I needed to get back on track.
Sex.
Sexonly.
No strings attached. One night.
I grabbed my phone, hot water dripping down my wrist and onto the screen.
I’ve answered all your questions. I told you, you couldn’t scare me.
Oh really? Let’s try again, little Maniac. What part of this chapter did you like?
Void sent a picture of chapter eleven, but this time with a few lines highlighted—the exact part I loved. Where it showed the hero knew her limits even before she did.
I like…I started to type.
I rubbed the center of my palm, suddenly exposed. The heater whirred in the dark. Candlelight flickered, casting a dull glow on the flowers dotting the wall. Fire pushed me forward. Recklessness. Finally alive.
It’s the taboo, the push and pull, the power dynamic, I sent.
It’s being wanted so much someone breaks the rules.
It’s wanting someone so much you’re willing to break your own rules.
And then I couldn’t stop. I was sending row after row of messages. Distantly remembering some rule I learned in high school about the number of times you could text a boy and the amount of time you had to wait to respond, lest they think you were clingy.
Blowing that rule out of the water.
I especially like that even though it’s “non-con,” the hero knows more about what the heroine wants than she does. He’s giving her exactly what she wants, and knows when to stop before she asks.
I think that’s the most intoxicating thing, I continued. The forced submission and surrender. I get in my head so easily…I can’t just be in the moment. I want to be forced into it.
Before he could respond, I quickly sent a last message.
There. I answered your question. Now we meet.
We’re never going to meet.
We had a deal.
I’m a criminal, Shay. I’ve broken more laws tonight than you will your entire life. We are not going to meet.
I set my phone down like it was hot, staring at my bare knees poking out of the water until it all blurred into one.
No way he was telling the truth. Right? I mean, stalking is definitely breaking some laws. But the guy who wanted to learn my limits, who asked about my favorite foods, who somehow knew me more than anyone, wasn’t a bad guy.
He was trying to freak me out.
I played by the rules, and now he was trying to get out of them.
I swallowed the sting of rejection and got out of the bath.Maybe this was all some game to him.Pale steam fogged the bathroom into something tangible, filling my lungs with heat. I wiped the steam off the mirror and pulled out my phone, turning to the side, and took a photo.
It was still a bit foggy, but it made the picture look more forbidden somehow. My wet hair dripped droplets down my shoulder blade and across my bare stomach. My hand covered most of my breast, and the mirror stopped above my waist, hiding everything below.
I took the photo and posted it to close friends with the caption:
What kind of criminal?
