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I lay in my bed, thinking.
I glanced at the door, noticing that it was slightly ajar.
Did I leave it like that when I came back from the bathroom? I couldn’t remember if I had closed it or not, and it annoyed me.
‘‘He’s not an actual ghost,’’ I whispered to myself. ‘‘If he’s here, I’ll see him.’’
I was terrified of closing my eyes. A part of it was because I worried that he might snap at some point and slice my throat while I was sleeping. All the research and his evaluations proved that he was a psychopath, and he could be unpredictable.
The other part of me was terrified I’d dream of him again. At this point, I preferred the nightmares where he’d chase me around, torture me, skin me alive until I was dead, just like the rest of his victims. But sexual dreams of him? It was getting unbearable.
My jaw was clenched, eyes closed shut.
‘‘Just once,’’ I mumbled to myself.
I won’t be able to fall asleep unless I get rid of the constant ache between my legs.
It felt like I was committing a crime, but I couldn’t allow myself to have those thoughts. Being aroused was a perfectly normal part of life, although the cause wasn’t so normal.
Reluctantly, I brought my hand down to my underwear, slowly rubbing my clit over my underwear. My eyes were still closed, and all I could see was the picture from the dream.
The underwear started to get wet as I thought of the ways he was touching me in the dream. My mind went to the questions of what it would feel like to have him touch me for real, how thick fingers would feel fucking me senseless.
Foolishly, I thought about his cock, too.
I hadn’t seen it, but I just knew it would ruin my ability to walk. He had that aura around him, and he didn’t seem like someone to disappoint in bed.
A small moan slipped from my lips, my other hand going underneath my shirt, caressing my erect nipple. The cabin was cold, making my skin more sensitive than usual. It’d been a while since I touched myself, given the shitstorm of my life.
‘‘Well, that’s a sight.’’
I froze.
My eyes snapped open, and a gasp tore from my chest.
I didn’t hear when he pushed the door open, or notice when he leaned against the doorframe. He had a pair of gray sweatpants on, and no shirt. His whole body was inked, with no room for another tattoo, even the smallest one.
He was just there, staring at me with a small smirk on his face.
His hair was messy, a few front pieces falling over his eyes. He was definitely one of the hottest men I’d ever come across. That aura of his just made him more appealing.
‘‘What are you doing?’’
I barely found my voice, eyes glued to him. He pushed himself off the wall and slowly strolled towards me. He looked hungry, sleep deprived and definitely aroused. I saw the outline of his bulge but quickly looked away. I didn’t want to get caught staring.
‘‘Get out.’’
‘‘And miss out on this wonderful view?’’ He chuckled. ‘‘Not a chance.’’
He sat down next to me, bed dipping under his weight. That was the moment when I realized that my hand was still on my clit. With a small gasp, I tried to pull it back, only to have his hand grab my wrist, and pull it back where it was.
‘‘Continue.’’
‘‘What?’’
‘‘I said’’—he flickered his tongue over his bottom lip—‘‘continue.’’
The tone of his voice left no room for any arguments. He gripped my wrist tighter, yet not tight enough to inflict pain. It was a staring contest, and I lost quickly. His demeanor terrified me — the look of danger that was displayed in his eyes made my throat close up.
