If You Dare

“Touch yourself,” he demanded hoarsely. “I want to see it.”

… I’d come apart if he touched me. If he leaned in and whispered these words. If he groaned against my pussy and jacked off his cock. I’d grip his hair in my fingers and ride his face shamelessly. I’d cry his name and buck my hips and wrap my legs around his head and come on his mouth, my body shaking, my legs squeezing, my voice cracking. I—

When I came, he growled my name over and over, his voice breaking, his harsh moan at the end telling me the moment he followed suit, the soft whisper of his hands, cool breath blown against my hot skin, his mouth kissing beads of sweat off my chest.

And, in the moment before he signed off, I felt the remorseful pull of guilt.

“Thank you, baby.” He whispered the words, his voice slack and sleepy.

“Anytime, Mike.” I dropped my head back and closed my eyes. Stretched out my limbs and wondered how long it’d be before I could move.

“I missed you.” His voice was quiet and lazy, but the emotion was there, pushing, reminding. Reminding me that, like it had been for a long time, there was something there. Something between us.

“I missed you too.” I said the words softly and wished, for the hundredth time, that he’d show me his cam. Let me see his eyes and know what lay there. If it was just lust, or if… Maybe it was better he didn’t. Maybe it was better for us if there was this layer of disco

Twenty-six minutes. $181.74 earned. Because it was, despite the I miss yous and joint orgasms, a business transaction. Just like I keep reminding Jeremy. That’s all.

CHAPTER 18

Present

“MRS. MCCLINTOCK, WHY were you behind the Quik Mart at that time of night?”

“The Dumpsters are emptied on Monday mornings. I like to glance through them, see if anyone’s thrown out anything good. You wouldn’t believe the perfectly good stuff that people throw out, even in this neighborhood.”

“Ever found anything like this before? In or near the Dumpster?”

“A body? No. I’ve never found a body before.”

“Anything else? That stands out as odd?”

“Could I have a glass of water? I’m feeling a little light-headed.”

CHAPTER 19

Past

JEREMY KNOCKED AND waited. Pressed a hand to the wall and leaned forward slightly, stretching out his back. He should wear the brace. Too many heavy boxes lifted improperly. One day he’d be hunched over like the oldies on the loading dock. He rolled his neck and glanced at his watch. Tilted a head toward the door and tried to hear something. Considered just opening it. He knocked again.

Dea

His hand stopped an inch from the handle and he looked up, into the dead peephole. “What?”

“I’m in a session. Just leave the box like we used to do.”

Used to do. Right. In the first three years, back when he had never seen her. Knew only her voice and her cryptic insistence that he leave all packages and walk away. They’d left that stage a year ago. “What are you talking about? Open the door.” He wanted to reach out. Turn the knob and push it in. It’d be unlocked. He was a hundred times stronger than she was. But he resisted. Tried to respect the request, even if he didn’t understand it. “Are you okay?” Maybe someone was there. Maybe she was being held captive, against her will. Someone, right now, might be holding a knife to her throat. He should try the door. He stretched his shoulders back and clenched his fists, every muscle prepping for a possible confrontation.

“I’m fine. Just leave the fucking box.” She didn’t sound scared. She sounded irritated. Then again, the woman didn’t have the sense to be scared, her i

He looked down at the box, a small one from a beauty store. “I’m not leaving until I see you.”

An irritated huff that somehow passed through the steel door. A string of curses that tumbled louder when the door snatched open, the girl who owned his heart, standing before him in a T-shirt and hot-orange boyshorts. “Happy?” she demanded.

His eyes danced over her, then shot left, to her pink bed, brilliantly lit by ten thousand watts of professional lighting, a pile of sex toys front and center on its bedspread. To the kitchen, the table empty, counters clean. The door to the bathroom open, shower curtain pulled, green tile showing. The right side of the room, where stacks of novels framed a box spring and mattress, a messy pile of sheets and pillows. Further right, the sea of cardboard boxes encroaching, almost pushing to the door frame. No one else. Just her, the loft apartment empty. “What’s wrong?” he asked.

Her eyes rolled upward and she leaned forward, yanking the package out of his hands and tossing it in the general direction of her bed. “Nothing. I’m working. I’ll call you later.”

She pushed the door closed and his hand shot out, stopping it. “Kiss me.”

Her eyes narrowed. “No.”

“Tell me what the fuck is wrong,” he growled. “Is this about di

“Move your hand before I chop it off.” Her upper lip curled into a snarl.

He lifted it and stared her down, her eyes darting away from his in the moment before she slammed it. Then, to his absolute shock, there was the click of a lock.

A lock. He wasn’t even aware she had a lock on that side of the door. She prided herself on keeping it open during the day, had some fanatical obsession with it. Yet here, now… she didn’t let him in and locked the door. Locked him out. Wouldn’t kiss him. He stared at the peephole and wondered if she was looking through it. Wondered, with a pain in his heart, if this was the begi

“She’s a fucking peach.”

He kept his eyes on the peephole, fought an i

“I gotta say, I think you can do better.” She sauntered forward, her hands pushing into the front pockets of her jeans, the motion pushing them farther down on her hips, the edge of yellow lace giving a hint at her panties.

He said nothing, just pulled his eyes from her impressively tight abs.

“The strong silent type?” she asked, stopping before him, a hand leaving her pocket to brush through her hair, her back arching from the motion. He noticed her breasts. She gri