Page 105 of Letters From A Stalker

“Thank you.” She whispers.

“You really don’t need to thank me.”

“I was already starting to think maybe I missed something.”

I glance toward the closed hallway. “That is why God invented timestamps.”

She laughs softly. I return to my desk with something strangely settled inside me. Doesn’t feel like a triumph or some dramatic breakthrough. Just the recognition that I’m tired of watching people apologize simply because someone else has decided they should. I’m even more tired of doing it myself. Kai would probably have an insufferably insightful observation about that. I decide not to give him the pleasure of hearing about it, but the thought stays with me throughout the afternoon anyway.

By the time I leave work, I have reached one conclusion with surprising clarity. I am tired of being the nice girl whenever nice means making myself smaller, easier, quieter or more convenient. Exactly what that has to do with the man hiding outside my house is something I choose not to examine while driving.

The black envelope is waiting against my door when I get home. I see it before I even reach the porch, and my body reacts so quickly that any attempt to classify the feeling as fear becomes laughable. Fear is there, of course it is, but so is the immediate pulse of excitement that follows when I realize he came back. I stop near the bottom of the steps and look into the tree line . Nothing moves. It is still early enough that the last of the daylight hasn’t disappeared completely, which means he must have approached the house while the neighborhood was awake. I wonder how badly he wanted me to have whatever is inside.

I pick up the envelope before I can spend too much time with that question. Inside the house, I don’t bother pretending I might wait to open it. I kick off my shoes near the door, hang my coat, leave my bag on the bench and carry the envelope directly into the living room. The wax seal cracks beneath my thumb. His handwriting has become familiar enough that I recognize the shape of it before I read the first word.

Little Ember,

Then:

You left the light on.

Warmth spreads slowly beneath my skin. Of course he noticed. Of course he stayed. I continue reading.

But you made me wait.

I told you to choose when I was welcome. You did.

You also taught me something.

You like knowing I want something from you.

You like knowing you can make me wait for it more.

I stare at the page.

“Cocky bastard.” My mouth betrays me by threatening a smile. Then I reach the next line.

Good.

The smile disappears. It is completely unreasonable for a single handwritten word to do anything to me. My body disagrees.

I keep reading.

Tonight, I want something different. When it gets dark, come to the living-room window.

My pulse changes immediately.

Leave enough light behind you that I can see your face. You don’t need to show me anything you don’t want me to see. I don’t need your body spread open for me to know what I do to it.

Heat creeps slowly along my neck. I settle farther back against the couch.

I want you close enough to the glass that when you look outside, you know exactly who you’re looking for. Then touch yourself.

My thighs press together almost automatically. This time, pretending the reaction is anything other than arousal would be insulting to the both of us.

Slowly. Not because I ordered you to. Because you spent all day wondering whether I would ask again.

I stop.