Chapter 5
Alanna
All out of options, I race for the huge golden doors at the front of the library. It doesn’t matter how fast I am. It’s never going to matter. He is faster.
Just like before, a large arm cinches around my waist, and I am yanked back against the wall of muscle that is his chest. My head barely reaches his shoulder as he pulls me impossibly close. Woodsmoke and pine flood my nostrils, a scent I can’t seem to get rid of.
“Never run from me,” he growls in my ear, tightening his arm around me.
I can feel every rise and fall of his chest as he presses me against him.
His fingers grip my chin roughly and tilt my head back until I meet his fathomless umber eyes.
An untamed mane of brown hair frames his face, wild and disheveled from the chase.
“Please,” I say, but this time I’m not sure what, exactly, I am begging for.
“You’re not going anywhere,” he says smugly, his voice deep and rough.
Then he leans down and crashes his lips onto mine, keeping my face held in place with his unyielding grip.
I gasp with surprise, which only parts my lips and allows him to thrust his tongue inside, claiming me more completely.
My traitorous body reacts instantly, wantonly arching against him.
He releases a low groan and kisses me more deeply.
I moan in the back of my throat and open my mouth for him, my tongue dancing with his, a pleasurable tension coiling in my body. With his broad thumb, he strokes my neck, while maintaining his hold on my face so I can’t wriggle away as he takes what he wants.
With the arm he has wrapped around my waist, he slides his hand to my hip, pressing me backward while he pushes his hips forward.
I feel him then, huge and hard, against my lower back.
My response is immediate, a wetness that soaks through my underwear instantly.
I try to grind myself against his length, but he holds me too tightly, crushed against his imposing body so I can hardly move at all.
Breaking the kiss, the stranger inhales deeply. “You like this.”
Without waiting for a response, he dips his head further, pressing his insistent lips against my neck, wet and messy, sending shivers cascading throughout my body.
“Please,” I say, and this time it’s a needy moan. With my free hand, I clutch his huge bicep where it crosses my body. The sheer size of his arm, thick with corded muscle, dwarfs my hand. “I need—”
“I’ll take care of you,” he says. Then the hand at my hip plunges under the band of my jeans and beneath my underwear. His long fingers dip into my wetness, coating themselves, before starting surprisingly gentle circles over my clit.
At the same time, he releases my chin, moving his hand down to grasp my breast in his palm. His fingers find my nipple, already hard, and begin to skillfully tease. It feels so right, like my body is an instrument only he knows how to play.
“Oh. Oh my god,” I cry, as the circles over my clit became increasingly relentless. I writhe against him, hardly hearing the words of praise falling from his lips as the sensations inside me build to a booming crescendo.
My world narrows to the insistent rhythm of his fingers, a spiraling vortex of heat and need. My body arches higher, a cry tearing from my throat as the pressure builds, tighter and tighter, pulling me taut.
Release explodes through me—
—slamming me into consciousness just in time to experience the best orgasm of my life. I cry out in the silent darkness of my bedroom, sweating and gasping as the pleasure runs through me, wave after wave.
Finally, as the aftershocks slowly fade, my rational mind comes back online. And it doesn’t like what it finds.
What the hell was that?
I groan. It was a dream, yes, a startlingly vivid one, but the lingering physical sensations are far too real.
What kind of messed-up fantasy is that? And why is he the one haunting my subconscious, the stranger (I don’t even know his name!) who terrified me at the library? It is wrong, deeply wrong.
And worse—some traitorous part of me whispers that it wasn’t just the dream that felt good. It was him specifically. His hands. His voice. His scent. I bury my face in my pillow and groan again, this time in pure mortification.
I can’t reconcile the fear of yesterday morning with the unexpected, undeniable pleasure of the dream. The sheer absurdity of fantasizing about a situation that was so terrifying is staggering. What is wrong with me?
Too many dark romances. That must be it. I need to cancel my Kindle Unlimited subscription; it’s clearly impacting my sanity.
Even if the stranger was excruciatingly attractive, which he was, he scared me and all but assaulted me. It is unacceptable.
There’s nothing for it now, though. I’ll have to file the dream away under a “what the fuck is wrong with me” classification and move on. I have bigger problems than one severely problematic—and erotic—dream.
***
The next week is spent sequestered in my quiet apartment, with occasional drop-ins from Em, Lizzy, and Jen.
My mom even comes by with soup on the second day, hearing about my “illness” from Em.
Colleagues from the library email me with concern, although I can’t be sure whether it’s concern for my well-being or simply concern about when I’ll return to work.
Disconcertingly, Lizzy and Jen do not find my phone.
None of my coworkers have it, and it isn’t in the Lost and Found.
It makes me uneasy, to be without it. I didn’t realize my dependency on it until it was gone.
And even more unsettling, a horrible possibility niggles at me—what if the stranger took it?
What if he is going through it, right now?
What if he uses it to find me? To find out where I live?
That dream was only my subconscious working through my experiences; in reality, I’ll be happy if I never see him again.
Maybe I should get a big mean dog.
My laptop, decrepit and miserable though it is, provides a weird sort of therapy.
I spend hours Googling: 1) how to remove a tattoo at home (“dangerous,” “not recommended,” and “you will lose your arm” were common warnings); 2) what neurological disorders could cause vivid hallucinations and skin symptoms (“Temporal lobe epilepsy”?
“Brain tumor?” I file those under “maybe”); 3) Dr. Caspian Ashcroft’s life’s work (mostly unhinged conspiracies about ancient civilizations I’ve never heard of and ads for an estate sale); and, as my desperation deepens, 4) crystalline objects and psychic resonance phenomena.
My rational brain recoils from the words even as I type them.
I’m no woo-woo new age fanatic, convinced that the mystical properties of crystals and unverified supplements are going to lead to health, happiness, and spiritual fulfillment.
I bristle at the very idea. But I have to at least investigate, for my own peace of mind.
Unfortunately, none of my research provides any actual solutions, and I have to face reality. I can’t live on UberEats forever either. No, I have to leave my apartment. And I have to leave it today, for the three laser tattoo removal consultations I’ve booked that are going to solve my problem.
Still, I basically have to force myself into motion.
I find a cardigan I can tolerate despite the summer heat—I’m willing to risk mild heatstroke if it keeps the mark hidden—then grab my purse and keys.
Squaring my shoulders, I approach my door.
It feels like an eternity since I last opened it to actually go anywhere, and my hand hovers over the knob. With a resolute twist, I pull it open.
Once I’m out, it gets easier. Hustling toward the elevator, I round a corner in the hallway at a rapid clip, nearly colliding with someone.
“Whoa!” Em yelps, practically jumping backward. “You startled me!”
“Em!” Shit. “I didn’t know you were coming over today.”
“Well, it’s not like I can text you.” She rolls her eyes.
“You could email, you know.”
“Yeah, I could probably send a telegram too, but it’s not like I’m going to.”
“Yes, well, as you can see, I was just on my way out, so I’ll have to catch up with you later, okay?” I resume walking, at a much more measured pace, toward the elevator.
“I’m glad you’re feeling better! So, where are we going?” She falls in step beside me.
My anxiety spikes. I cannot have Em coming with me today. No one can know about the mark.
Before I have time to think or gather any semblance of composure, I blurt out, “You can’t come.”
A fleeting look of hurt crosses her features. “What? Why?”
“Um, it’s . . .” I cast about for excuses, feeling guilty. Normally I’d welcome Em’s company, even for errands, but I need to think fast, find something convincing to dissuade her.
“What?”
“A date! I have a date, okay?” I say as we step into the elevator.
“You? Have a date?!” Em squeals with joy. “You have to tell me everything. What’s his name? Does he like the same boring stuff as you? Does he have a cute younger brother? Or sister, I’m not picky.”
I clear my throat nervously. “Listen, it’s not serious or anything. Don’t get too excited.”
“Too late. I am excited. I need every detail.”
“Maybe later, all right? I don’t want to be late right now.”
“Wait. Why do you have a date at—” She checks her phone, before looking at me in disgusted disbelief. “—ten-thirty in the morning? God, you really are so old.”
“Yeah.” I pause, sighing for effect and hoping Em won’t notice how fake it is. “Well, it’s a third date, if you must know. We already did the whole night-life thing. We’re meeting for lunch.”
“A THIRD date?” She screeches, right as the elevator doors open to a confused-looking couple on the ground floor. I wince, shooting a strained smile at them. They quickly avert their eyes.
“Em!” I hiss, tugging my sister out of the elevator. “Lower your voice.”
Em, however, seems oblivious to the public display, and is now nearly vibrating with enthusiasm. “Deets! Deets! Deets!”
I loathe lying to her like this, it feels so manipulative. But letting the truth slip would be so much worse.
“How about this,” I reply, hating myself a little. “If this third date goes well—if—then I will give you all the ‘deets’.”
“Deal,” she says with a grin.
I plaster on a smile that feels more like a grimace. Great, I am going to have to come up with some elaborate backstory for my imaginary boyfriend. Just what I need right now, on top of everything else.
I manage to deflect Em’s rapid-fire questions about my supposed date as we walk out of the building and into the bright sunlight. The heat immediately presses in, and I feel a prickle of sweat forming under the sleeves of my cardigan. This is not ideal.
With promises of a coffee debrief later (which I fear will put my meager lying capabilities to the test), I hail a cab. As the taxi pulls away, leaving Em waving enthusiastically on the sidewalk, I am relieved.
It doesn’t last long. The closer I draw to my first appointment, the bigger the knot of anxiety in my chest grows.