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Well, I know how. Uri’s blue eyes are magnetic fields that suck you in when you least expect it. They really don’t give a girl much of a choice.
After I’ve hyperventilated myself into lightheadedness, I end up in the shower. I rinse off the blood, sweat, and cum (ain’t that a cocktail) and change into a clean pair of jeans and a white tank top. Now that I’m feeling more put together, I also feel better equipped to deal with the situation.
No. There’s no “situation.” You’ll get Plan B tomorrow. You’ll take it. And that will be that.
Except that I also know what it’s like to have my hot neighbor quite literally inside me.
How did I even end up at his house?
“Ah! My package!” I bolt out of my room and back towards the front door. I spot the package the moment I’m out of the house. It’s lying in the grass, right where I tossed it over the fence hours and hours ago.
I grab it and take it back inside. Okay—no harm, no foul. I’ve recovered the package, Uri will never know, and I can embarrass Elle as planned. It’s all gonna be fine. Just a little unplanned sexcapade under my belt but hey, I’m willing to think of it as some much-needed therapy.
I walk the package into my kitchen and cut it open. I’m expecting the suspiciously light box to be stuffed to the brim with all manner of obscene and embarrassing items.
But… where’s the purple dildo? Where’s the lube? The handcuffs? The restraints?
All I’m faced with is a bunch of weird straw that seems to be hiding my purchases. I suppose when you spring for a purple dildo with tentacles, it’s all about the reveal.
I pull the straw out and reach inside the box for the flesh-colored item I can see peeking through the straw. Did they make a mistake and send me a normal dildo instead of a purple one? It was bad enough making those purchases the first time around. I am gonna be so freaking mad if I have to do it all over ag—
“AARRRGHH!”
The scream erupts out of me when I realize that what I have in the box isn’t a flesh-colored dildo—it’s actual flesh.
Actualhumanflesh.
It’s a severed…
Fucking…
Finger.
“Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God.” I’m talking fast and shaking and despite my recent shower, I’m sweating all over again. “What the fuck? What the fuck? What the fuck?”
It can’t be. Maybe I saw wrong. Maybe it’s just a gag or something. That finger can’t be real. It must be plastic.
But there’s a smell emanating from the box that says the severed finger is anything but plastic. I grab my only pair of tongs and use it to pull out the… yup, it’s a finger. There’s even a dry callus on its tip.
I nearly drop it as my dinner comes all the way up to my throat. Somehow, I manage to fight the urge long enough to tuck the finger back inside the straw bed. Then I rush to my bathroom and throw up my guts into the toilet.
Once my stomach is empty and the shaking has stopped, I work up the courage to go back into the kitchen. How is it possible to go from such a high—tothis?
Violently, I grab the box that’s still sitting on the kitchen counter. I’m gonna call that fucking company and give them a piece of my—
Oh, God.That’s when I spot the name on the front of the box. Not Alyssa Walsh.
But Uri Bugrov.
In my fear of being caught, I must have grabbed the wrong package. Which means I’ve not only trespassed on Uri’s private property, I’ve alsostolenUri’s private property.
Apparently, all those rumors circulating about Uri are well-deserved because I know one thing for sure: normal people don’t receive fingers in the mail.
I draw in a sharp breath when I realize something else—I just had sex with the kind of man who gets severed fingers in the mail.
I am so screwed.
“What do I do?” I ask myself out loud as I pace up and down the narrow galley kitchen. “What do I do?” I look down at the rose gold Z that dangles from my bracelet. “What wouldyoudo?”
