Menace (Scarlet Scars #1)(16)

He won’t, though. No, I’m not that lucky. He’ll savor every second of ignorant bliss, oblivious to the fact that I’m not into it. Stubby fingers explore, searching for a sweet spot he’ll never find. I could draw him a map and it would still evade him, like the Holy Grail exists somewhere between my thighs.

Squeezing my eyes shut, I try to detach, try to not think about the fact that a sleazy middle-aged jackass in a cheap suit is pounding into me from behind, sweating and panting and having the time of his life, while I’m just desperately waiting him out.

Waiting... and waiting... and waiting...

A red glow covers everything. The red room. It’s a cliché, I think, but it’s a favorite here at Mystic for some reason. It feels like an eternity passes, each slam of his hips driving my face further into the couch. His overpowering cologne clings to the air, smelling sickeningly like pine, swaddling my senses until I gag. Gross. It’s stifling. It’s suffocating. I just can’t seem to breathe. My chest aches for a deep breath I haven’t taken in a long time, my heart locked in a steady, dull rhythm.

His grip on me tightens. I open my eyes when I feel it, knowing he’s close to finishing. Finally. A few more hard thrusts before he grunts, stilling, dropping his body weight over on top of me. An exhilarated laugh escapes him, his warm breath ghosting across my skin. I shiver from disgust when his lips find my neck, his tongue drawing a path toward my ear, before he whispers, “I wish I could f*ck you all night long.”

“Me, too,” I say, another lie, because hell no. I can hardly stomach a fifteen-minute rendezvous.

“Maybe next time,” he whispers before moving away to stand up.

Exhaling, I slide down flat against the couch, relieved to have him not touching me. For now.

I watch as he gathers his clothes to get dressed. He’s classically handsome, I suppose, if you like that sort of thing—dark hair, bronzed skin, eyes the color of an afternoon sky, deep dimples and perfect teeth. He’s even got the most adorable freckles.

His phone rings as he pulls himself together, discarding the condom in the small trashcan behind a small bar on the left side. Pulling his phone out, he frowns. “Sorry, hate to cut this short, but I have to take this call.”

Sorry? I’m not sorry. Pfft, bye.

He jets out into the hall, heading for the back exit. As soon as he’s out of sight, I breathe a sigh of relief and get up. My * throbs but not in the good way, not in that thoroughly f*cked, fully satiated way. No, it screams angrily at me for allowing the intrusion (I know, I know… ugh, ick, gross…). I’m pretty sure the man doesn’t know the definition of foreplay, and quite frankly, the thought of his mouth on me, the thought of him caressing my body just makes me queasy, so painfully dry it will forever be.

I make my way to the changing room, the last door at the end of the hall by the exit. It looks like a middle school locker room. Smells like one, too. Hell, even feels like one sometimes. Uncomfortable. It’s empty, all of the women working, but I’ve had my fill of this place for the night.

I’m getting out of here.

I go straight to my locker on the end, opening it and grabbing my black duffel bag to gather my things. I strip out of the skimpy black lingerie, changing into a pair of yoga pants and tank top, putting my coat on over it. Running my fingers through my hair, I pull it back into a ponytail as tingles creep along my spine, an unsettling feeling in the pit of my stomach.

I glance around the vacant locker room.

It’s strange, the sensation that flows through me. It’s one I’m all too familiar with. It’s the feeling of being watched, the feeling that I’m not alone, even when I know I am.

Paranoia is a bitch.

Grabbing my bag, I slide my feet back into a pair of cheap black heels before leaving. My footsteps stall outside, and I glower. I hoped I could skedaddle out of here without enduring an awkward goodbye, but no such luck.

He’s hanging up from his call when I appear.

“Sorry again,” he mumbles, shoving the phone away as he eyes me. “You off work now?”

Technically, I had the entire night off, but this is the only place I’m willing to meet up with him. “Yep, heading out early.”

“You, uh... want me to walk you home?”

I force a smile. “Nice try.”

“It’s just an offer,” he says, raising his hands defensively. “Just looking out for you. It’s late, and dark, and—”

“And I can take care of myself, thanks,” I say, cutting him off.

“You ever going to trust me, Morgan?” he asks. “I’m here to help you.”

“I know,” I say. “But trust, well… it’s not easy for me. And it’s not that I don’t trust you. I just don’t trust anything. You know how it is.”

“I do,” he admits, frowning. “Anyway, I should go. You okay? You need some money or, uh…?”

He goes to reach for his wallet.

I want to hit him in the nose for it.

“I don’t want your money,” I say. “I’m not a prostitute.”

“Of course,” he says. “I just figured…”

“That I needed money,” I say, finishing his thought, “but I don’t need money from you. What I need is for you to actually do your job, detective.”