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Is this real?
Now that snaky chill turns into a roaring thrill.
My knees go weak and I almost pass out with excitement.
Shakily I sink into a chair, my fingers trembling as I stare at the VIP pass like it’s a key to freedom, a symbol of salvation, an invitation to something that I’ve imagined a thousand times but never with the expectation that it could ever actually happen.
I press the cool plastic card to my heart, close my eyes and wait for my breathing to settle down enough that I can think clearly. It takes several long minutes, and even then I know I’m not thinking clearly at all.
Because I’m actually considering doing it.
My vision blurs as my heart starts to hammer again. I’m getting married in three weeks. My secret crush spoke to me for the first time ever today. And now he’s left an invitation.
But an invitation to what?
Innocent adventure?
Fairytale romance?
Dirty sex?
What does it mean if I show up in New York this weekend?
Only one way to find out, I think feverishly as my mind snaps into high gear. I haven’t been to the U.S. Open since I was twelve and I went with Mom just a few months before she died. But I know how things work at the tennis center in Queens, New York.
There are a dozen courts within the tennis center, with multiple matches going on at the same time. The VIP pass gets you into any court, and each court has a reserved VIP section where you can take any unoccupied seat. There’s no assigned seating, so I could wander in and out of the various matches, sit anywhere in the VIP section.
Sit next to anyone I like.
Now I hurry up to my room, excitement carrying me flying up the stairs until I’m breathless at the top, running down the hallway like a rabbit as everything starts to fall into place.
We’re a Florida Mafia Family, with zero business dealings in New York. I’m not on any Social Media, so nobody’s going to recognize me—especially not in a big hat and sunglasses. I’d have to take a personal maid and at least two bodyguards, but they won’t come into the secured tennis center with me. They’d wait outside and be with me at the hotel all night, of course, but during the day I’d be alone inside the tennis center, safe like a kid in Disneyland.
Yup, so long as I take my personal maid and the bodyguards, Father will probably give me a VIP pass—obviously I can’t tell him I already have one—and let me go without worrying too much. Especially if I can make him feel a bit guilty about the upcoming arrangement with Ralph Romero, perhaps a bit melancholy that I’ll be moving out in less than a month, his daughter all grown up and leaving home forever.
I can totally pull this off.
And I don’t have to make any decisions about what it means until I get there.
If it’s weird and awkward or if I’m reading this whole thing wrong . . . well, then I can just enjoy a weekend of tennis and avoid Zedd altogether.
Of course, avoiding Zedd might not be an option.
The guy’s an assassin, trained to stalk his prey, hunt his target, strike before his victim even knows he’s there.
The dark fantasies grab me by the throat, and suddenly I’m on my bed again, legs spread wide, fingers down the front of my black tennis underwear, fingertips working the seam of my slit, careful not to push all the way in and damage that oh-so-important seal of feminine purity.
My eyelids flutter as I flick my clit, rub my vulva, stroke that dark space between my vagina and butthole. I come fast and hard, my body hunching forward as I sputter and gasp through a raging climax, my head thrashing against my silk pillow, face twisted in a grimace of ecstasy, eyelids clamped shut tight as the familiar fantasy of Zedd between my legs takes on a dangerously real vividness.
Now panic streaks through me as I pant my way down to reality. What the hell am I doing, I ask myself as my climax winds down. Remember that some fantasies are arousing precisely because in real life they’d be dangerous, perhaps even deadly.
And shit, if this fantasy plays out in reality this weekend, I might be a dead woman on my wedding night.
Because Ralph Romero will expect me to bleed red for him, like a cherry that’s just been popped.
4
THREE DAYS LATER.
