Prey Drive by Jen Stevens
Chapter 12
the lamb
back.
Or perhaps it's more appropriate to call him a nightmare, since I'm pretty sure it's impossible to deny he's the same man I found standing outside my window.
I settled into the couch the moment I got home from my shift at Old Soul and worked on applying for more jobs while Halen and Kennedy kept me company on speakerphone. One thing I miss the most about living together is being able to talk to them whenever I wanted. Before, even if one of them was rushing out the door to get to their next shift or run errands, I could still sneak in small conversations and hear every menial update about their life. Now that I'm on my own, I spend most of my time at home in silence, and those easy conversations we once had have become something that needs to be scheduled into our busy days.
I miss them. Just as much as I love my private solitude, I miss constant human contact. More than I ever expected.
Maybe that’s why I keep obsessing about this man. Maybe that's also why I haven't called the police.
Tonight, when they offered to call and talk my ear off, I couldn't pick up the phone fast enough. There are no weird noises outside or creaks inside the house this time. I’m not sure if it’s because I’m still too hungover to drink again, or if I was imagining it all in the first place. Either way, I’m off the phone and ready for bed by eight o’clock. I'm so insanely exhausted that the moment my head hits the pillow, sleep takes me under.
And I don't wake up until there's a noise in my closet. My eyes find the alarm clock on the bedside table and confirm I’ve only been asleep for a few hours. I might even still be asleep now, because the man is back.
He’s standing across the room, his dark and familiar silhouette relaxed against the doorframe of my walk-in closet. I blink owlishly, clearing the sleep from my eyes, and he remains still, staring directly at me.
I looked up ways to control lucid dreams the way Rosie suggested after I got home from the cafe, but everything I read completely dissipates from my mind now that he’s here. In fact, every conscious thought seems to fly away in his presence.
It feels so incredibly real. How can I be asleep?
Maybe I’m not.
Maybe he’s a ghost.
Or maybe there’s really a man standing in my bedroom, watching me sleep.
Fuck, I don’t know. This is insane.
“Hello, Stardust,” a deep, commanding voice greets, startling me out of my thoughts.
His tone is confident and direct. Where I’m floundering, he knows exactly what’s happening here.
“Wh-who are you?” I ask dumbly.
Who are you?As if that matters.
He’s the guy who’s going to kill you, that’s who he is.
He doesn’t answer the question. Instead, he pushes off the doorway and starts toward me. “I see you’ve started without me.”
Tilting his head toward my hand, which I’m now realizing is stuffed between my legs, his brows inch upward.
I quickly pull it out, mortified that he found me like that, and twist my palm in front of my face, staring at it in complete shock, like it betrayed me. Since when do I masturbate in my sleep?
He snickers, stopping at the side of my bed just before his thighs hit the mattress. Every move he makes feels calculated, as if he’s planned this whole thing out.
“I'm going to tell you what's about to happen, little Stardust, and you're going to obey,” he begins, tugging the blanket farther down my legs. I’m too frozen with fear to protest or stop him.
His face is stunning. Well, at least what I can see of it. Perfectly symmetrical and free of any imperfections. He’s got to be the most beautiful man I’ve ever laid eyes on.
Dark hair that I can tell was slicked back at some point now hangs over matching thick, arched eyebrows. I can’t see the color of his eyes, but I can tell their light against his long black eyelashes. The lower half of his face is covered by a black mask that hangs down to his broad chest, but I have no doubt it's just as appealing.
He certainly isn’t from Styx; I can guarantee it. That kind of face screams privilege and money.
“You’re going to lay back on this bed and spread those pretty legs for me.”
He stares down at me expectantly, waiting for me to comply. But I can’t seem to wrap my head around his words.
“Um… what?”
A low growl rumbles in his throat as he digs his fists into the mattress beside me, lining his masked lips up with my ear without actually touching it. “I don’t repeat myself. That’s rule number one. And take off those hideous fucking boxers before I rip them off you. I don’t ever want to see you in another man’s clothing again, do you understand?”
I’m not sure if I’m supposed to be horrified or turned on, but the sudden harsh words appear to invoke both emotions simultaneously.
What the fuck is wrong with me?
With a stiff nod—mostly because I’m terrified of what he’ll do if I hesitate any longer—I begin slipping Gabe’s old boxers down my legs, fully exposing myself to the crisp night air. I'm instantly regretting my choice not to wear panties to sleep.
Fear as deep as my marrow and metallic as my blood creeps into every fiber of my being.
He moves around the bed to stand at my feet, giving himself a full, uninterrupted view of my body.
“Good girl. Now, rub your fingers over that pretty pink pussy for me,” he says, gaze trained between my legs. I pause for a second, and his eyes snap back to my face.
“Now.” His growl is deep and impatient.
This has to be a dream. It has to. There's no way a man with this much wealth and entitlement would waste his time with a girl like me. In a place like this.
That's what I tell myself as I lean my head back into the pillow and gently move my hands over my thighs. I hiss out a breath when my fingers meet the swollen, sensitive flesh beneath my legs, immediately coating them in my arousal.
Men don't speak to me like this.
Any man I've hooked up with before has found me to be too intimidating in bed. The instant they realize I'm a woman who actually knows what she wants, they clam up and submit. I fucking hate it.
I've yet to find one who can match me in the bedroom. Which is another reason why it's so easy for me to convince myself this isn't real. Because men like the one standing before me simply don't exist in my world.
So I decide I'm going to lean into this. Play along, even if it's just a survival technique. I'm going to continue to fool myself into believing he's a figment of my imagination, simply because any other alternative is absolutely terrifying.
Deny, deny, deny. That's what I'm best at.
“That's it, baby,” his rough voice encourages from below.
I don't bother looking at him. Instead, I focus my gaze on a crack in the ceiling as I caress my clit in the exact way that I know will send me over the edge in minutes.
I'm waiting for him to move closer. To feel his weight dip on the bed as he crosses the invisible line between us. To have his hands on my skin. But none of that happens.
Only when I feel myself skirting around the edge, do I gain enough courage to drag my eyes away from the ceiling and back down to him.
He's unbuttoned his pants and taken himself out. My eyes track his hand as it moves up and down his long, thick shaft. Even shrouded in darkness, I can tell he's larger than any man I've ever met. That should scare me.
“Are you imagining my cock inside you, Stardust? Is that why you're digging your fingers deep into that tight pussy?”
I moan, bucking my hips forward as if the movement will bring me closer to him. Because he's right. I was imagining how it would feel for him to fill me up, and I can't make sense of why.
“Soon. So soon,” he promises, and his hand begins moving faster. “For now, I just want to watch you make that sweet pussy come all over your hand. Can you do that, Stardust?”
I have no idea where he's come up with this nickname, but the way it flows off his tongue is becoming my newest addiction.
“Yes,” I whimper, my hips grinding farther into my hand as my orgasm builds.
“Good. Now come with me, baby.”
And I do. Not because he tells me to, although that gravelly voice is hot enough to send anyone over the edge. I finish because this situation is fucked up and dangerous and has me questioning my sanity. Because if I don't, I'll succumb to the fear and then there won't be anything left for him to kill anyway.
Seconds later, I hear his quiet moans as he finishes into his hand, and I sit forward in my bed to watch as he comes undone. My teeth work against my lip, and he groans even louder. The mask over his mouth moves with his lips when he says, “I can't wait until those lips are wrapped around me and my cum is shooting down your throat.”
He reaches backward to grab a discarded shirt off my dresser and cleans off his hand, then throws it back down and moves toward me. I flinch when the same soft palm wraps around my jaw, squeezing a little too hard.
“Sweet dreams, little Stardust,” he whispers into the space between us, then he turns and walks out my bedroom door.
I fight the urge to follow him, confused with the way this entire exchange has left me desperately wanting more, yet shaking with nerves at the same time. I sit as still as possible in my bed, listening. There’re no other sounds inside the house. No footsteps, no door closing, nothing. It's like he walked out of the bedroom and disappeared into thin air. I reluctantly lean back against my pillow, doubting the past hour of my life and begging for sleep that never comes.
When it’s time to get ready for the day, I muster up the courage to leave my room and walk out to find a lone, dark purple fig sitting in the center of my dining room table, and I know for a fact that everything was real.