IT’S A SAD world when I am bored by the sight of a grizzly-bearded trucker modeling lace panties. I fight a yawn, move briefly upward, out of sight of the camera, and let the yawn out. Once I recompose, I settle back down, an impressed smile on my features.
“Oh…,” I purr. “The sight of your ass in that lace is so fucking hot. You like that, don’t you?”
Mistyone62 looks over his shoulder, at the cam—his dirty face a mess of want and arousal. “Oh God, yes…” He giggles, the sound contrasting with his gruff features.
I bite my bottom lip, widening my eyes in a show of amazement. Then I hear something. Shit. I straighten, looking toward my door. I look at the cam and hold up a finger to my lips in a shushing motion.
The sound repeats—a knock. It is so out of place at this time of night that I almost second-guess the sound. I glance at my computer screen, at the clock in the upper right-hand corner: 11:34pm. I lean forward, speaking quickly. “Misty, I’m sorry, but I have to go. My roommate just got home.”
His screen quickly goes dark. The threat of exposure is always their greatest fear. God bless my imaginary roommate, who has gotten me out of more ridiculous situations than my stun gun or knife ever will. He types a few sentences of text, promising to be on tomorrow, then he is gone, the END CHAT message filling the screen. I am already moving, stepping across the room and placing my eye to the peephole, taking a deep breath before looking through.
It’s Jeremy, his strong body showcased in a sleeveless shirt and what looks like running shorts, his hair damp, earbuds pulled out and hanging around his neck. I swallow the drool that is threatening to drip from my mouth. I can almost smell the masculine scent of his sweat, the glisten on his muscles visible even through the warped view of the peephole.
“Leave it. Thank you.” I speak the words of our script, a smile stretching across my face.
He laughs, his head tilting backward, the carefree movement catching my heart through the peephole. He rests a hand on the door, leaning closer in a way that allows me to hear him more clearly. “You’re up. I was worried you’d be sleeping.”
“What, and leave half of the men in America hanging?” I say dryly, eliciting another chuckle from him, his grin widening when he hears my voice.
“I didn’t mean to bother you.” He runs a hand through his hair, my eyes drinking in every inch of the movement. “I just needed to hear your voice. I—” He curses under his breath. “Fuck, I don’t know. I just wanted to hear your voice.”
I bite the side of my smile, trying to keep it from spreading. “You just come from the gym?” Sweat. Sweat tastes good. You can lick it off of him. Maybe nibble on his skin. Draw a little blood. Then a little more. Fuck, maybe he’s a masochist. Just let him in and let us work on him. Tie him up. The voices inside my head titter, greedy with excitement and the possibility of blood. I push them to the side. I have missed his voice, his casual air that accepts the twisted woman that I am.
He glances down at his outfit. “No. I mean, I was out on a run when I decided to stop by. Sorry it’s so late.”
I don’t bother responding to that apology. He can stop by at four a.m. if he wants to. Five a.m. if he takes that shirt off and lets me see his sweaty chest, heaving with the evidence of his exertion. I want to touch that chest, want to run my fingers over the cut of his muscles. When he was here with me, spending those days…sex was the last thing on my mind, Jeremy acting the perfect gentleman. But now I have recovered from my trip outside, now I am back into my world, away from the breeze and the sounds and the experience of sharing air, vehicles, space, with others…and contact is an experience I miss. The unpredictability of real life, outside of this apartment. In 6E, I control everything, no variables present to fuck with my normal. Out there are people. People like him doing things that affect every thought, action, and emotion that exists.
“May I come in?”
My breath hitches, the push and pull inside of me too strong to ignore. “I don’t know,” I say slowly, running my hand along the seam of the door, my ear pressing expectantly against it, hoping he will continue speaking, my body craving another bit of his voice.
“Is it because you worry about hurting me?”
I nod, forgetting for a moment that he can’t see me. “Yeah.”
“I could hold you down. Straddle your body. Like we did the first time we met.”
“You mean when I was naked?”
He looks up at the peephole, flashing me another smile. “Yeah. You naked now?”
I laugh, looking down at my sheer bra-and-panty set. “Not quite.”
He can control me. He’s shown that before, when my attempt to take his life was thwarted by his strength and agility. This time he will be prepared, will be more capable, especially if I move into a position of restraint willingly, before the urge to kill strikes. I toy with the notion of letting him in, the dark desires in the back of my mind sitting up and taking notice. I shouldn’t. It is too dangerous, too risky.
He sits on the floor by my door, leaving my field of vision, the door moving slightly as if he is leaning his weight against it. I follow suit, sliding down the steel surface until my butt hits the floor, my ear pressed against the cold metal.
“You didn’t try to kill me when I stayed with you.” His voice is quieter, and I have to strain to hear it.
“I know. I think my body was recovering. For a minute, I thought that maybe…” My words fade and I feel him shift.
“Maybe what?”
“I had hoped that maybe I was better. Back to normal.” And I had hoped. I had allowed myself, during those three days with Jeremy, to dream of normality. I had been at peace, my demons quiet, my psyche granting me the gift of touching him, kissing him, without thinking about how good his head would look decapitated from his body. It had been almost cruelty, getting those days, a glimpse into a life I will never have.
“You used to be normal?” He sounds so surprised that I laugh, a real laugh, one that bubbles out of me and feels incredible.
“Yeah,” I whisper. “I used to be totally normal. Till I was seventeen. That’s when things changed.”
He doesn’t push the conversation further, a fact I am grateful for. I don’t want to ruin this moment by bringing up my past, don’t want to appear any more freakish than I already am. We sit in silence.
“It’s okay, though, right?” His voice breaks the silence. “This is your normal now. And you’re happy, right?”
“Yeah,” I say softly. “I’m happy.” And I am. Right now, with him, I am happy. In that realization, I decide to open the door.
I move quickly, before my brain has a chance to react—to tell me that what I’m doing is foolish. I stand, running my hands over my body, adjusting, pushing into place, and putting the lines of my lingerie where they should go. I fluff my hair, wet my lips, and reach for the handle, my heart beating a rapid pulse in my chest.