by Jesse Joren
"We don't know each other. Let's keep it that way. You don't even have to untie me. Just take my money and leave. I'll get loose once you're gone."
He chuckled again, a rumble in his throat.
"I already told you. I'm not here for money."
Attorneys advise not asking questions unless you know the answer. But I'm no attorney, just a damn-awesome receptionist in one of the best legal offices in Atlanta.
"Then what is it you want?" I blurted, testing whatever held my hands. It was soft, firm, and tight.
A tiny smile crinkled the corners of those mesmerizing eyes.
"You," he said simply.
A short silence followed. Inside I cussed at myself for asking such a stupid, dangerous question.
He went on, saving me from a response.
"You're wrong. We do know each other, quite well. My real name won't mean anything to you, at least not yet."
"Call me what you always have. Hex."
Hex.
I'd never heard that name said out loud, not even by me. It was the passport to my secret life. The one I manifested on my computer or phone, dismissing it at my will.
My eyes raked him again. Somehow he didn't look like a man who would be easily dismissed.
"Bullshit," I said. The tremble in my voice robbed the word of power.
"Really? Who else would know that, Cherry-on-the-Bottom?"
A hot flush stained my throat and face.
"You could be anyone," I said, mustering all the contempt possible while not wearing pants. "Any little jerk can swipe an online account. Didn't some kid take down the Canadian power department?"
"Tax department, but yes he did. You're right to demand proof. The real Hex would have something to prove he wasn't a two-bit hacker who decided to stalk you."
Reaching to the floor by the bed, he came up with a dark nylon backpack.
"Did you think I was joking about my bag of tricks?" he asked with a little grin. "Well, here it is. The one at home holds more interesting things, but this travels better."
"That doesn't mean anything," I said. "If you hacked the account, you saw the conversations."
Very plausible, very logical. Elementary, my dear Watson. But deep inside, part of me squirmed.
Holy hell.
Those oh-so-intimate exchanges about that bag and what it theoretically held. Tricks of sensual torture that had held me spellbound, a deviant side of me brought to dark life.
"What you really need is something that leaves no doubt about who I am. I just happen to have it," he said.
As he reached into the bag, I tensed.
Would he strangle me, cut me, burn me, beat me? Something worse? Whatever it was, whoever he was, I wanted no part of it here in the cold, practical light of my real life.
I still wasn't prepared for what emerged. Pale green, delicate, completely undeniable. A personal instrument of torture worse than any I'd imagined.
He held it out to me. A handful of fragile lace rested in his hard-looking palm, accusing me with its dainty perfection.
"Something like this," he said. "I asked for your scent, and this is what you mailed. Just before you disappeared. Tell me what these are, Eva."
He knew very well what they were. So did I.
Expensive Victoria's Secret panties with the scent of a very intense orgasm on them. Used but never worn, for one very obvious reason.
Those lace wisps were size two. On a good day, I fill out a size eighteen. On a less good day, closer to twenty. He'd half-stripped me while I slept, so there was no way this fact could have escaped him.
Just one of the lies I'd told in the process of making myself better. The way I should be.
"They came with this," he added, unfolding a red Post-It note.
It was tattered and wrinkled, as though handled many times. I didn't have to see it to know what it said.
He read my words back to me anyway.
Dear Hex – my scent, made just for you.
I said your name when I came.
Yours in all ways, Cherry.
The room started to spin, and I closed my eyes again. He was right. Undeniable proof.
There were plenty of real worries I should have right now: robbery, rape, mutilation, murder. A man who would do this was capable of anything.
Whatever screwed-up things it said about me, I almost hoped for murder. Anything to erase the humiliation of being exposed as the fraud I was.
How does that old saying go? Things can always get worse. As it turned out, they did.
CHAPTER TWO
"Answer me," he said. "Do you recognize these?"
My throat was too tight to speak. What would I even say?
I wouldn't have sent them if I'd known you're crazy.
You don't have to kill me. Humiliation is doing that.
Maybe just the ever-popular go to hell.
Keeping quiet seemed safest. I hoped for a fire. An earthquake. A meteor strike. Anything to get me out of this.
When nothing arrived, there was only one thing left. I leveled my best go-to-hell stare at him.
He brought the panties to his nose and inhaled with unfeigned appreciation.
"It's faded, but still so goddamn beautiful. You lied about these being yours. Is this really your smell? Or did you pay someone to finish up your lie?'"
Whatever he saw in my expression made him nod, as if I'd agreed with him.
"You got your proof," he said. "Now I'm going to get mine."
The dim light played over the lines and planes of his face. He'd said he was twenty-six, but there was a control and tightness about him that made him seem older.
"I knew from the first time we talked that you weren't being straight with me," he said. "I just couldn't tell where the line was. Some was truth, some was outright lies. Like this."
His fingers traced the curve of my cheek. Under that touch I froze, unable to pull away from him. This must be how a mouse felt when a predator was closing in for the kill.
"You lied to me about this. About what you look like," he said. "You sent that picture, but it's not really you. You didn't go to a cosmetic surgeon for change, just to Photoshop."
Surreptitiously I tugged at my hands. There seemed to be a tiny bit of slack.
"That makes you the worst kind of liar," he went on. "The kind who lies for no reason. Why would you change this beautiful face? To make it thinner? Like that fake weight on your driver's license?"
A welcome burst of anger finally flooded my body, drowning the horror he was carving into me a word at a time.
"If you're going to do something awful to me, then just do it," I snapped. "But stop playing with me. I'm not interested in your sick games."
"Another lie," he said. "You love my games, sick or not. And you know what, Eva? I don't need to do awful things to you. You do a good fucking job of that on your own."
I dropped my eyes from that almost-perfect face to his broad chest. It only gave me a renewed sense of his body, muscular and hard. His few online words about that came back to me.
"I don't have time for a gym. I work hard, and that keeps me in good shape. I like being outside too, and fuck sunscreen. The body adapts."
The irony. He'd been honest about his looks, but I'd lied at every turn. He conveniently forgot to mention being a stalker.
Too bad there was no checkbox for that in an online profile.
His finger was under my chin, tilting my face upward to his gaze.
"Don't look away from me again, or I'll strip you all the way down. Is that what you want?"
I shook my head until my hair was a storm around my face.
His gaze was hypnotic as he took inventory of me, starting with the wild snarl of my hair on the pillows. His hands cupped my face, touching as though seeing me through his fingers.
When his eyes started lower, I froze again. The greatest part of my façade was about to be examined
in all its fleshy glory.
Embarrassment twisted inside of me.
He broke into your house. He drugged you. He's probably going rape, kill, and eat you, not necessarily in that order. And you're worried about being overweight?
Holy shit. You're crazier than he is.
Probably, but there it was anyway. Raw truth coughed up from deep inside of me. I was terrified not because of what he would do, but because of what he would see.
My skin was pale, scattered with freckles. It was nowhere close to the golden tan I'd described in glorious, phony detail.
The body under that skin was round and soft. There was no sign of the gym addiction that I'd pretended to have. The Braves shirt and sensible panties clung to every oversized curve.
If he decided to torture me with stretching, I'd break in half before reaching the five-foot-nine I'd claimed to be.
How airily I'd tapped out all those lies.
No skyscraper heels for me! My legs are already long and lean enough. Skirts are always too short, but no one complains.
Every extra pound – and there were plenty of them – mocked my pretended passion for running and volleyball. All the lies of being a sporty girl. The truth about being an excellent swimmer didn't deserve much credit. It was pretty easy for me.
After all, fat floats.
I swallowed hard, watching his face as his eyes moved over me. Already I could tell that nothing got past that gaze.
My eyes begged me to let them close, but his threat had found its mark. The shirt and panties weren't much, but right now they were the only game in town.
Part of me wished he'd say something. Part of me dreaded what it might be.
He finished his slow assessment before he looked into my face again, seeming to search for something. When his eyes took on a new gleam, it seemed as though he'd found it.
He leaned in again, nuzzling against the side of my neck, inhaling deeply. His scent curled around me like a living thing.
"Not the smell on the panties, but in the same neighborhood. I need to be sure about a couple of things before we proceed."
He pulled away from me, reaching again for the black nylon bag.
"Get the hell out of here," I said. "I'll scream if you don't. There are seven other units in this building. My neighbors –"
" – have no part in this. This is between you and me."
I screamed anyway, shrieking until my voice cracked in my throat. It didn't free my hands, but it might be enough for someone to call the police.
His smile held approval.
"You didn't take my word for it. Good. I could have been lying. You'll realize soon that I lie only if there's no other choice."
"Yeah. I can tell you're a man of deep integrity," I said mockingly. Probably a bad idea, but his calm arrogance enraged me in spite of my fear.
"Don't count on your neighbors," he went on. "Most of them aren't even home. Just sweet old Miss Evans. That nice Holloway family. Wally Sikes and his loud-ass Camaro."
He located something else in his bag. Gloves. Black leather, sinister, plainly being made ready for some sort of crime.
My heart thudded as he began to pull them on. I barely heard his next words.
"It's convenient that all the units have separate A/C ducts. It was very easy to get access and rock everyone to sleep with a little whiff of gas."
He finished pulling on the gloves. Again his fingers traced my face. This time the cool leather made me shiver.
"I want to know if that was real Eva on those fake panties," he said.
I worked my wrists harder as his hands began to map my body. They skimmed my throat, then the heavy curves of my breasts under the thin cloth.
Slowly his palms brushed over my nipples, grazing them with the lightest of touches. Traitors that they were, they rose up under his hands.
When he reached my hated lower stomach, I turned my head away, unable to meet his eyes. I didn't want to see myself reflected there, afraid of what I might see.
"I'm not going to hurt you. You have my word," he promised.
But you are hurting me, a silent little voice sobbed inside of me. Please just leave me alone.
The leather slid under the waistband of my panties. My thighs pressed together on reflex, hard enough to tremble.
"I'm not going to hurt you," he repeated. "I could have done that months ago when I first found you. I could have done it tonight when you slept."
"It's too late to say no," he went on. "You already gave yourself to me, a long time ago. Now open for me, Eva. I'm waiting."
Something in his voice made me more helpless than whatever held my hands. In his mind, I really was already his.
But there was something even worse. In some dark and twisted corner, part of me agreed.
(END OF PREVIEW)
MASTERFUL and MASTERFUL 2 are now available on Amazon.
