Page 28 of Haunted Spurs

Emma slowly lowers the pillow, her cheeks glowing red in the dim light. "I-I got ambushed by Mrs. Lacey," she stammers, pulling her cardigan tighter around her shoulders.

"Well, you'll be well protected by... someone whose name starts with LE and ends with VI," Indya singsongs.

We all giggle.

But my smile is short-lived. My attention is sucked back to the screen. The killer is moving.

And I... I don't feel even a shred of terror.

I stare at that fucking mask, and like some twisted Pavlovian reflex, my brain superimposes another figure over the movie.

A room bathed in red LED light. A broad chest. The contracting muscles of Ron Willers' abs as he pulls the mask off, that V-line disappearing into his jeans...

I feel a hot flash and a heavy, liquid throb that forces me to cross my legs. I grab my glass and take another heavy gulp of Pinot.

"You know what the best part of horror movies is?" Carolina exclaims, sitting up cross-legged and gesturing with the glass in her hand. "Survival sex. Shower sex. Fear sex..."

I nearly choke on my wine for the second time tonight.

"I'm serious!" she continues, fired up. "Think about it. You're locked in an isolated place. There's adrenaline, there's fear, there's the dark. Your senses are heightened. Your body goes into fight-or-flight mode, your blood is pumping like crazy, and bam... your hormones explode! It's pure physiology." She takes a sip and winks at me. "I'm just saying, Haunted Spurs is going to be a hell of a good time. Add the paranormal, the pitch black, and us locked in there with those cowboys. It's going to be a total free-for-all. In a good way, obviously."

Panic grips my throat.

Holy God. If a stupid plastic mask in a movie is enough to get my panties wet, how the fuck am I going to survive being locked in a house with Ron?

You could have some fun...

My little inner voice whispers.

I try to shut it up. I shove a handful of popcorn into my mouth, and before I even realize what I'm doing, I already have my phone in my hand.

Me: I'm watching a slasher movie. For the record, the killer's mask is definitely less ridiculous than the one you had on the other day.

I hit send. I bite my lower lip, my heart hammering against my ribs as I stare at the screen.

Why did I text him? I have NEVER texted him first before now.

Not even a minute goes by before the three little typing dots appear.

New-cowboy: Ah. Thinking about me on a Friday night, Queen of Darkness? I'm flattered.

Me: I was merely making an objective observation on stage costumes.

New-cowboy: Sure. And for the record, my mask was a masterpiece of terror.

New-cowboy: Plus, I'd bet my ranch that your on-screen killer doesn't have my abs. Or my dimple.

I snort a silent laugh through my nose. The sheer arrogance of this man is astounding.

Me: My on-screen killer has one massive quality that you don't: he knows how to stay absolutely silent.

New-cowboy: Hmm. You're wrong.

New-cowboy: I can think of a couple occasions where I could be absolutely silent. I bet you can think of them, too...

My breath catches in my throat.

My brain, already hopelessly ruined, projects a crystal-clear image. I see him on his knees, his hands holding my hips down, his face buried between my thighs. I imagine him feasting on me in the dark, with a dedication so carnal, attentive, and ruthless that it doesn't even leave him with enough breath to utter a single fucking syllable.