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He’s the leader, after all, and these types of events would be on the forefront of his mind.
However, that didn’t stop him before. No matter what type of fuckery was going on, Jeremy managed to continuously transform into my shadow and haunt my days and nights.
Especially my nights.
I stare out my window at the gloomy darkness outside, rolling my pen between my fingers.
My attention has long since become scattered, blown by the wind and shattered by the edge of daydreaming. My academics have suffered the most, no matter how much I push myself into my ‘nerd’ zone, as my friends call it.
Straightening in my rotating chair, I slap my cheeks and return my focus to the project I’m supposed to be making.
Five minutes is all it takes before the words on the screen of my laptop blur into intelligible chaos.
Images of that day rush back into my mind. Punishing lips, merciless hands, unforgiving eyes.
I thought it was a dream, but I obviously zoned out and it was for longer than usual since my brain had the capacity to turn the event into a dream.
Not a nightmare. Adream.
My fingers ghost over my lips and touch them tentatively. A zap slashes through my body, and usually, I’d drop my hand as if I’d been caught stealing from a biscuit jar.
Now, I don’t.
This time, I close my eyes and picture his lips, unapologetic and controlling. I had no choice but to let him ravage, suck, lick.
It was a stolen moment that I couldn’t have put an end to.
I hate myself for reliving it over and over again. For picturing his big hand around my waist and the other trapping my cheek.
For still having the distinctive feeling of his erection rubbing against my backside.
But what I hate the most is wondering about why he left and never came back.
It’s not that I want him back.
I was relieved the first few days he wasn’t around to keep an eye on me.
Jeremy is a dangerous man, the worst enigma, and a devil with distorted morals and a cutthroat personality. He’s absolutely not someone I want to mingle with, so, yeah, I was glad he got over whatever stalker kink he had.
But that relief soon morphed into something more nefarious.
Unsettling curiosity.
I keep replaying what happened after he kissed me, poured vodka down my throat, then drank it off me.
He looked mad before he abruptly announced we were leaving. No, not mad. Possibly annoyed?
I really can’t be sure, considering his never-changing angry expression, so I have no clue if he looked that way by default or due to something I did.
I open my eyes, groan softly, then fish out my phone and open Instagram. I realize I’m letting him get under my skin, but I can’t help it.
Jeremy has an account, but he seldom posts on it, and most of his pictures are blurred and unintelligible. A mass of black and white and mysterious.
A day ago, I scrolled through all of his posts twice. This is the third time.
What? I need to know the enemy.
Though is he really an enemy if he’s actually left you alone?
