Page 31 of Hunt Me, Daddy

I checked the bathroom one more time before showering. It was clean. There wasn’t anything disturbed in there at all, which meant it was still mine.

I closed the door and turned the shower on too hot. Steam filled the small room quickly, fogging up the mirror and softening the hard edges of everything. I stripped with angry efficiency, throwing my clothes into the hamper harder than fabric deserved, and stepped under the water.

Heat struck my shoulders and ran down my spine. I braced both hands against the tile and bowed my head, letting the water pound against the back of my neck until the world shrank to steam, skin, and the roar of pipes in the wall.

I told myself I was calming down.

Which was adorable.

I was not calm.

I was furious. Wired. My apartment had been breached so cleanly I couldn’t prove it except for three crossword answers onpaper. My watcher had walked through every defense I’d built and left me a message. And for some insane reason, he made me feel seen in the one way I had spent years making sure no one could see me.

I wanted to know if he had paused at my desk.

I wondered if he had stood near my bedroom door.

The thought of him moving through my apartment with that same careful, silent precision made my thighs press together beneath the hot water.

I hated all of that.

“Fuck, no,” I whispered.

My body did not care.

My hand slid down my stomach anyway, slow at first, like I could still pretend I was only rinsing away tension. My fingers found heat that had nothing to do with the shower, and I squeezed my eyes shut so hard sparks flickered behind my lids.

I should have stopped, but I couldn’t because this was mine. This was my body, my anger, my bad decision made alone under locked doors and scalding water.

Fully mine.

So I touched myself.

I imagined no face because I didn’t have one. No name because I didn’t have that either. Just a presence in the dark. I imagined he would be tall, careful, and incredibly smart. A man who could avoid my traps, enter my apartment, correct my puzzle, and leave everything else exactly where it belonged. A man who saw me looking and wanted me to look harder.

The thought made a sound that was an awful lot like a moan break from my throat.

I bit it off immediately, humiliated even though I was alone.

My fingers moved faster.

The fantasy did not soften. It wasn’t romantic. It wasn’t sweet. It was a hand hovering at the back of my neck without touching. A low voice I had never heard telling me I had missed three answers, that I should try harder.

My orgasm hit like a failure and a victory at the same time.

I came really fucking hard with one hand braced on the tile and the other between my thighs, jaw clenched shut around any sound that tried to escape. Pleasure moved through me in intense, hot waves, bright enough to blank the anger for a few seconds, which only made it worse when it came back. I stood there afterward, breathing hard, water running over my face like it could rinse away stupidity.

It could not.

“Congratulations,” I muttered to myself. “Great work. Very feminist. Extremely sane.”

I stayed in the shower until the water began to cool.

When I got out, the mirror was fogged completely white. I wiped a hand across it and stared at my own reflection, cheeks flushed, eyes too bright, wet hair slicked back from my face. I looked angry.

Good.

I could use angry.