“I intimidate you to give you a clear conscience,” Colson says with indifference, “you’re welcome,” he winks.
“Well, you don’t ,” I hiss back.
“Intimidate you or give you a clear conscience?” His tone turns patronizing, “Because I’d be glad to scare you into submission if it helps you avoid another existential breakdown. Your mixed signals are getting exhausting.”
“Stop talking to me like I’m a petulant child!”
“Then maybe you should stop acting like one. You can leave right now,” a smile creeps across his face, “but you won’t.”
“ No ,” I grit my teeth, “because this is my office, and you’re the one who should be leaving. I’m tired of running from you.”
“Then stop running.”
“Fine,” I shrug, “here’s me not running anymore—say what you need to say and get out. Done, mission accomplished, over and out.”
“Brett, there are a lot of things I didn’t get to tell you.” He nods out the window to the parking lot, “Want to take a ride?”
“Are you crazy?” I scoff, “I’m not going anywhere.”
I haven’t forgotten the folded piece of paper Bowen tossed across the counter to me a week ago; the one with Colson’s mugshot on it where he looks like Satan’s teenage son with his ocean blue eyes and perfect cheekbones glaring at the camera. And I certainly haven’t forgotten the reason for his arrest typed right under it.
I rise from my chair and plant myself on the edge of my desk, crossing my arms in defiance, “If you have something to say, you can say it here.”
“In that case, we’re more alike than you think,” Colson lets his icy gaze settle on me, “because I’m not going anywhere, either, Brett ,” he lets the words sink in, “do you honestly think I’d travel hundreds—thousands—of miles and spend all this time and effort revolving around you like a goddamn satellite if I didn’t know exactly how this is going to end?”
My stomach bottoms out right there. He says it with such nonchalance that it doesn’t even sound real.
I lower my voice to a scornful whisper, “It’s because you’re a stalker .”
Colson bobs his head from side to side, “I prefer faithful to a fault .” Then he narrows his eyes, “Are you just upset because you think I forgot about you?”
“No!” I seethe through clenched teeth, “I’m upset because you tried to make me eat your gun . And then you show up out of nowhere to seek revenge on me for moving on with my life. I’ve never done anything to you! ”
Colson studies me for a few moments before pushing off the cabinet. He takes a seat in my chair and leans back, looking me up and down while he chews his thumbnail. Shoulders tense and arms rigid across my chest, I stare right back at him and, after a few seconds, let out an irritated huff and move to step away.
But before I can, Colson’s leg flies up and he plants his boot against the edge of my desk with a thud, blocking my path. I flinch and then slowly turn to meet his gaze.
He gives a nod to my desk, “Sit down, Brett.”
“Stop telling me what to do,” I glare down at him, “you’re a fucking control freak and you can’t stand when someone tells you no.”
He gives an impish roll of his eyes, “But you’ve never actually said no to me,” then he shrugs, “except for that one time in Cincy, when you were trying to stick it to me.” With one look, he motions to the desk again, “Sit down.”
I hesitate, burning holes through his pale blue eyes. He holds my gaze until I slowly rock back on my heel and settle onto the edge of the desk, crossing my arms in front of me again.
Colson leans forward and rests his elbows on his knees, rolling the chair forward a few inches. Then he clasps his hands, just inches from my legs, and looks up at me, “Did you know your office is in a blind spot?”
I knit my eyebrows in confusion, “What do you mean?”
“You can see who walks east to west and north to south in the hallways, but neither camera captures your door. The frames fall just short on either end.”
There’s a flutter in the pit of my stomach simultaneously as I feel my chest tighten. Part of me doesn’t want to know why he knows this or why he feels the need to tell me.
Colson drops his hand and hooks his fingers under the hem of my skirt, sending a ripple of goosebumps up my leg as he gently runs his fingers up the back of my calf, “Anyone can walk in or out, and you’d never know unless you pay attention to how long it takes them to walk from one frame to the next. ”
I swallow, my throat suddenly parched, “Shouldn’t someone fix that?”
“Yeah, me,” he replies, “I just didn’t.”
I glance over my shoulder at the door, lingering on the brushed nickel handle and deadbolt right above it. The corridor is silent, like always, devoid of any other occupants.
“It’s locked,” Colson murmurs.
But I didn’t lock it.
My eyes dart back to him, his fingers still gliding up and down the back of my calf, still sending the same familiar shiver all the way up my spine. He reaches down with his other hand and brushes his fingers up the back of my other calf, his hands moving in tandem.
I don’t move a muscle, paralyzed as I watch him, “What are you doing?”
“I’m going to return the favor,” he says with a tilt of his head, “since you were such a good girl for me the last time I saw you.”
“What makes you think I want you to touch me ever again?”
“Baby, you’re such a terrible liar,” Colson scoffs, “you try to be mean to get back at me for getting under your skin, and it never works. But I let you try because I love seeing how much it bothers you. Your eyes are dilating right now while I’m telling you about it. You love this. Plus, I already know what it’s like for you to hate me and it’s not that bad. Being away from you is much worse.”
I stare down at him, my mouth ajar, “That is so toxic.”
“Because I want to do something nice for you?”
“ Nice? ” my voice cracks, my outrage palpable.
“I would’ve done it earlier,” Colson slides his fingers to the backs of my knees, making my thighs tense, “but since you insist on making things more difficult, as usual—”
“Challenging,” I interject softly, staring at the floor.
Colson pauses, and when I raise my eyes, the corner of his mouth curls.
Why do you provoke him? Why do you even engage? It only makes things worse.
But I can’t help it, fighting him is the addiction, the agonizing itch that needs to be scratched. When he rolls closer to me, I plan to spit out some snarky admonishment, but nothing happens. Instead, I stand motionless as his hands move further up my legs until my skirt hangs in the crook of his elbows. I draw in a deep breath as his fingertips slide up the backs of my thighs, hitting the edge of the desk.
Colson peers up at me, “Do I make you uncomfortable, Brett?”
I clench my jaw, “God damnit , Colson, of course you make me uncomfortable.”
He doesn’t miss a beat, “Why?”
I lean down, my face just inches from his, “Because I have a whole other life now . I haven’t seen you in three— four years now and all of a sudden you show up at my office and you work here and you carry a gun and you keep doing things to freak me out and I don’t know why you can’t just move on and be normal. I can’t just pick up where we left off because you woke up in Canada one day and suddenly decided you couldn’t let it go! ” I suck in a lungful of air, having gone on far longer than I planned.
“But this is our normal,” he replies, utterly unfazed.
Colson rises from my chair, his array of deadly implements brushing against my chest, “Leave,” he nods over my shoulder to the door.
But I don’t move, I stay planted firmly in front of the desk, “No,” I say, looking him dead in the eye.
I continue staring up at him in silence until I feel a series of soft scratches against the outsides of my thighs. And when I look down, I see Colson’s fingers drawing my skirt up my legs, one inch at a time.
“I have to tell you,” he says with a hint of amusement, “some might consider it toxic that you admit that I make you uncomfortable, but refuse to leave when I give you the opportunity.”
At that, Colson wraps one arm around my waist and lifts me slightly to slide the fabric free from beneath my legs. But when he brushes over the abrasion low on my hip, still sensitive even after a week, I wince in pain. He stills, glancing between my face and my hip, before raising my skirt.
The subtle change in his demeanor isn’t lost on me when he sees the bruise, its scabbed focal point radiating with dark purple that fades to green and then to light brown. At least the flecks of neon orange are gone…
“What happened to you?” Colson murmurs, not taking his eyes off my wound.
“Jealous?” I clip, “Are you mad there’s not enough room for yours?”
I hope he sees every mark Bowen left on me. He’ll see the rest of the scabbed over streaks peppering my shins and ankles soon enough. I hope it fucks with his head, because he sure as hell loves fucking with mine.
But Colson doesn’t seem to register my tone. He’s concentrating too hard on my body, and his mind is elsewhere. When he catches sight of the other bruising, he gently pulls my grey top up to look at that one, just as ugly as the one below it.
“Where’d you get these?”
My eyes wander across the floor, considering my response. If anyone else asked the same question, I’d probably lie—because of course. But, with Colson, the more uncomfortable I can make it for him, the better. He sounds concerned, so why should I disappoint him?
“A paintball gun,” I deadpan.
Colson’s silence is deafening, and he stares down at me with such intensity that it takes all I have not to look away.
“Were you playing?” his baritone voice has a razor’s edge.
This time, I do look away, then flinch when I feel his index and middle fingers on my jaw, whipping my face around to look at him. I stare up at him for a few moments, my chest rising and falling with each tense breath .
My jaw tightens, “Define playing .”
Now, Colson looks different. This is the first time he’s ever looked… bothered.
And I love it. The mere possibility that I can make him uncomfortable even in the slightest bit fills me with a diseased sense of satisfaction.
His eyes linger on mine before moving down to my hip again, and then to my legs. Just as I predicted, his eyes are immediately drawn to the nicks across my ankles and shins and the long, dotted scratches in various stages of healing. He takes a step back and sinks down into my chair, sweeping up one of my legs behind the knee. I drop my hands to the edge of the desk, holding myself steady as he props the sole of my sandal on his lap and runs his thumb over the scabs, surveying my marred skin.
His intense concentration and the heavy, steady tempo of his breaths tells me he already has some idea of what happened. I all but confirm it just by meeting his eyes after he takes in each scrape and laceration.
Finally, Colson lowers my leg and, after a few moments, looks up, running his tongue along the inside of his mouth, “I’m sorry.”
I just stare at him, my mind gone blank, “What for?” I finally respond in a near whisper.
He rises from the chair and brings his hands to my neck, cupping my face. I remain motionless, and let him lower his forehead to mine. His hair brushes my brow and I squeeze the edge of the desk as soon as I smell its sweet, biting fragrance.
“I’m sorry it took me so long to come back to you.”
I don’t know why he’s suddenly apologetic about anything, but I’m getting intense satisfaction from hearing it. I should shove him away, rebuff his apologies that are probably lies anyway, and disappear for another week out of spite. But I don’t, because I get curious.
With apprehension, I reach up and run my fingers along Colson’s scalp, through his deep auburn hair. He takes a sharp breath and I feel his muscles tense ever so slightly when he feels my touch. I give in to temptation and inhale his scent. As soon as it hits my nose, it shatters against my brain and sets off a barrage of memories while a familiar sensation starts creeping into my bones.
I still want him to notice me, to want me, to fixate on me…now, I want to know every thought he’s ever had about me. I hope he has been thinking about me, consumed by me, waiting all these years to find me. It’s absolutely absurd. What drove me to panic is now driving me wild.
“Are you sorry for all this bullshit you’ve put me through since you got here?” I murmur up at him.
Colson stills for a moment and then leans forward until I have to brace myself to keep from falling onto the desk. One hand snakes around the back of my neck while the other squeezes my throat in the crook of his thumb .
His blue eyes go dark as he holds me enraptured beneath him, “I will never apologize for being close to you,” he growls, “I’ll be a slave for you, I’ll kill for you, I’ll burn the world down around you, but if you want to get rid of me,” the corner of his mouth spasms with malice, “you’ll have to put a bullet between my eyes.”
All the air leaves my lungs and I’m so consumed by his overwhelming presence that I don’t even bother to contemplate what that really means. I should be fleeing in terror, but all I want is for him to come closer. I want to feel his heartbeat and his warmth pressed against me, but his body armor is in the way. I wish he’d take it off. But the rule-follower in me knows better. He can’t take it off, he won’t, and I wouldn’t, either. It keeps me at an infuriating distance, unless I want outlines of mace clips, magazines, and keys embedded in my skin.
“Colson,” I grab his wrist, glaring back at him, “you have to stop this . ”
He shifts his jaw back and forth as he studies me, “Remember when I told you about the first night that I spent with you—when I came up to the lake? You should’ve been horrified, but instead, you were weeping for my dick. I make you feel like you’re the only woman in the world—because you are. So, no,” he sneers, “I’m not going to stop.”
“I was horrified,” I snarl back, “because you decided to tell me what you did after you tied me to your bed with your dick inside me —so I couldn’t leave. ”
Here I am, fighting with him again, and I’m accomplishing nothing but digging myself deeper.
“Then say it, baby,” he taunts, “say you don’t still want me. Tell me you don’t need my cum running out of you to make you feel alive.” He pulls me so close, his lips brush against mine, “I need you by my side, and you need me inside you.”
Suddenly, a staticky, electronic voice cuts through the silence, giving me a start.
“Colson, it’s Nate, come in.”
I freeze when I hear Nate’s voice crackling over the radio on Colson’s chest.
Colson gives a coy smile and reaches for his radio with one hand, “Yeah?” he replies, still holding me over the desk by my neck.
Jesus Christ, it had to be Nate. I cringe at how ridiculous all of this looks. I hope no one knocks on the door. Or maybe I do, I can’t decide.
“Ray called,” Nate crackles, “he said he found that part from the manufacturer. He can come back if the other one’s no good.”
Colson loosens his grip and leans back. At least now I can sit up straight. Then he puckers his lips into a silent shhh and slides his hand to the side of my neck. One hand remains fixed on his radio while he absently strokes the side of my clenched jaw with the other. His eyes wander as he carries on his conversation with Nate, until, finally, his gaze settles back on my body .
He lets his hand fall from my neck to my shoulder and linger there for a moment before slowly trailing down to my torso. Droning on about hardware and service requests, Colson stares down at the front of my shirt, brushing his palm up and down the side of my ribcage. He’s driving me nuts. And I can’t move because his body is wedged between my legs with the sides of his boots pressed against my sandals.
He drags his thumb over the curve of my breast while he talks to Nate, flicking my nipple until it’s a sharp bead visible through my shirt. I glare up at him with pursed lips, but he only responds with a smirk.
“Give it another check when you head back and I’ll let him know we don’t need it,” Nate crackles.
“Affirm,” Colson replies before releasing the radio.
Suddenly, a different voice cuts through the static, “Hey, Col.”
Colson reaches for the radio again with a roll of his eyes, “Yeah?”
“Ask your girl if she’s done her floor walk-through yet. Hazmat disposal’s coming tomorrow.”
My eyes go wide and dart between Colson and his radio.
Your girl?
“Will do,” Colson grins with satisfaction, “Oh, Noah,” he adds, “do me a favor?”
“Yeah?”
“Ask Nate if he still wants to know what it’s like on the inside.”
“Fuck you, Lutz,” Nate’s voice suddenly breaks back in, this time over a backdrop of laughter.
Colson chuckles to himself and releases the radio once more.
“What the hell does that mean?” I snap as soon as I’m sure he’s radio silent.
Colson just shakes his head and doesn’t answer. It’s just as well, I probably don’t want to know. I can barely look Alex in the eye, as it is.
“Was that a joke?” I peer up at him, “Do you all talk about me?”
“I hate to break it to you, but it sounds like they were already doing that before I got here.” He tips my chin up with his index finger, “But it’s also the reason they stay out of this hallway now.”
“What do you mean?”
“It’s my hallway,” he looks down at me intently, “and they all know it.”
Suddenly, it dawns on me why Colson was giving Nate a death stare that one day he walked me back to my office, and why Nate looked like a deer in the headlights of a speeding semi-truck.
“So, that’s why Nate believed me when I told him you’re batshit?”
Colson grins and lets his hand fall to his side, “You would know more than anyone.”
“I do want to know something else.” As long as I can’t move, I think he owes me something.
“Name it. ”
I take a deep breath and gather my nerves, “Why do you have new scars?” And I don’t give him a chance to deny it, “I know you do, because I felt them.”
After a moment of consideration, Colson nods to my desk, “Lay back for me and I’ll tell you.”
I clench my jaw in irritation, “I thought you said you didn’t want to get me fired,” I mutter.
“I don’t. Why do you think I didn’t fix the cameras?” He leans into my ear, “I’ll tell you anything you want to know. You just have to lay back and be quiet for me.”
His voice sends a shiver down my spine and I realize I’ve walked right into his trap. Maybe he is more similar to a house spider after all, weaving webs five steps ahead of everyone else and lying in wait for his prey. Except, instead of trying to escape, I’m just trying to ignore the fact that my thighs are becoming more soaked by the minute.
But curiosity is quickly overshadowing any sense of logic. I need to know. I need him to tell me I’m not imagining things, even if he is a fucking psycho. I peer at him skeptically and then glance over my shoulder. Minimalist is an understatement. My desk is sparse, devoid of clutter and much of anything else, which is why it’s nothing for Colson to clasp my wrist and gently lower me onto the desktop. He reaches back with both hands and rolls the chair up to sit down, out of my view. When I tilt my head to look, he’s sitting between my knees, surveying my scratched-up legs dangling from the edge of the desk.
“OK, tell me,” I say flatly.
Colson swivels from side to side a few times before his hands disappear beneath my skirt, sending a jolt down my entire body. I inhale sharply as he hooks his fingers over the waistband of my beige thong and tugs it past my ass, working it down my legs. I raise up on my elbows in time to see him pull it free of my feet and lean back in my chair, turning it over in his hands to examine it. And it is drenched.
He glances up at me with a shake of his head, “You still like keeping secrets from me, don’t you?” he smirks as he balls up my underwear and shoves them in his pocket.
Shit.
He rolls forward, spreading my legs again, and I watch with both excitement and horror as he pushes my skirt up to my navel to fully expose me. He pauses, gazing at me hungrily. Then, without a word, he tosses one leg over his shoulder and buries his face between my thighs. I collapse back onto the desk with a gasp, grasping at his hair as I tremble from head to toe. Then he grabs my other knee and wrenches it to the side, opening me wide before he starts tongue-fucking me.
“ Baby… ” he moans, pausing to leave slow, lingering kisses around my edges, “you taste even better than I remember. ”
Soon, he moves higher, circling and sucking my clit until my hips start to move with the rhythm of his tongue. I stifle any sound that dares to escape, gritting my teeth as he devours me.
“ Col… ” a moan creaks out as the tension builds.
But as soon as he feels my body go rigid, he raises his head and lets the pleasure fade away. I jerk my head up in frustration, drawing a wicked smile from him. He rises from the chair and kicks it back against the cabinet, taking a wide stance between my knees.
“Sorry, you were going to ask me something,” he runs his hands up and down my thighs, dipping his thumbs into the creases of my hips.
I stare up at him, my chest heaving and my pussy aching, and swallow hard. With a long blink, I take a deep breath to compose myself. I’m still determined to make him answer me.
“Why do you have new scars?”
Colson hesitates for a few moments and then reaches behind his back and gives a sharp tug, drawing something from the back of his belt. When he brings his arm back around, there’s a large knife clutched in his fist. It’s a black handled fixed blade with black metal serrated on the bottom with a straight top. My breath catches when the cold blade touches my skin and he brushes the tip up my thigh, leaving white tracks in its path.
“My scars are a record of all the terrible things I can’t change,” he pauses at my hip and lifts the knife over my skirt, “reminders of moments of weakness not to be repeated.” He sweeps his other hand beneath the hem of my shirt and gently pushes it up to expose my stomach, continuing to trace white threads over my skin, “I failed to stop a lot of things that didn’t have to happen. But there was one night that I did .” He slides his hand further up the front of my torso, and with it, my shirt, “I haven’t made any new scars since then.”
When Colson arrives at my chest, he tucks his fingers beneath the underwire of my bra and pushes it up to expose my breasts. His eyes blaze as he tracks the knife’s razor tip up the curve of my skin and then pauses, letting it rise and fall with my breaths, “And I don’t think I’ll have to make any new ones ever again.”
He brushes the tip of the blade against the rosy skin around my nipple, drawing a sharp breath from me. Then he stops, letting the blade rest there. I shift my focus from the knife at my breast to his face above me.
“What did you do?” I murmur, barely breathing as I try not to move beneath the razor tip dangerously close to my nipple, “What did you stop?”
Colson lifts the knife, rests his fist on the desktop, and leans over me, “I made sure you were safe,” he whispers before sinking down and slipping his tongue between my lips, coaxing them open.
“When?” I breathe into his mouth.
He smiles against my lips, “Wouldn’t you like to know?”
But I think I already do .
As soon as his tongue dips back into my mouth, I tip my chin and press his lips to mine. For a brief moment, I forget everything around me and shut myself in a box with him, and only him, nicely compartmentalized and wrapped in opaque memories that blot out reality.
“Were you there?” I ask between breaths, “at the Rickhouse?”
“Of course I was,” he murmurs, sending a wave of butterflies through my stomach.
I knew it. I knew it was him. I knew he was there.
He braces one arm on the desktop, his other locked at the elbow to keep his blade at a safe distance. Then he hovers over my breasts, flicking each nipple with the tip of his tongue before raking them between his teeth until my breath catches.
“How did you get in my house?” I murmur between gasps.
He does it twice more, relishing each time I wince in pain, “Through the door,” he closes his mouth and sucks harder until I clench his hair with a gasp.
Arrogant son of a bitch.
He raises up and leers over me, “You know, I’ve missed those sounds you make for me while I mark you up,” I hear each click as he taps the pommel against the wood, “and the louder ones when I make you come.”
I shift my eyes to the side, only catching a slight shadow of his knife in my periphery, “Are you going to cut me again?” my voice shakes, as much as I try to make it stop.
Colson stares down at my torso, focusing on the six-inch scar below my breast, before finally shaking his head.
“No,” he murmurs, “that was the first and last scar I ever give you. And besides,” he examines the edge of the blade, “there are other ways my knife can defile you without desecrating your flawless body.”
Colson slowly rotates the knife in his palm until the blade is pointing down and drops it to my leg. He presses the handle against the inside of my knee and starts to slowly spread it wider. Full-body chills ripple through me and when I tremble with apprehension, it only brings a smile to his face.
“What are you doing?” I ask, my eyes darting to the deadly implement just out of view.
“Seeing what you look like with my knife inside you.” The corner of his mouth curls as he slides the pommel up the inside of my thigh, “Weren’t you listening? Nate wants to hear all about it.”
My heart pounds as Colson drags the handle through my hip crease, pulling the slack of my skirt back up to expose me. Then he hooks his elbow behind my knee and hitches my leg up so my legs are splayed open before him. He leans back slightly, biting his lip as his eyes fall to my slick thighs, and wraps his thumb and forefinger tightly around the hilt, leaving the rest of his hand loosely covering the base of the blade .
Then he lowers the knife between my legs, “Since you can’t make any noise, maybe you’ll make some nice faces for me.”
I long blink, breathless when I feel the handle just below my navel. My fingertips go white, pressing against the smooth veneer as he trails the pommel down, straight over my clit. When he pauses to circle it, my jaw falls open with a long, labored breath. A minute later, he slides it further down until I feel him tracing the edges of my entrance.
“You’re so pretty, baby,” Colson hums as he marvels at me. I let out an airy moan as he gently moves the handle over my slick skin, “The most gorgeous pussy I’ve ever seen, and she’s just crying for me.”
He dips the handle past my edges, teasing in the most brutal way. Drunk on dopamine, I roll my free leg to the side, spreading my legs even wider for him. My chest heaves as I try to keep still from the waist down, but the more he moves his knife, the more my core throbs.
I just want him to fill me—with something—before I go completely insane.
Maybe I already am.
“Colson?” my voice cracks.
“Yes, Honeybee?” he raises his eyes, his head still bowed, looking positively sinful, “Tell your stalker what you want him to do to you.”
I close my eyes and let out a shaky breath, “Just do it.”
The corner of his mouth curls, “Do what?” he asks, mocking my evasiveness.
My other hand fidgets uncontrollably and I start running it up and down my torso, as though it’s him who’s touching me, “Just…” My fingertips brush the underside of my breast and when I take a deep breath, the words tumble out in a pained whisper, “ just fuck me with your knife. ”
I am absolutely certifiable. Game over.
“Thought you’d never ask,” Colson shifts his stance and slides the handle down, notching it in my entrance, “you know I’ll do anything to make my girl happy.”
He gently slides the hard rubber handle halfway inside me and I draw in a long breath, digging my nails into his arm.
“Breathe, baby. Eyes on me,” he murmurs, his gemstone eyes boring into mine, “you’re going to take all of it.”
I’m so entranced, so ensnared by him that I barely realize I’m nodding my head. He slides the handle further in, making my eyes roll and my breath seize, until I feel the warmth of his fist against my skin. He presses his knuckles against me, moving the knife back and forth against the front of my wall. A moment later, I feel his thumb slide up over my clit, sending a rush of warmth through my entire body.
“You’re such a good fucking girl,” he drawls, “you look incredible, taking my knife just as good as my dick.”
I could melt into the goddamn veneer right now .
My eyes flutter and I feel the corner of my mouth twitch, “Your dick’s bigger…” Now I’m just saying nonsense—pure, unrestrained, self-indulgent nonsense.
“You would know,” he looks down at me with a salacious grin. “Do you still want me to leave? You still want me locked up?”
“No,” I shake my head, whimpering through airy moans as he pumps the handle against my wall, “I don’t…”
Colson stills his hand and, keeping his eyes on the knife, slowly lowers my leg back onto the edge of the desk.
He plants his palm on the desk at my chest, “You’re gripping my knife pretty tight. You’re either really scared or you really love it.” He starts circling his thumb over my clit, making me tremble. “You have to give it back eventually, but I promise I’ll let you play with it again.”
I run my hand up his forearm, squeezing my eyes shut, “Why do I let you do this?” I mumble.
“Brett, stop torturing yourself, that’s my job.” He shoots me a dismissive look, “The only person who can ever break through your iron goddamn will is me. And that fact makes me so. Fucking. Hard. ” He thrusts the handle into my pussy with each word, so deep I feel his knuckle dip inside me.
Iron will or unmitigated denial—what’s the difference?
Colson gives a nod, “Hands above your head.” When I hesitate, he tightens his jaw, “ Now. ”
With shaky arms, I comply, silently admonishing myself for the fuzzy feeling I get in the pit of my stomach whenever Colson’s eyes go dark and his voice sounds like the ominous rumble of thunder before the sky opens up.
You need Jesus, Sorensen. Scratch that—a therapist and Jesus.
I lay my hands across the pile of curls tied at the crown of my head. Colson moves over my body like a leopard about to devour its prey, slowly reaching over my head and wrapping his fingers around my wrists, pinning them to the desk.
He tilts his head, gazing down at me like he’s about to eat me alive, “For the next 60 seconds, you need to step outside whatever bullshit you have going on in your head and give in to what you’ve been wishing for since the first moment you saw me downstairs,” he twitches the knife in my pussy, making me flinch, “because this is your new normal, Brett Ashley, with curves like the hull of a racing yacht. It’s me, every day, making your life a paradise or a living hell. But it ends the same way,” his hand starts moving again, and with it, the knife slides deeper inside me, “with you coming all over whatever I decide to fuck you with that particular day.”
The severity of his voice sends a rush through my chest and, I swear, he feels me gush all over his goddamn knife. I draw in a deep breath and gaze back at him, my hips itching to move with his hand if it weren’t for the razor-sharp blade suspended between my legs. I hold my breath, calming my muscles before finally giving a quick nod. And with it, I exhale my apprehension and descend into Colson’s world, if only for a minute.
Pressing my wrists into the wood, he sweeps his tongue over mine in a deep kiss that makes me fight his grip even more. I let my hips open wider as he pumps the knife harder and faster, making my eyes roll as he works my clit.
“This is why you’re still my best girl…” he wrecks me all over again every time he opens his mouth, “my filthy slut, my one and only drug of choice, my obsession who lets her nightmare fuck her however he wants...”
I shudder against his excruciating touch, going out of my mind, “ I wish you never left... ” I whisper.
I don’t know what I’m saying. It’s insane. And I don’t want to acknowledge any shred of truth behind it.
“Then when are you going to let me take you home to my bed, where you belong? Or maybe you just want me to drag you there, kicking and screaming, so no one has to know how much of a sick little slut you are for me.”
His words push me over the edge. My muscles seize and my jaw drops as I suck in breaths like I’m drowning. He pulses the knife handle quicker and deeper as he vibrates his thumb over my clit. My fingers claw the air for his hand, clamped tight around my wrists, as the orgasm tears through me. I snap my mouth shut, a dull, squeaky hum escaping my throat. My heels press into the back of his knees as I arch my back, trying in vain to keep my lower body still while my breaths turn to chaotic staccato gasps.
When it’s over, Colson leans down and parts my lips with his tongue, still holding the knife handle inside me while I contract around it.
“Next time,” he murmurs, “it’ll be my dick deep inside you while I fuck you within an inch of your life. And when you tell me I’m you’re only, this time you’ll fucking mean it.”
Colson pulls the handle out so fast that I wince with a yelp. Straightening up, he releases my wrists and gazes down at my trembling body, punctuated with convulsions every few seconds. He looks down at the handle, slick with opaque streaks, and lifts it to his mouth. Dragging his tongue from the hilt to the pommel, he sucks it clean and then reaches behind his back to replace the knife in his belt.
My eyes round when I notice the ribbons of blood trickling down his finger and dripping onto the carpet. He glances down at his hand and flips it over to reveal a series of nicks and cuts along his pinky and ring fingers. Once he pulls me upright, I reach for his wrist to survey the blood seeping from his marred skin. I glance up at him and pause for a moment, initiating another silent conversation spoken with lingering stares and glimmers of the eye .
He watches in silence as I bring his hand to my mouth and lick the garnet trails up his hand to their wounds, each pass across his palm leaving a sweet metallic tinge on my palate.
“Taste good?” he murmurs, not breaking eye contact.
I only offer a smile as I open the desk drawer to retrieve a white plastic box. Colson presses his mouth together with a smile and watches intently as I start ripping open Band-Aids from the first aid kit. When I’m done, I let go of his hand to return the box to the drawer. But before I can, I feel his hands on my neck.
He turns my head and presses my lips to his. I drop the box, melting into him until I’m forced to climb out of the nicely wrapped box in my head. When Colson pulls away, his eyes have gone dark again, but not in the same way they do when he speaks to me. Somehow, they look even more sinister, which I didn’t think was possible.
“Listen closely, because I’m only going to say this once,” his tone is even and measured, but no less threatening, “if he leaves one more mark on you, I’m not waiting, I’m coming for him.”
I stare back at Colson, my mouth ajar, speechless. His eyes remain locked with mine as he steps away, and they don’t leave mine until he turns to leave my office.
Leave it to Colson to end every single interaction on an ominous note.
Even after he’s gone, I remain on the edge of the desk, staring at the spot of blood on the carpet. I don’t know how long I stay like that, motionless, my mind blank but simultaneously bursting at the seams.
It feels like I’ve woken up from a coma, and I’m about to step into a hurricane.