"That's it, baby," he continues, his tone almost soothing, despite the filth spilling from his lips. "Take my cock. Take all of it."
Baby.
My belly flutters, my heart soaring like a fool even though I know it's a runaway utterance. A thoughtless spi...
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I step out of my car with all the eagerness of a cow going to a slaughter house. I look around, but the harsh gusts of wind sting my eyes and make it hard to focus. My vision goes blurry almost immediately. The cold, frigid air continues to claw at my face, quickly turning my eyeballs into an irritated, watery mess despite the barrier of my thick glasses. Tonight's pitch black sky doesn't really help matters, either.
It's hard to see much of anything in all this darkness. There don't seem to be any exterior lights in sight, and if there are, they sure as hell aren't on.
I lock my door, and my eyes linger on my Polo for longer than necessary. My parking is crappy as ever. I guess that's just one more thing I can add to the list of things I'll be getting judged for tonight.
I know I'm stalling. Again.
This just feels so insane and surreal. I can't believe I'm actually going through with it. And my anxiety is really starting to kick in full force now.
I don't think I've ever been so nervous about anything in my life before. Not even my very first audition or performance got me this shaken up. This is definitely uncharted territory in way more than the obvious sense. My leg wobbles as I take another step, my foot missing its mark on the crooked cobblestone, and I stumble as a result. I actually trip this time, and my hands are my only saving grace from having my face plastered on the ground.
My palms dash outwards on reflex to brace my body from hitting the pavement, stinging on impact as the sharp, uneven edges of the cobblestones dig into them, breaking the skin.
My duffel bag drops to my side with a loud thud, the sound echoing a few times around me, more audible at this elevation. My knees burn beneath my pants as the little embedded stones jut painfully into my kneecaps, and I think they might be a little scraped from my ungraceful landing.
I remain in my awkward position for a moment, trying to mentally recollect myself before I do so physically. But then, the only thing that comes to mind is whether or not I'll find myself in this same position later tonight.
On my hands and knees.
That thought alone makes me jolt upright and force myself to my feet. I examine my palms, and I come face to face with the sight of small pebbles of blood slowly rising to the surface of irritated skin. I touch at the damage tentatively, gently dusting off the tiny specs of sand and stone on them while being careful not to agitate the bruised, broken tissue. It hurts a bit, but it's nothing too bad. I don't think it's deep enough to get infected. It should be fine by tomorrow.
I pick up the duffel bag and resume my torturous walk to the front door, and don't let myself pause or stop for anything this time. I don't even know what I'll say, but then again, this isn't some board meeting or PowerPoint presentation. In fact, there probably won't be any talking at all.
Don't think about it so much, Roni. You have nothing to worry about.
Before I can change my mind and sprint the other way Usain Bolt style, I'm in front of the only door in sight, two seconds away from pissing myself. I'm not even exaggerating. I really need to pee.
Damn, I shouldn't have drank all that water in one go.
I finally manage to force myself to knock three times, profuse anxiety and a serious case of brain jitters making me hit on his door a lot harder than necessary. It's like I'm punishing the poor thing, but I swear I have next to zero control over my hands right now...or over practically every other part of my body, for that matter.
Seconds stretch into forever as I continue to wait on his doorstep, time seeming to slow down to a glacial pace.
Eventually, I hear footsteps. And they get progressively louder with each passing second.
Someone's approaching.
It's him.
I swallow against the avalanche of anxiety piling in my throat, clutching the handles of my duffel bag until my palms sting like hell. I'm probably making the bruising from my fall a lot worse, but I can't stop.
And then I hear it.
The metallic sound of a turning lock.
And then another.
And one more.
Oh, my God, this is it.
My heart ricochets against the walls of my heaving chest, beating so hard and fast that I can actually feel it rattling my ribcage. It feels like it's pumping a million beats a second, as if it's trying to keep the entire world alive instead of just me, and no matter what I do, I can't seem to slow it down. My lungs are on the verge of collapsing on themselves from the inside, and if they don't slow down real fucking soon, they'll be nothing but a pair of useless, flaccid sacks occupying valuable space in my body.
The door finally cracks open, and suddenly I can't breathe at all. Oxygen gets stuck in my chest as icy blue eyes fill my line of vision. And then his full form comes into view as he pulls the door back further.
My breath halts in my throat, and my eyes widen behind my glasses. I'm completely taken aback.
It's as if it's the very first time I'm seeing him—really seeing him.
His dark hair is slightly disheveled and just a tad bit longer than it was when I last saw him.
The subtle waves in his hair frame his face in the best way, a few unruly locks falling into his eye. He has on a loose-fitting denim shirt and some casual black slacks, all topped off with a pair of jet-black suede loafers.
He looks...absolutely beautiful.
And I absolutely hate him for it.
His clothes are simple and yet they fit him so well; understated but extremely complementary. Then again, maybe it's just him. He wears them so well. Hell, he could probably make a trash bag look good. My face flushes at the thought of him being completely naked underneath a transparent trash bag, with absolutely nothing on but the fortified plastic and his sexy, musky cologne.
My pussy throbs furiously in agreement.
I've only seen him in a suit and scrubs up until now. He looks so different like this, and he has an almost boyish quality to him when he's a little bit laid back. I guess I was expecting him to be all dressed up with his hair gelled back and shit. But why the hell would he do that? For me? Because I'm coming over to his place?
Jesus, get a hold of yourself, Roni.
I need to get a fucking grip. And one hell of a reality check.
We just stand there for only God knows how long, staring at each other. Well...he's doing a lot more glaring than staring.
He looks absolutely sinister, like a giant wolf that's about to kill its prey. And when he finally breaks his silence, his words perfectly match the ferocity in his cold, soul-eating eyes.
"Come inside."
***
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