This is the worst day ever.

I close the front door behind me and fling myself onto the couch. As the weight of my body forces the air in the cushions out with a soft hiss, I let out a big exhale.

First, there was that mysterious email from some guy called Caine Foster—in which he uses my old name.

I knew I had to change my name after putting Stan in jail because, despite being careful about not using my real name at the Pussy Club, it was mentioned numerous times at court.

All I changed was my last name, from Lewis to Lake. I figured my first name is common enough. It would be impossible for Stan to check every single Jessica in the country.

Yet here we are, barely one year later, and someone from my old life has already found me.

I don’t know anybody called Caine Foster, but the name sounded familiar, so I went on Google to find out why.

According to my research, Caine Foster is the first son of Robert Foster, the infamous so-called businessman who, according to rumors, runs a bunch of illegal brothels and gambling dens in San Francisco.

I couldn’t believe a guy like that would be looking for me—a nobody. But when I checked the domain of his email address, I reached the website of a subsidiary company that belongs to the Foster family’s corporation. I even saw Caine Foster’s name and picture on their list of company founders.

Why would someone like Caine Foster be looking for me? It’s obviously related to Nancy’s death, so it probably also has something to do with Stan.

Could Caine Foster be the guy who’s finally going to punish me for my little act of rebellion? Is he coming after me for taking to the witness stand and putting Stan in jail?

It doesn’t sound likely. Even if the Foster family has dealings with some strip clubs, it’s unlikely that Stan knows someone that high up in the hierarchy. Caine Foster shouldn’t even know some small fry like Stan existed. So…why?

I guess there’s no way to find out, unless I email him back and meet him in person like he requested, but what if it’s a trap?

And that's not even my only problem. There was also that weird message from my Tinder date.

Just as I was about to drive home from school, while I was sitting behind the wheel, I heard the beep of a text message. It was a text from Steve.

Steve: Sorry you had to leave early last night. Let’s reschedule. You’ll regret it if you don’t.

What the hell is that? Why would I regret it? Is that a threat?

It’s possible that he has confirmed the fact that I used to be a stripper and has decided to blackmail me, threaten to tell the school about it.

It’s also possible that he called some people back in San Francisco and learned even more about my past. Maybe someone told him Stan’s willing to pay him a handsome reward for giving away my location, or for taking me back to the city himself.

Less than two weeks ago, nobody in town knew about my past, other than Tony and Bertha. I felt safe in my little Ashbourne bubble.

Now, suddenly there are three more men who know, and I’m worried about all three, to different degrees and for different reasons.

To top it off, just when I thought my day was getting better, what with Jacob fixing my locks, he started judging me for dating too many guys at once.

He accused me of being a player! Me! A player! Ha! Can you believe it? Tony--one of my supposed boyfriends--would laugh in Jacob's face had he heard that.

I’ve had the longest dry spell in history. Between work, college, Mom’s illness, and Nancy’s case, I already didn't have much time to meet men while I was still living in San Francisco.

Then I moved here and had way more free time, but there aren't any eligible men. If I weren’t showering daily, there’d be cobwebs forming between my legs already.

I'm so deprived, in fact, that I was totally creeping on Jacob the whole time he was working on my door. He was facing away from me a lot, so I had a lot of opportunities to check him out without him noticing.

The dark green shirt clung to his body from sweat, and I could see the muscles on his back move and ripple as he crouched by the door. His arms, which used to be a blank canvas three years ago, are now covered with tattoos from where they bulge out of his sleeves, all the way to his wrists. I couldn't help but wonder if he had any more artwork beneath his clothes.

I may not know all the marks he has etched on his skin, but I can remember the shape of him vividly. He’s a good lover, and I’ve often pulled out the images I’ve stored in my brain of our night together for when I need some, uh, release.

And now, having just seen him in person, I can add more details to my fantasies.

I'm angry at him, but for some demented reason, that only makes me want to pull him down on top of me so he can fuck me senseless. Even when he was yelling at me, my eyes were transfixed on his moving lips and I kept thinking about how I could shut him up if I kissed him.

Just thinking about it sends tingles to my core. I lift my waist off the couch and slide my pencil skirt off. I don't want to get creases on it--or fluids, considering how wet I am already.

I slide my panties aside and start to lightly stroke the ache between my legs. My other hand slides up my belly to grab my breast, mimicking the way Jacob touched me that night in his room. I pull my nipple and imagine it's his mouth biting on it while he looks up to trap my gaze, frown lines appearing on his forehead.

“Let's test how well the new door lock holds up against some force from the inside,” he says as he pins me against the door. His lips move tantalizingly against my nipple as he speaks. When he captures it between his rows of perfect teeth, I gasp as warmth envelops it.

Jacob’s stare is intense, unavoidable. It’s making me feel self-conscious, but at the same time I recognize the hunger in his dark eyes and it makes me want him more.

He rubs my clit and slowly builds my arousal. Soon enough, I want more than Jacob’s fingers are giving me. I bite down on my bottom lip, groan, and give him a pleading look.

He smirks as he straightens up to his full height, letting my hardened nipple dry in the cool air, while his fingers maintain their agonizingly slow tempo.

“I’m going to make you beg me to fuck you,” he says in my ear in a raspy, lustful voice. When our eyes meet, I shoot him a challenge with my steady stare. He slows down even more and my treacherous hips fly off the black door to gain more contact with Jacob’s big, callused hand.

My vision blurs as I give in to the delicious sensations he’s introducing between my folds. I may not beg him with my words, but my body is already doing it with shivers and moans. And yet that's not enough for Jacob.

“Beg for it,” he says, his breaths hot and urgent on my cheek. He lines up his thick, hard cock at my opening and leaves it there, letting me feel its warmth and potency.

When I attempt to lower myself onto his shaft, he grabs my shoulder with his free hand and holds it in place against the door.

Knowing I’m at his mercy, Jacob looks me in the eyes, impatience radiating from his sculpted body, and says, “Be a good girl, beg me to fuck you, and I’ll make you scream out my name until all our neighbors hear.”

“Please, Jacob.” I look at him, pleading for mercy, but he's still waiting for me to say it.

His fingers rubbing my clit and the spongy head of his cock resting against me make me lose my mind. I hear a deeper, hoarser version of my voice say, “Please. I beg you to fuck me.”

Jacob's cocky smirk widens. He holds my gaze hostage as he slowly pushes up and impales me. My pussy stretches around my own slender fingers.

“Fuck,” I curse aloud in frustration, wishing I really had Jacob's cock between my legs. I press against the front wall of my pussy and continue playing with my clit, while imagining Jacob's stern gaze watching me. I come with a light shudder and pull my fingers out.

The need within me has become less urgent now, but I’m still throbbing, aching for more. I want the real thing.

As infuriating as Jacob can be, I remember why I would’ve gotten in touch again with him if it weren't for that phone call the morning after.

A part of me thinks it’s a bad idea to get close to him because, as unlikely as it is that he’d be related to Stan, he’s still a link to a past that I’d rather bury. And considering the way he gets my blood boiling almost every time I see him, he’s probably bad for my blood pressure.

Yet a different part of me—including the part that's pulsing between my legs now—doesn’t want to stay away.