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I wrap my hand around the shaft, hissing slightly at the rough scrape of my calloused palm. But I’m too impatient to seek out any kind of lube. Instead, I close my eyes and imagine it’s Shiloh touching me. I can damn near feel the slight scrape of her teeth as she takes me in her mouth, staring up at me with those crystalline eyes. In my mind, I fist her hair, force her to take me deeper until she gags.
“That’s it, Shy Girl,” I mutter to myself, pumping my fist faster. “You can take it all for me.”
All at once the fantasy shifts. Now she’s bent over my desk in my office, her skirt hiked up around her waist while I fuck her in front of walls of towering windows. I spank her delicious ass until it’s as red as her cheeks get when she blushes, then pound into her hard enough to leave bruises on her hips.
I’m close in no time, teetering on the edge as my hips start to buck off the mattress. My eyes snap back open as I lift myphone again off my chest. I scroll frantically through her feed again until I find exactly what I’m looking for. A portrait of Shiloh wearing a sundress, smiling timidly at the camera. It’s so wholesome, so sweet–everything I’m hungry to corrupt.
I want to see those lips swollen and bruised after I’ve devoured them. I want to see that angelic face flushed and sweaty and smeared with my load. What is it about perfection that makes it so tempting to destroy?
I’ve always been this way. I see something delicate, and I want to break it. Watch the shards crumble at my feet, a new kind of beauty in their splintered remains. No other man could break Shiloh the way I could. I know her desires, her fears. I’d know how to tear her apart and put her back together again.
I tighten my fist until it’s almost painful, imagining how her wet little pussy would feel clenched around me. How she’d scream as I filled her up and left my marks on every inch of her pale skin.
“Fuck, Shy Girl.” I hiss through my teeth as I come, spilling over my hand and shirt in hot spurts.
For a moment, there’s nothing but blissful release. Then reality comes crashing back like a bulldozer, shattering the bubble of my secret indulgence. It leaves me feeling hollow, empty, as I stare at the ceiling.
When I can force myself to move again, I clean up mechanically, pointedly avoiding my reflection in the mirror until I’m dressed in a fresh shirt and slacks. Even then, I can’t bring myself to admit the truth written all over my guilty face.
It’s just like she said. I’m sick.
The problem is, with every minute I spend watching her, following her, sneaking into her house while she sleeps…I find myself caring less and less that it’s all kinds of wrong.
She’s an addiction. A habit I don’t intend to kick just yet.
9
SHILOH
The glossy,black business card mocks me my entire way down the stairs, glaring from the center of my welcome mat like the fucking Eye of Sauron. Nobody should have to face such a harbinger of doom first thing on a Saturday morning.
I know exactly who it’s from without having to pick it up, so I stubbornly choose to ignore it, veering around the banister and heading straight to the kitchen for my caffeine fix. And yet, even through the wall I feel like that dark omen is burning a hole in the side of my face. Only when I drain the final dregs from my coffee mug do I finally decide I can’t avoid it any longer.
The cardstock is thick, embossed with chrome lettering for the contact details of the one and only Dominic Blackwood. I wonder if he has these made from the pulped egos of every poor soul who’s ever had the misfortune of speaking to him.
I don’t like that he knows where I live. I like even less that he would have had to open my front door sometime during the night in order to leave this little gift for me. It sure as hell wasn’t there when I went to bed. And in all the time I’ve lived alone in Avalon, I’ve never worried much about locking my door while I’m in the house. Nobody does.
It might be time for me to start.
“Creepy ass gargoyle,” I mutter to myself, fishing out my phone so that I can save his number to my contacts. No doubt he’s hoping I chuck the card in the trash so that he can complain to Melanie about my reluctance to work together. It’s crossed my mind a few times, but I refuse to be labeled as the difficult one. If he wants to stick his nose in my business, he better buckle up. I’ll drag him around every last Halloween store and pumpkin patch until he’s crying fake blood.
With a mocking snort, I type out a quick text.
Me: Meeting with the caretaker at Fairchild Manor, which is where the ball will be. 2pm. Be there or fuck off back to whatever hole you crawled out of.
I hit send before I can talk myself out of it, and then immediately regret the whole thing. What if he actually shows up? What if he doesn’t? At this point, I honestly can’t say which outcome I dread more.
I go through the motions of my day painfully on edge, glancing over my shoulder periodically as if I expect to find Dominic creeping up behind me. Fortunately, I manage to leave the market with all the groceries I need without having my ownluckyrun-in with my stepbrother like Melanie did.
Not so, fortunately, I find myself checking my phone with embarrassing frequency.
Each time I see zero notifications waiting for me, I’m thrust into a violent battle between relief and fury. Idon’twant him to respond. Idon’twant him in my town anymore. But I also can’t deny how incredibly irritating it is to know he went to all that trouble of butting into the committee and arranging ourpartnership, only to ghost me completely.
By the time I’m climbing into my car to head to Fairchild Manor, the fucker still hasn’t text me back and I’m done letting it bother me. This is certainly the better outcome. I don’t want him breathing down my neck and offering snide commentary while I design the entire Ball for the first time. I’ve wanted to be entrusted with this role ever since I started teaching at Avalon High. It deserves my full, undivided attention.
After slamming the door, perhaps a little harder than necessary, I gun the engine and head to the outskirts of town. The quiet drive gives me an opportunity to organize my thoughts, redirect them from Dominic and focus more on how best to bring Melanie’s‘macabre masquerade but make it sexy’vision to life. Can’t say the theme is exactly inspiring, but I’ll do my best. I can only hope that my stepbrother’s money makes an appearance, even if his stupid, smug face never does.
As I pull up to the imposing wrought-iron gates of Fairchild Manor, I can’t help but do a little nervous gulp. The place is a Goliath of Victorian Gothic architecture, all sharp angles and looming towers that seem to pierce the overcast sky. Even in broad daylight, it’s pretty terrifying.
