A leopard print throw lays at the foot, and on top of that is a laptop with a snakeskin sleeve on the lid. Scoffing at the irony, I perch on the edge of the bed and pull it onto my lap, opening the top slowly, while listening for footsteps.
With my heart in my throat, I push the power button in the corner. The computer flickers to life, and my pulse increases its frequency, excitement drumming through me.
The lock screen pops up, and I frown. Racking my brain for every bit of information I’ve collected on Riley over the last three years, I try to think of what she might use as a password, but none of the words work.
Tapping my finger on the keyboard, I start to type something else, but then I hear it again.
“Aiden…”
My spine stiffens, my gaze shooting up to the door. The bathroom light is still on, no footsteps discernible, but I know I heard it that time.
Shoving the laptop away, I stalk back to the door. I can’t stop myself from turning the knob and pushing it slightly ajar.
I know her exact routine and have cataloged her every action. I know that when she takes her baths, she puts on a giant pair of noise-canceling headphones and slathers on some kind of green face mask.
I know she spends exactly twenty-three minutes in the tub.
And I know that when she gets out, she lathers up in that peppermint lotion that haunts my fucking dreams to this day.
I can taste it on her skin, still. Remember exactly how breathless she was, how flushed her face got when she told me about it.
Still, part of me expects her to notice when I walk in.
For her self-preservation to win out, and self-awareness to kick in, alerting her to the fact that she’s being preyed upon.
I almost want her to. Want her to see the monster she’s created before he inevitably destroys her.
But she doesn’t notice, headphones securely in place, and suddenly I’m staring at the most beautiful liar I’ve ever seen.
Her pale skin, slick with water and an undeniable sheen of sweat, glistens in the vanity lighting, and she lays with her head hooked over the lip of the bathtub, pink hair shimmering over the side.
Perky breasts with sweet, peachy nipples rise and fall with each ragged breath she draws, dispersing the water’s surface. I watch as it ebbs back and forth, the moon pulling and pushing at the tide, enamored by the way it seems to move for her.
Disappointment sizzles in my chest when I realize her blue eyes are pinched shut, but then my gaze slides between parted, propped up knees, and the air escapes my lungs.
My legs quake as her hands move, guiding the bulbous head of a vibrator back and forth over her clit.
Blood rushes south, and my palm comes down, pressing against the fly of my jeans. My tongue feels heavy and dry, her tiny moans making me dizzy.
As my own breathing starts to struggle, hers picks up. Her chest heaves, caving in and then pushing back out, and my lips tingle with the desire coursing through me.
It’d be so fucking easy to march over and draw the taut peaks of her tits between my lips. To draw out her pleasure, test her tolerance for pain by sinking my teeth into the puckered flesh.
Gripping the counter with as much force as possible, I keep myself in place, unwilling to reveal my presence before I know what I want to do with her.
My father wants me to expose her. Bring her back to the land of the living and prove myself to those who doubted me.
Technically, I want that too.
But I also think I deserve a little fun along the way, all things considered.
So, I remain still, cock leaking on my thigh as I watch Riley bring herself to orgasm; I can’t see all of her face from this vantage point, but I see her forehead wrinkle as she gurgles in delight, arching her back against the tub tile.
Goddamn. I’m feverish, bearing witness to divinity.
My jaw clenches so tight that stars dance around the edges of my vision.
The toy must be new, because I’ve never heard the sounds coming from her throat before. Not behind a closed door, anyway.
A fleeting thought flashes through my mind, and I wonder if the guy with her on the boardwalk gifted it to her.
If he’s used it on her.
Fury scorches a path across my chest, crimson splashing behind my eyes every time I blink. As she comes off her high, Riley disables the vibrator and goes limp in the tub, running a hand through her hair.
I’m stuck in place when she finally stands, reaching for a towel hanging on the wall, back facing me.
My throat constricts as she rises, droplets of water dripping over the curve of her perfect ass.
Memory and screens do not do her justice.
Annoyance heats the base of my spine, clearing the fog of lust as it coasts through my brain. I dip out the door before she can turn around, knowing the next part of her routine gives me a couple of minutes to disappear into the shadows again, my malicious presence unbeknownst to her.
The bedside lamp doesn’t illuminate the entire room, so I slink into a darkened corner by the dresser, willing my dick to go down.
Pressing myself into the wall, I try to think of anything else. My parents, the lake outside, my fifth grade social studies project on the Declaration of Independence.
All I see is her fucking face.
A subdued noise of frustration puffs from my nostrils, and I move my hands to my jeans. It’s a shit idea, possibly the worst I’ve ever had, but right now my only thought is relief.
Relief of the guilt her beauty fills me with when she should be the one repenting.
Of not being able to create, because she’s still got her claws latched into my brain, my lungs, and my soul.
Three years I’ve spent living and breathing her. Imagining the moment I’d be able to reclaim my focus.
Denying myself because of the way she dominates my thoughts.
But no more.
With shaky fingers, I drag my zipper down and wrench my cock from my boxers. It’s hot to the touch, and I swipe my thumb along the tip, spreading the bead of precum bubbling there.
Releasing a harsh breath, I close my eyes and inhale, stroking up my shaft once.
Twice.
My movements are stilted, uneven as I lean to listen for her departure from the bathroom. The sink turns on, and a strangled moan escapes me as I begin pumping harder.
Palming the top of her dresser, I blow out a breath, sweat forming at my hairline. As a drop glides down the bridge of my nose, I’m reminded of her in the bathtub, body shimmering with the evidence of her exertion, and my balls draw up tight.
I envision her face, mouth parted in shock and eyes wide, if she were to come out before I’m finished.
The idea of her catching me like this, draining myself dry to the image of her doing the same, spurs me on. I’m panting, hips bucking against the air, my climax so close I can taste it in my throat, when I realize I don’t have anywhere for it to go.
Swallowing hard, I slow my strokes without ceasing completely, glancing at the wooden surface in front of me. I could use a pair of panties stuffed in my pocket, but then I’d have to leave it for her to find in order to send a message, and I don’t want to do that.
But I’m not leaving without letting her know that I’m here.
A bottle sitting in my line of sight captures my attention, and I lean in, squinting hard to see the label.
Something sinister weasels through my gut, weaving its way between my ribs until it’s practically one with my being. Satisfaction, sick and deranged, courses through my bloodstream, and I reach forward to unscrew the lid.