Make Me Sin

39

Sweating and gasping, I wake at one a.m. the following morning from an intensely erotic dream wherein I was being ravished by a man in a hoodie who’d broken into my bedroom in the middle of the night.

If my mother knew I was having fantasies about the very thing she warned me about, I’d be cut out of the will.

In the boy shorts and ratty, sleeveless ZZ Top T-shirt I wore to bed, I pad barefoot to the kitchen, not turning on any lights, and stand in front of the open refrigerator door, chugging orange juice from the big plastic jug. I know I’ll never be able to get back to sleep.

That damn dream was the sexiest thing that’s happened to me since . . . well, since ever.

I groan softly, trying to forget the way the stranger pinned my arms to the pillow above my head. How he tied my wrists to the headboard with a pair of my own pantyhose. How his mouth felt on my skin. How his rough voice murmured all kinds of filthy things in my ear as his big hands groped me, fondling my breasts, pinching my n*****s, sliding against the wetness between my legs—

Gah! I really need to get laid.

Frustrated, I toss the juice back into the fridge and slam the door. Yawning, I scrub my hands over my face. I check the clock; I’ve got three hours to kill before the alarm goes off.

I could get dressed and go to the flower market now. It opens at eleven p.m., so getting in would be no problem. Plus all the best stuff goes early. Instead, I find myself wandering restlessly around the apartment in the dark, my thoughts drifting.

Until I stop dead in front of the living room window. My skin prickles.

“This is getting to be a thing,” I murmur in disbelief, staring down at the man pacing back and forth under the streetlight across the street. I always thought having a stalker would be an incredibly creepy experience, but then again, I never thought I’d know exactly who my stalker would be. That shaves an edge off the creep factor, leaving me more fascinated than frightened by this new development in my life.

Even at a distance, A.J.’s agitation is clear.

He paces in long, even strides. He flexes his hands open, then closes them to fists. It appears that he’s muttering to himself. Every few feet he turns abruptly and goes back in the opposite direction, starting the whole process all over again.

Without thinking about what I’m doing, I turn on the lamp beside the window, flooding the room in light.

A.J. stops pacing. He looks up at my window. I stare down at him, waiting, hands shaking, heart racing, wondering if I’ve just made a terrible mistake, while simultaneously not caring if I have.

After a lifetime of holding my breath, I watch as he slowly steps off the curb and crosses the street.

When he’s out of view around the front corner of my building, I run to the front door. I press my ear against it, straining to hear any sound. The elevator was fixed a few weeks ago, so now I can’t hear steps on the stairs, but I do hear the cheerful ding as the elevator stops on my floor and the doors slide open.

It’s a few excruciating moments before heavy footsteps begin to move toward my door.

They pause just outside. My heart feels like a trampoline with a dozen fat ladies jumping up and down on it. After a moment, A.J. says my name. His voice is barely audible. He knows I’m standing here.

I take a deep breath and open the door.

He dwarfs the doorway. He’s in faded jeans, boots, the signature black hoodie that shadows his face. His hands, trembling, hang at his sides. His eyes burn a hole right through me.

In a gravelly voice, he says, “Tell me to leave. Tell me to go away and shut the door in my face.”

Before I can change my mind, I reach out, grab the front of his sweatshirt and gently pull him into my apartment.

He stares down at me with those burning eyes, his face hard. “One last chance. Tell me to leave.”

“I don’t want you to leave.”

Without looking away from me, he swings the door shut behind him with a flick of his hand. We stand for a moment, tension thick between us, until he says, “Bedroom.”

That single, husky word wreaks havoc throughout my body. I swallow, licking my lips, hesitating, but A.J. shakes his head.

“Too late, Princess.” He bends and sweeps me off my feet, into his arms.

This is a move that I, who reached my full height of five foot ten in junior high school, never would have thought possible. It takes a man as large and strong as A.J. to make lifting me look as easy as lifting a piece of paper from the floor. Along with being surprised and thrilled, I’m deeply impressed.

Also impressive are his shoulders, which I’m now clinging on to for dear life, because he’s walking across the living room.

He doesn’t need to ask again where the bedroom is; it’s pretty obvious. I’m hyperaware of every movement of his body, of the sound of his breath, of my own shrieking nerves. He pauses just outside my open bedroom door, and sets me gently on my feet.

“Invite me into your bedroom, Chloe.”