Page 137 of Primal

Not a word, I warn my dick.

The traitorous bastard stirs anyway.

The camera snags halfway into the drawer. I curse under my breath and wiggle it free. My knuckles graze satin again. Lace. The edge of something barely-there.

Imagine she’s on all fours. Back arched. Ass up. That goddamn freckle between her shoulder blades.

Perfect. Fucking. Target.

The sound she’d make if I—

I wrench my hand back. Install the next three cameras without damaging any of her things. Or my pride.

I’m wiring the final cam when the low purr of an engine creeps up the driveway.

Too early. She’s 79 minutes ahead of schedule. Either her meeting imploded, or she rage-quit halfway through. Both track.

I vault over the bed—knocking the Advanced Photoshop book into the vibrator’s charging dock—and dive into her closet just as the front door opens.

Payton’s keys clatter onto the counter.

The closet smells like her. Dangerous. I press deeper into the hanging clothes, my cheek brushing a slinky dress that’s definitely a size too small.

Footsteps cross the floor. Fast.

I hold my breath. The slats are wide enough to see her storm in.

She peels off her blouse and shimmies out of her skirt like she’s racing to shed the entire day.

She’s down to a black bralette before I remember I’m currently committing several felonies.

I don’t blink. Can’t.

The lace. Her flushed skin.

Those bows.

Her bralette strains as she stretches … then turns.

My glasses are fogged. Is she staring at the closet? No fucking way she sees me. Still, there are too many angles this could end badly—starting with the fact she’s nearly naked and I’m thinking about pinning her against the wall and—

A shadow cuts across her face. She tilts her head. That little crease forms between her brows.

Now she’s coming this way, and I’m half-blind, rock-hard, and one breath from disaster.

Fuck.

The closet knob turns.

Double fuck.

I duck behind a faux fur monstrosity that smells like a taxidermist’s fever dream—thrift store tag still attached—just as Payton yanks the door open.

Silence. Then—

“What the—hey, stay away from my vibe, you dirty, old perv.”

She’s not talking to me. She’s talking to the ‘ghost.’