Chapter 10 Grayson
TEN
GRAYSON
I wasn’t supposed to feel this.
Not this fast. Not this deep. All I can think about is how much I want her trust. Not just to keep playing my game—but to own her.
I wait till nearly midnight to head over and pull my bike up down the street around the bend.
The townhouses here are all back onto woodlands, making it easier to avoid prying eyes and get access to her rear yard.
Not that wearing a mask around Salem during the month of Halloween is an odd thing to do. It's nearly the norm.
I’m nearing the back steps when movement inside catches my attention, stopping me. She’s awake. She stands at the kitchen window, lost in thought, sipping from a mug. This wasn’t part of my plan, but I’ll make this work.
I illuminate my phone and wave it at her from the yard. It takes her a minute or two before she notices, letting out a loud shriek. I can’t blame her. A tall stranger, hooded, wearing dark, nondescript clothes and a skull-detailed balaclava standing in her yard.
She bolts straight to her rear sliding door and locks it. Staring me down, she starts backtracking away from the door toward her phone.
I send her a text.
Me:
You need to see me.
You need to know I’m not him.
She looks up and gasps with a step back, realizing I’d decreased our distance. I send her another text.
Me:
What have you noticed so far?
I move closer. She doesn’t move away this time.
She swallows hard and clears her throat. “You’re ballsy! But… you seem a little less… murdery?”
I huff a chuckle.
Me:
And?
She reads and looks back at me. Her gaze drags over me, slow and assessing. She’s thinking. Calculating. Trying to piece together a puzzle that’s missing half its pieces.
I stay still. Let her study me.
Let her come to me.
I drink her in as she does this. A white V-neck T-shirt and navy-blue lace boy short panties. Hair in a messy bun. The perfect girl-next-door vibe.
Soft. Delicate. Fuckable.
She tilts her head to the side. “You’re taller. And bigger.”
Me:
Good girl. What else?
I inch a few steps closer to the door; she mimics my movement, stepping forward two steps.
“He wouldn’t be doing what you’re doing now. Why won’t you speak?”
I type out a text but hold it up to the door for her to read. She steps forward until the only thing separating us is the glass.
Me:
I’m not ready to end our game.
Neither are you.
She chortles and bites her lip. I hold back a groan. The things I want to do to that pretty little mouth of hers.
Looking over me, taking in my size and stature, she furrows her brows, thinking. I tip my head to the side, curious, waiting for her to divulge her thoughts.
“When he pinned me against his body…” she starts, my back stiffens with the mental image. “He felt… spongy. Soft. Like he physically hadn’t done a day's manual labor in his life. His physique echoed that.”
I type another text, holding it to the glass.
Me:
What do you need?
She reads and looks up at my face, trying to look for my eyes behind my tinted tactical goggles. “Can you keep your hands to yourself?”
No. I slowly shake my head before begrudgingly rolling my head into a compliant nod of yes as she eyes me down with a raised eyebrow and folded arms.
Her hand moves for the door lock, and she flicks the latch. The second it slides open, her scent hits me. Lavender. Sweet, delicate—
Mine.
I shove my hands in my pockets. If I don’t, I won’t be able to stop myself.
She smiles, accepting my cooperation. “I need to touch you.”
She steps closer, placing a hand on my chest.
A test. A confirmation. Every fiber of my being aches to reach out and grab her. But this is her moment.
Her hand drifts down my arm, over my bicep. She squeezes gently and runs her fingers down to my clothed forearm.
Pip walks a circle around me, running her hand over my back. Her nails scratch through my hoodie, tracing from my waist up to my shoulder blade.
Circling until she returns in front of me, her hand glides to my stomach. I watch her intently, the comfort of holding the power in this moment etched into her face. She bites her lip again, and I can’t help but suck mine in under my hood.
“May I?” she asks, fisting my shirt. I nod, and she brings up her free hand, and they both disappear under my shirt.
Her fingers trace the ripples of my abs down to the ‘v’ at my belt.
I’m vibrating under her touch. I inhale slowly.
Barely holding on. “You’re not him,” she vouches. I shake my head in agreement.
No, my little pipsqueak, I most certainly am not.
She goes to remove her hands from under my shirt, but I lose the fight with myself, reaching out to stop her. I pin her hands in place with one of mine. She startles, looking up at my face.
“What is it?” her voice trembles, the confidence she had a moment before fading.
Now, it’s my turn.