Page 28 of Puck Me, Valentine
The night air hits me like a slap. I start walking, my hands shoved deep in my jacket pockets.
After a few minutes, that familiar feeling creeps up my spine. Someone’s following me.
I tell myself I’m being paranoid. That the biker incidents have me on edge. That I’m imagining things.
But part of me—a pathetic, desperate part—hopes it’s Devlin. That he followed me again, like he did a few nights ago.
I hate myself for hoping that. Why would I expect someone like Devlin Bower to always be running after me like a puppy? It’s ridiculous. Pathetic.
I pick up my pace anyway.
By the time I reach my building, I’m almost jogging. I fumble with my keys, get inside, lock the door behind me.
Safe.
And alone.
I’m disappointed that Devlin never showed up, which makes me feel even more pathetic. But at least I made it home without any trouble.
I need a shower. Need to wash away this entire awful evening, this constant tension and wanting.
The hot water feels incredible against my skin. I stand under the spray, letting it pound against my shoulders, my back, washing away the stress.
My hand drifts down almost of its own accord.
I touch myself slowly, carefully. I forbid myself from thinking about Devlin—about his hands and his mouth, the sounds he made.
But I can’t help it. The memories flood in anyway. His breath against my neck. The weight of him in my palm. The way he came apart so quickly, so desperately.
My other hand reaches back, fingers pressing, stretching. I’ve been doing this more often lately. I’ve even thought about buying a toy, something to make it easier, better.
But now… after what happened with Devlin… the thought feels shameful somehow. Too explicit. Tooreal.
I don’t understand why it feels that way. But it does.
I finish quickly, my breath coming in short gasps, Devlin’s name on my lips even though I hate myself for it.
After, I stand under the water for a few more minutes, letting it wash away the the shame, the confusion.
When I finally step out of the bathroom, wrapped only in a towel, I feel marginally better. Calmer, at least.
I shake my head to get water out of my ear, then shake my wet hair more vigorously.
The ends tickle my face and I giggle a little at the sensation, feeling almost normal for the first time all evening.
Then someone switches on the lamp on my desk.
A huge figure is sitting in my chair.
I scream.
“I see you’ve been having a marvelous time,” Devlin says irritably, “managing to escape from me twice and leaving me among those idiots at the bar.”
“I nearly had a heart attack just now!” My hand is pressed against my chest, my heart hammering wildly.
“Me too.” His voice sounds calm, but there’s something dark and desperate underneath.
His eyes drag slowly down my body, taking in the towel, the water still dripping from my hair onto my bare shoulders.
