His Virgin Stripper

11- Cornered

Sienna

My brain came back online all at once.

One second I was staring.

The next, reality slammed into me so hard it nearly knocked the air from my lungs.

Oh my God.

Oh my God.

Oh my God.

The dangerously attractive stranger from the basement was standing inside Roxy's rental.

Inside.

The rental.

And he had just witnessed me screaming like a deranged woman, hair matted from sleep, eyes likely swollen, looking for the world like a shipwreck survivor who had just been dragged ashore.

My face burned, a scorching heat that seemed to radiate from my very soul. Every embarrassing second replayed itself with brutal, high-definition clarity.

The yelling. The frantic energy. The fact that I'd practically thrown a toddler-level tantrum in front of a man who looked like he’d never raised his voice in his entire life.

A horrified noise, half-gasp and half-whimper, escaped my throat.

Roxy took one look at my expression, the sheer, unadulterated mortification etched into every line of my face and immediately lost whatever composure she had left.

Her laughter exploded through the room.

It wasn't a giggle or a polite chuckle.

But actual, uncontrollable, wheezing laughter.

She doubled over, clutching her stomach as if she were in physical pain, pointing a finger at me that shook with delight.

I didn't stick around to suffer through it. I didn't care about politeness, or common decency, or the fact that there was a stranger standing a few feet to my bedroom. I turned on my heel and bolted.

Behind me, Roxy’s laughter grew louder, echoing off the thin walls of the apartment. I hit my bedroom door like a linebacker, pushed it shut, and fumbled for the lock.

The click of the bolt sliding home was the most beautiful sound I’d ever heard.

Then I checked it again. And a third time. To make sure it's secure.

My heart pounded wildly against my ribs, a trapped bird desperate to escape. I paced the small bedroom, my hands running through my tangled hair.

What was he doing here? How did he even know where I was? No one knew where I was, except Talia and Roxy. Was he stalking me? Was this some twisted part of the "impossible offer" he’d mentioned?

And why, out of all the moments he could have chosen to appear had it been that one?

I pressed both palms against my burning face, trying to cool the heat. This couldn't be happening. It absolutely could not be happening. It was the kind of soul-crushing humiliation that you only saw in poorly written movies.

Outside the room, I could still hear Roxy laughing, that traitor.

I needed a shower. Immediately. Maybe the shock of cold water would knock some sense back into my fractured brain. Maybe it would wash away the layer of humiliation that felt like it had permanently bonded to my skin.

I couldn't stay in this room, pacing like a caged animal. I rushed into the bathroom, shutting that door and locking it too. The silence of the small, tiled space was a relief, even if it was bound to be short-lived.

A few minutes later, the air was thick with steam. I stood beneath the spray, letting the water run through my hair and over my shoulders, trying to drown out the memory of his smirk.

Slowly, the panic began settling just enough that I could draw a full breath without feeling like I was inhaling glass.

I closed my eyes and took a deep breath.

Bad idea.

The moment I did, his face appeared. The sharp, aristocratic angles. The cold, piercing gaze that saw right through my defenses. The infuriating way he’d looked completely unaffected while my entire world was imploding.

I groaned, a long, drawn-out sound that echoed softly against the ceramic tile. Why was I like this? Why was my brain incapable of focusing on the terrifying nature of his presence and instead obsessing over how ridiculous I looked in front of him?

I reached for the shampoo, squeezing a glob onto my palm, trying to force my mind toward mundane, productive thoughts.

And then, like a trap snapping shut, another memory surfaced.

My hand froze in mid-air.

My eyes slowly opened, staring unseeing at the showerhead.

No.

No.

No, no, no.

The conversation with Roxy just minutes before I opened the door. The one I’d been yelling through the wood, assuming I was in a soundproof bunker.

My stomach dropped, bottoming out so sharply I felt dizzy.

*“My fiancé dumped me.”*

The words replayed in my head. Clear as day.

Loud, pathetic, and undeniably true.

I stared blankly at the wall, the shampoo running down my wrist and into the drain. Then at the shampoo bottle, which suddenly seemed to represent all my failures. Then back at the wall, where the tiles blurred into a singular, mocking grey.

“He heard that.”

A fresh wave of humiliation, hotter and more acidic than the last, crashed over me.

Of course he heard it. The walls of this place were made of little more than drywall and hope. If I could hear Roxy’s footsteps, he could certainly hear me broadcasting my breakup to the entire street.

I covered my face with both hands, the water splashing over my knuckles.

“Oh my God,” I whispered into my palms, the sound muffled and desperate.

First he’d seen me lose my mind, looking like a banshee. Now he knew, definitively, that I was cheated on by my fiancé.

Wonderful. Absolutely wonderful.

Could this get any worse? I felt like a cosmic punchline.

I pointed a soapy, accusing finger at absolutely nobody.

“You couldn't keep your mouth shut for five minutes? You couldn't just have a silent breakdown like a normal, functional human being?”

The person I was talking to happened to be me, and I was losing the argument.

I sighed, a heavy, defeated sound. Then I groaned. Then I sighed again, each breath feeling heavier than the last.

The embarrassment was becoming physically painful, a tight knot in my chest that refused to loosen.

I quickly rinsed the shampoo from my hair, scrubbing with a little more force than necessary, trying to wash away the embarrassment.

I tried very hard not to think about the fact that he was still somewhere inside the rental, likely standing in the living room, waiting for me to come out and embarrass myself further.

It didn't work. Nothing worked. Because every time I pushed the thought away, it came right back with a vengeance.

The basement. The contract. The black card. The hand kiss. The way his jacket had felt draped over my shoulders, heavy with his scent and his presence.

My face heated all over again, the steam in the room now feeling suffocating.

“This is a disaster,” I muttered.

I stood there, fully immersed in the hot spray, letting the water cascade over me as I retreated further into my own mortification.

I wasn't ready to leave. I wasn't ready to face the world, let alone him. I just needed the steam to hide me a little longer.

Then, a sound reached me through the bathroom door.

A soft, distinct click.

My entire body went perfectly still. I stood frozen under the water, my eyes wide, my breath hitched in my throat. The hot stream continued to beat against my shoulders, but I didn't feel it anymore.

For a moment, I wasn't sure I'd heard correctly. Maybe it was the pipes. Maybe it was the building settling.

Then realization hit, cold and sharp, cutting through the steam.

That sound hadn't come from the hallway. It hadn't come from the front door.

It had come from my bedroom.

My heart didn't just pound; it stopped.

Someone had just opened the door to my room.

The lock I had secured, the one I had checked three times, had been bypassed.

My breath caught as the handle of the door turned. And footsteps drifted in.

Slowly.

Deliberately.

And then, it stopped.