The handle turns under my hand and I push the door open. Scanning the room before I step over the threshold, I feel every nerve in my body come alive in a very real response of fight; not flight.

The wall I share with this person looks like they’ve set up a station to listen. On a nightstand that’s been moved over there is a drink, still beaded up with condensation. Prickles run up and down my skin as I study the place, unwilling to actually walk all the way in.

I don’t know that I’m not walking into a trap.

Whose room is this? Why are they listening to my conversation with Cami? Is she double crossing me?

I dismiss the idea. She’s not a mastermind like that. Even her best formulated plots have been hare brained and riddled with mistakes. No, this is something else. And I’m going to get to the bottom of it.

Because the information that we’d been discussing next door is a bit too sensitive for me to trust just anyone to understand. And I may have incriminated myself. So for now, I’d like to at least talk to this person, to figure out what they know, why they’re listening, and what they want.

Everyone wants something.

There’s a tiny sound near me and that icy hot wave of prickling sensations roar over my flesh. But I don’t react. I know better than to jump first and ask questions later. I realize that whoever it is is behind the door.

Smart. They’d expected me to barge in and charge through the place like a tornado looking for them. I’m sure they’d have used those precious few seconds to slip out the door. They’d be gone before I could even realize I’d missed them.

This is why I don’t act first. Rational, intelligent thinking means covering every base. It means considering every angle. It means not charging in and hoping for the best. Meticulous planning and logical progression of situations lead to favorable outcomes.

I grab the door and swing it closed.

Behind it, a slim girl presses her back to the door, her terror shining in her face as she stares up at me with wide hazel eyes. Her dark hair is woven into a messy braid over her shoulder that is loose at the end and beginning to unravel. It’s a pleasing representation of her situation, I think. Poetic.

Her little white shorts show a beautiful length of legs. There’s a beautiful outward curve of her thighs and her hips are a bit wide for her tiny frame. Her belly is flat and peeks at me from under her little tank top with every breath she takes. I can even see the slight jut of her hip bones before they disappear under the waistband of her shorts.

The shirt shows off the tucked in shape of her waist and doesn’t hide the delicate flare of her ribs. With every deep, terrified breath she takes, her chest rises and falls, lifting the hem of her shirt to show me a line of belly before lowering to meet the top of her shorts again.

The neckline of the shirt plunges and offers a glimpse of the top curve of her breasts and a hint of her cleavage. Her breasts aren’t huge, no, they’re just the right size for her small frame. I doubt she’s more than a b cup, but it suits her. She’s not drop dead sexy, but there’s an allure to her I can’t deny.

Her eyes are locked on me like I’m a wolf preparing to eat her. I bet she’s watching me study her, certain there’s a totally different fate for her. Because I’m not above leveraging her fear to get to her.

Her face is pretty in a girl next door way. There’s nothing overtly beautiful about her, but her features are pleasing.

She’s trembling.

Her hand comes up, like she’s going to brush the hair from her face, but I grab her wrist.

There’s very real terror in her eyes and I notice all the little rings decorating her graceful fingers. I stay locked on her gaze as her lips part slightly. Her full lower lip trembles slightly and I can feel her pulse on the inside of her wrist where I’m still holding her.

Her eyes dart to my arm before meeting mine again.

I know she’s trying to push back hard into the wall as if she can melt into a puddle of wet paint, but I step in closer. Her skin is soft against the rough calluses of my hand. I can see her heart beat against the hollow at the base of her throat and I see something sparkling in her eyes. Fear, of course, but something that looks quite like excitement.

This might be harder than I thought.

My body responds to the sudden flash of heat in her expression. She’s turned on right now, I can feel it in her pulse, I can see it in her eyes, I can smell it.

Her eyes dart to my lips and I know she’s thinking about how it would feel if I kissed her. The rise and fall of her chest becomes quicker and something quite like a whimper leaves her throat. She’s so close to me I can feel her heat. I can feel her body pushing toward me even as she recoils in fear and self-loathing. I get it. She’s hating herself even as she craves something I can give her. Oh, what a sweet contradiction.

She’s not even pulling her arm in a feeble attempt to free herself, no, she’s totally at my mercy in every single way possible. And it’s fucking turning her on. Jesus, I want her right now. Everything in me struggles against lifting her, pushing her to the wall, pulling those little shorts to the side and plunging up in her.

Her pupils spasm and I know her thoughts are mirroring mine.