by S. E. Hall
“Correct. Now…” He advances, taking me in his arms as my very favorite song begins, “Beneath You Beautiful.”
Immediately feeling safe with his touch, I allow him to embrace me. He holds me close and my eyes slide shut with a relaxed sigh. I have no idea who he is, but he’s certainly not Reid and that’s enough for me.
What I can see of his face is strikingly gorgeous. A strong, masculine jawline with a light dusting of dark stubble the same color as his thick, slightly wavy, russet hair. And his large, make that massive, body towering and overtaking me is a good 6’2” at least.
The arms holding me tight, as big around as the entire width of my body or say a tree trunk, make it clear he could effortlessly crush the geeky, creepy bookstore clerk.
“What’s your name?” I whisper into his firm chest where my cheek currently rests, my mind blissfully clear.
“Doesn’t matter,” I barely hear him grunt into my hair.
“‘Kay,” I forfeit, soaking up the song and his fresh, manly essence. Unknowingly, I’m singing along, his low chuckle and vibrating torso alerting me.
“I like it too,” he whispers, his low comment sincere.
“Sorry.” I feel myself blush, pulling back some, tense rigidity setting back into my frame. I survey the room as our bodies sway and out of the corner, my eye catches on a camo-clad arm. My entire body stills, waiting as the commando moves closer out of the circle that hides him.
“Why on edge?” he asks, tucking me closer.
My jaw’s locked tight, voice hiding, waiting until I see the military man step into view. He finally does, wearing no mask and definitely not Reid. I shake it off, but the lingering terror doesn’t flee so quickly.
“It’s nothing,” I finally huff, rolling my eyes.
“You sure about that?” His fingers dig into my hips in the most delicious way, almost willing me to answer him.
The song ends but his hold remains strong and I still, praying for another slow song to immediately follow.
“One more?” he requests, looking down at me as though I’m about to step back, which I’m not.
Right now, I need the modicum of safety he provides, let alone the now playing…wait, same song again? Fine by me. I nod, nuzzling in closer.
“Now talk to me,” he presses.
I look up and up, reassuring my brain that the large, burly man holding me so gently yet firmly, as though he doesn’t want to break me but would never allow anyone else the chance to either, is normal. An aura of protection surrounds me and I suddenly feel the unrepressed urge to confess everything.
“Just men. Some too good to be true, some not too good and very real. The rest,” I inadvertently glance over at Max, “plain ole assholes. But asshole I can handle. Other things, not so much.” I shiver despite the warmth of his all-encompassing arms.
“What other things?” he asks, no, more growls. One that I feel rumble between us.
“I have a stalker,” I admit matter-of-factly, waiting for his reply, which comes instantly.
“Continue,” he responds just as candidly.
“He sends me letters, some kinda cool and even bordering on romantic, but most of them vulgar, controlling, and flat out frightening. He’s this weirdo, reading serial killer books and sneaking up behind me. Somehow he has my phone number.”
“Serial killer books?” His voice is strained, eyes betraying what looks like confusion.
I sigh, my arms prickling from the disturbing wave that crashes over me. “Jack the Ripper, to be precise. That’s scary, right?”
“I can see where it would be, yes.” His arms dip lower on my back and clutch me even tighter, not that I thought it was possible.
“My thoughts exactly. He works at my old favorite bookstore.” I exhale, the burden of bearing the secret and fear alone alleviated. “Sorry, not your problem, but thank you for listening. And for the dance.” I smile up at him and break from his grasp when the song ends…again.
He lets me go without another word. Turning, bladder full, I head toward the ladies’ room, hesitating at the mouth of the deep, dark, empty hallway.
“Everything okay?”
I jolt, full of apprehension at his concerned question from behind me. I peer back, face heated. “Fine, I… never mind.” I shake my head and walk briskly toward the door marked “Women.”
Suck it up, Amelia, you’re a grown woman in a packed crowd. You can at least use the restroom by yourself.
That bravado lasts a good two minutes, until the sound of the door opening, followed by heavy footsteps, slams foreboding bolts of alarm straight to my gut. I pee as fast as physically possible and stand in a rush, fixing my clothing and peeking through the crack in the stall door.
A woman’s at the sink using the mirror to touch up her lipstick. I blow out a breath and emerge, moving beside her to wash my hands. She gives me a curt smile then walks out and I rush to follow right behind her.
And there he stands, the Angel of Music—yes, I’ve seen the play many times—leaning against the wall.
“Wh-what are you doing?” I stammer, my voice meek.
“Waiting for you.”
Gorgeous, enigmatic, and above all, safe, chivalrously awaiting my exit because he knew I was antsy. The man’s considerate, hot as hell…and I’m two drinks and one sip in. And let’s not forget I’m closing in dangerously on fifteen months.
Let go, Amelia. Fly, fall. Those arms could catch anything.
One brave breath and I propel myself forward until I’m on him, hands as roaming and ravenous as my mouth. Needy and unorthodox, I beg him with my tongue and erratic heartbeat against his massive, solid chest to take me away from my reality, even if just for a moment.
He answers without words as well, his hands sliding down my back. His lips are soft but masculine and the stroke of his potent tongue soaks me to my core, my mind a flurry of lust and abandonment.
His mouth is demanding, unequivocally taking control as he leads us backwards in a tangled mess of limbs. One hand leaves my ass as he reaches behind himself to turn a knob, and we fall into a dark closet. The click of the lock is deafening.
“Please,” I whimper, trying to climb the giant man.
“Sshh.” He places a finger over my mouth. “Up,” he barks, grabbing my hips and lifting me to sit on a shelf.
I collapse forward the instant I’m settled, digging my fingers into his hair and pulling his hot, scorching mouth back over my own.
“Yes?” he grunts, stepping between my legs and using his hips to spread them open, sliding one finger along the outline of material barely concealing my dripping pussy. I nod with wanton vigor, my face buried in his thick neck, where I suck like I’m starving.
He breaches the barrier, a rough, calloused fingertip tracing each moist lip before sliding up the middle, stopping on my clit, where he applies glorious pressure.
“Uhhh,” I mewl, sacrificing the taste of his skin as my head falls back, landing against a box that might as well be a cloud. I feel nothing but him.
A bit incoherent, I think those pressured circles are now magically made with his thumb, because I’m abruptly penetrated far too deep for anything other than a finger, stiff and beautifully punishing. I grind in rhythm to his probing, selfishly seeking my own torrent of long-awaited release. But cognitive of the throbbing hardness, twitching against my thigh, I reach for his zipper.
My wrist is caught, a menacing but taunting grip of unspoken authority.
“No,” he pants, unfailing in his assault at my core. “Only for you. Tonight I give, not take.” He leans in, pressing light nips up my jawline until he reaches my ear. As his warm breath heaves faster, his thrusting in and out of me speeds and my clit is swirled, pressed, then pinched as he husks in definitive command, “Come now, for me, Amelia.”
And I do, endlessly; longer, wetter and more whole-body-partaking than ever before in my life.
Oh God. Fuck the fact that I’m in a closet with a stranger I work with, p
ossibly for. I needed that orgasm like I need to sleep, eat and breathe. Tiny ripples of aftershock continue to assault me through the passing minutes as I try to calm myself.
When I’m collected enough to speak, my lazy, half-lidded, sated eyes peek up to his.
“But what about you? I can—”
Again, his finger, fragrant of me, covers my lips.
“In time, Beauty.”
The door slams with his abrupt departure. My initial reaction is trembling hysteria, my chest collapsing in on itself, lungs seized in hyperventilation.
That was him. Him is…him!
Survival instincts kick in full throttle. There’s no one else to help you, Amelia, you have to help yourself!
I grab at everything and anything in this no longer euphoric, now very much claustrophobic, closet of macabre, frantically shoving it in front of the door.
They say a mother’s adrenaline will kick in, enabling them to lift a car off their child if need be. Well, all 5’3”, 120 pounds of me just moved 6 feet of metal shelving as though it was weightless. Supplies, a mop bucket, and God knows what else gets tossed on the pile for good measure.
Chest heaving in exhaustion, I scramble my phone out of my restrictive, more so than ever, corset and dial Mabry.
“Hello?” she shouts over the party music.
Oh, thank Christ, she’s here.
“Mabry, I’m in the closet, come get me,” I pant in a whisper, crouched in the back corner.
“Amelia? Is that you?” she yells louder. “I can’t hear you. Are you whispering?”
Well yeah. But probably not an option if I want her to hear me, so I speak up. Even if he’s outside the door listening, there’s no way he’s getting in!
“Mabry, I’m in the closet across from the bathroom. I need you to come get me!”
“Are you locked in?” she shouts, and I hear her start to panic. “Oh my God! I’m coming!” The music fades by the second as she heads my way, my entire body jolting upright at the knock on the door, jarring the last shred of fortitude I have left.
“I’m here, the door’s not locked but I can’t—” she huffs, trying to force her way past my barricade. “I can’t get in, there’s—”
I hang up, stand on jittery legs, and call out, “Just a minute!” I start undoing my handiwork with noisy crashes, not quite as effortless now that I’m calming down, my friend right outside.
“What the hell are you doing?!” she yells, pounding on the door. “And why are you shut in the utility closet, Amelia? Do you want me to go get help? I just saw a guy standing out here, let me go see where he went.”
“No!” I scream out, then bite down on my lip as the overwhelming panic nearly short circuits my body. I need a calm, logical state of mind to kick in, but how is that even a remote possibility when he’s still lingering around out there?
“I’m getting help, Amelia. You’re freaking me out.”
“Stop and be quiet! The whole party doesn’t need to know! Just give me a minute.” I grunt, using all my weight, the actual powerlessness of it blazingly evident, to push the shelf over enough to try and open the door a crack.
“It’s okay. That guy came back to help,” she says coolly from the other side of the wooden barrier.
I recoil, eyes darting around for a weapon. Shit. I grab a mop and attempt to snap it over my knee, you know the way the heroines do in movies? Turns out, not so easy.
Prop mops for sure.
I toss it down as I watch the door rumble, about to be forced open.
I end up hunkered to the side with a metal bucket in my hands, ready to knock Degenerate of the Opera out the second his head pops in. But the head that appears belongs to a weary-eyed Mabry.
“Get in here.” I snatch her arm and drag her inside with me. My attempt to slam the door is thwarted when a large hand shoots out, holding it open a few inches.
“Everything okay in there?”
Definitely not the Phantom’s voice, but still a mystery man I’m not quite ready to trust. This could be a covert tag team effort they’re working, after all.
“Who is that?” I whisper to Mabry, bucket still gripped tight in my clammy hands.
“Ashley’s man. I think his name’s Dylan, why?” Her eyes bulge, mouth forming a perfect O. “Oh my God! Did he hurt you?” Her voice squeaks.
I drop the bucket with a loud clang on the floor and fall back against the wall. My brow is covered in sweat, as is the rest of my body, and slowly I shake my exhausted head. “All good, Dylan. Thank you,” I reply, breathless.
Mabry’s brows pinch in confusion. “The punch isn’t that spiked, Amelia. Why the blockade refuge?” she mocks, laughing.
I shrink her with narrowed eyes. “It’s not a funny story, trust me.”
I spring off the wall before she can ask more questions, realizing Dylan can get me safely to my car. I peek out the door, only to find he’s retreated back to the party, no doubt, laughing about the whole strange fiasco.
I sigh in defeat, closing the door, and turn back to Mabry, who is standing with her hands on her hips, perfectly representing her Tinker Bell costume when she taps her foot waiting impatiently for an explanation.
“Just listen.” I grab her shoulder, making sure I have her full, serious attention. “We’re walking out of here and straight to your car. Come back if you want, but I need a ride home now. Okay?”
She must see it, my conviction, because all traces of aggravation and humor transform into earnest understanding as she nods. “Yeah, okay. Let’s go.”
I should’ve called a cab. By the time I close and tri-lock my apartment door, I’m psychologically certifiable. Tripping over my own feet, crashing into things left and right, chasing every shadow in the place.
So he’s not the louse from the bookstore, didn’t kill or hurt me when he had the perfect opportunity (secluded closet, party drowning out my screams), though now there’s the more worrisome concern. Being cocooned in his impressive arms, held protectively against his colossal body, felt like shelter.
Disheartened, I slump down on my couch, throbbing head dropped in my hands. I just got finger fucked by my sometimes sadist fan, sometimes intelligibly poetic stalker!!!
And I loved it. In the moment, at least.
Worse than the humiliating burst of panic, was the ride home with Mabry, which sent me straight over the edge. The person who gave her crazy never looks at the road, hands used to “talk” rather than, say, hold the wheel a license should be fired. What’d she used those hands to ramble on about? The two “mind blowing, we truly connected” rounds she’d gone with FedEx, or uh, Shaw, in her office during the party.
I wasn’t compelled to mention the two mind explosions of my own. One being the drought-ending, non-self-induced, psyche-bending orgasm, and two, who gave it to me. Rather, I focused on Mabry’s favorite target—herself. Apparently she and FedEx are “good” again, the fight and awkward “aftermath” I’d witnessed in my office long forgotten. Why is it that Mabry’s affairs are always sexy and normal? Surely, between Ms. Flighty and myself, she’s the one sending out “I want freaky, possibly dangerous flings?” In fact, Mabry’s likely to ask for that verbatim, out loud! Yet she got deliciously adorable FedEx and I got the Phantom.
Oh well, at least one of us left the party with a happy ending.
I peel off my costume, take a scalding shower that does little to wash away my doubts, questions, and confusion, then crawl into bed. My pile of books on the nightstand calls to me as they always do, so I reach over blindly, any one I grab fine, and gasp when I look what fate chose. Justine. Figures, after tonight’s revelations, this would be the one I come up with. The back sleeve’s elusive as to what I’ll find between the covers, so I curiously dive in.
After thirty or so minutes of reading, skipping ahead, then bravely skimming some more, my earlier freakout begins to resurface. What I’ve gathered thus far, is that this book is appalling. I’m mortified and absolutely grossed out.
> The Marquis de Sade is not for me and feeling particularly dirty, I march to my balcony, slide open the door, and fling it as hard as I can, aiming for the giant trash receptacle nestled just to the side of the building. I watch as it misses the mark and hits the ground a few feet over.
Close enough.
Perhaps the trash man has a tolerance for perverse reading material.
When I’m climbing back into bed a few minutes later and my phone dings, I actually cackle. I know who it is even before looking, and much like I’ve come to expect, his timing is hauntingly ironic.
Unknown: I can still taste you on my fingers.
Me: Message me again and I’m calling the police. What kind of freak gets a new number to harass someone who BLOCKED THEM!?
100: (Totally deserved screen name if you ask me.) If anything you’re not, Amelia, it’s fake. You enjoyed tonight, as did I. Why the sudden anger?
Me: U want a list? How about we start with how I just read some of your little friend the Marquis’s work. SICK!
100: You read him? Which one?
Me: Justine. You’re both psychotic! Now LEAVE ME ALONE. I’m blocking u, AGAIN, until I can get my number changed. If u contact me on that one, I’m serious, I WILL CALL THE POLICE!
100: DO NOT BLOCK ME AMELIA!
Me: Why the hell not? WHAT DO U WANT FROM ME?
100: Exactly what you wanted tonight, and so much more. Amelia, I’ve never read Justine, or any of his books, all the way through. I’m not a “fan” or “little friend” of his. He’s but one subject I studied in theory. The quote I borrowed from him, on its own, is accurate and poignant. Until just now, did you not agree?
I finish reading, undecided, ignoring his last question. Another text pings through.
100: I used others as well, if you remember correctly, from equally innovative minds.
Me: Studied? What’s that mean, why?
90%: I’m composing my thesis.
Me: On?
85%: “Human Sexuality: Mind vs. Body.” Just as the Marquis shocked and appalled you, he did the same to a nation. He was the first, it’s said, of his kind. Noteworthy in such a thesis, I’d say. Would you not agree on that as well?
