Page 14 of Willing Prey

ELEVEN

Shane

I’m reviewing a brief in the library when I hear footsteps.

Margot didn’t work today, and Gretchen’s visiting her family for the weekend, so I know it’s Claire.

They pass the library, going down the stairs.

Then I can’t hear them anymore. A few minutes later, the footsteps are back.

This time, they move to the door and pause. There’s a soft knock.

“Come in,” I call, fidgeting with my papers before I catch myself and stop.

Claire peeks in, only her head visible. “Hey, sorry to bother you. Is Gretchen around?”

I shake my head. “No, what do you need?”

“Margot?” she asks.

Another headshake and the same question. “What do you need?”

The look she gives me is suspicious, cagey, and more than a little embarrassed. My curiosity blooms.

“How are you with tweezers?”

What the fuck?

I don’t answer quickly enough and must look confused because Claire holds up a pair. “You know, these—”

“I know what tweezers are.”

“Well, it didn’t look like you did.” She sighs. “I’m sorry to ask this because I know it’s gross, but will you get a tick off me?”

I’m already moving, finally understanding the tweezer question. “Of course. Let’s go in the bathroom. There’s better light.”

I lead her down the hall to my bedroom. Claire lets out an approving whistle when she walks in. One wall has floor-to-ceiling windows. During the day it provides an unobstructed view of the woods.

“Bet that’s gorgeous at sunset.”

“Stunning.” I feel tongue-tied, like I want to say more. Maybe something witty, but nothing’s coming.

In the bathroom, I feel even more awkward. Claire passes me the tweezers, a concerned look on her face. Her shorts are loose and soft, blue cotton fluttering around her mouthwatering thighs. Thighs that are distracting me, making me forget how to act like a human.

How long has it been since there was a woman in my bedroom? In my bathroom?

I imagine Claire in my shower, soaked and soapy. I swallow hard, trying to distract myself. My cock likes where my imagination is headed.

Careful.

She’ll think you have a tick fetish or something.

“You okay? You look a little pale.” Worrying her lip between her teeth, she studies me. “This is weird, right? Super gross? I’ll wait till Gretchen gets back tomorrow.” She turns to leave, cheeks red. Great. I’ve made her feel self-conscious.

Shit.

“No, it’s fine.” My fingers close around her arm, and I tug her back. “It’s not gross. Swear.”

She sighs again like she doesn’t believe me, but she turns. Dropping her head, she parts her hair, and sure enough, there’s a tick.

“I’m sorry,” Claire says. “I know this is a huge turnoff.” She sounds genuinely upset, and that surprises me.

“Why would it be a turnoff?” I study the tick, noting that it isn’t too round, which means it hasn’t been latched very long.

“You’re picking a bug off me.” Her voice is softer than before. “I had one behind my ear once, and Keith had to help me get it off. You would have thought I’d vomited on him the way he acted. Like I repulsed him.”

There are so many things I want to say to that, starting with Keith is the biggest piece of shit I’ve ever met . “That’s a him problem” is what I go with instead. “Besides, isn’t there something in marriage vows about for better or worse, with ticks and no ticks?”

Her snort makes me smile. “So I take it you’ve never been married? Because it’s in sickness and in health , not in tick-ness and in health .”

I laugh, appreciating the pun. Edging the tweezers under the tick, I try not to squeeze it prematurely. “Never married. Truthfully, I rarely date.”

“Really?” She’s either truly surprised or a fantastic actress.

Plucking the tick with a quick, twisting motion, I remove it in one piece. “I spend a lot of time at work.”

“That doesn’t have to keep you from dating.

Work is where Keith found a girlfriend—Naomi, the pretty paralegal you work with.

” There’s a tone in her voice I don’t like.

She’s trying to come across as nonchalant, but there’s an ache underneath her words that makes me want to kiss her, touch her, coax out those hungry little whimpers instead of her sounding so sad.

Our eyes meet in the mirror. Again, I want to say too many things.

You’re prettier.

She’s barely old enough to drink.

Keith’s a jackass having an early midlife crisis.

“You know he fucked up, right?” is what comes out. We’re in a mirror stare-down. She shrugs, and I gently nudge her back with my chest. “He did. You’re a catch. Seriously.”

As I’m saying it, the truth in my words registers. It crawls beneath my skin, unsettling me.

Claire is a catch, and when she’s no longer locked away in my home, someone will snatch her up. The idea of her dating anyone makes me want to put my fist through the wall. The urge is jarring. My loss of composure earlier at work and this flare of anger now aren’t like me.

“I guess you would say I’m a catch , huh?” She chuckles. I should smile, but I’m still too irritated by the thought of her dating. “How’s the tick?”

“Dead.” I hold up the tweezers, finally laughing when she wrinkles her nose.

“Thank you. And I’m sorry for interrupting your work.” Shuddering, she turns like she’s thinking about leaving.

I don’t want her to. Thirty days suddenly feels far too short. “I wasn’t doing anything important,” I lie. “I was actually getting ready to watch some TV.”

She nods. “I’ll let you get to it.” Then she’s moving to the door again.

Damnit.

“Do you like Real Estate Wreck ?” I blurt.

That makes her spin. “That’s what you’re going to watch? I’m obsessed with that show.”

“Really?” I try to sound surprised. Like I didn’t hear her talking to her best friend about it during one of the dozens of coffee dates I observed.

Like I didn’t DVR three seasons, just in case she might want to watch it while she was here.

I never planned on watching it with her, but right now, the idea is appealing. “Watch it with me.”

She arches an eyebrow. “You sure that doesn’t go against anything in the contract? It’s not too relationship-y?”

Fuck that contract.

Pressing a hand to her lower back, I steer her out of the bathroom. “Positive, and I’m a lawyer, so I would know.”

Claire laughs at that. A real laugh, one that might make up for the fact that I’m about to sit through a home improvement show. She follows me downstairs, settling on the couch while I find the remote. “Lights on or off?” I ask before I join her.

“Off,” she says. “Unless you think you’ll fall asleep.”

“Unlikely.”

After turning off the lights, I move toward the couch, trying to gauge where I should sit.

Claire isn’t fully to one end; she’s at about a third of the way in.

Moving to the opposite end from her feels rude, but I don’t want to sit so close that I make her uncomfortable.

I decide to sit a foot from her, near but not too close.

A half hour later, she’s asleep on my shoulder while Real Estate Wreck plays.

I watch the whole episode, and after seeing a couple discover their new house has a bat infestation and was built over an unmarked cemetery, I’ve decided that maybe the show isn’t too bad.

When it ends, I wake her. Claire’s voice is sleepy, her hair wild as she looks around. Owlishly, she blinks at me.

“Why am I here?”

“You fell asleep watching the show.”

“Shit. Sorry.” She winces. “I’m not very much fun.”

I want to tell her that sitting in the dark, being her pillow, and watching a couple try to figure out if their house is haunted or just a disaster was enjoyable in a way I don’t quite understand.

I want to tell her that she’s plenty of fun, that I’ve had more fun in the few days she’s been here than I’d had in the last year. But I don’t.

“You’re fine. Get some rest.”

She mumbles, “Good night,” and shuffles out, not looking back. I head back to my room, but once I’m in bed, I can’t sleep. The end of our arrangement hangs over my head, and I hate it.

Turning over, I open my nightstand, feeling around until my fingers close on a small metal tube.

Claire’s lipstick. It’s half-used, the circle sticker on the bottom starting to peel.

As I roll the tube back and forth between my forefinger and thumb, I think back to the day I acquired it.

Back when I was trying to figure out the best way to finagle a no-strings-attached sexual relationship with Claire that she might consider.

Three Months Earlier

Stalking is one of those words that gets thrown around too casually.

Hiding in bushes, peeking in windows—that’s stalking.

What I’m doing now, sitting in my SUV in the side parking lot of the Green Bean, waiting for Claire to arrive for her weekly coffee date with a few other teachers, is merely observation.

No different from the evenings when I sit on the front porch, watching deer lurk at the edge of the woods, their bravery growing as the light wanes.

When dusk falls, they’ll venture onto the lawn, and I’ll appreciate their beauty, observe them as they graze.

The first time I saw her here, it was unplanned.

Every other instance—five, so far—I’ve orchestrated.

I’m just not sure to what end. It’s mid-March, and she’s officially divorced now.

Since the Christmas party where I discovered what primal play was, I haven’t been able to stop thinking about her—well, hunting her.

Considering that wasn’t last Christmas but the Christmas before proves this obsession isn’t going to vanish as quickly as it appeared.

The two professionals I hired in an attempt to scratch this primal itch were wildly disappointing. Rather, my cock’s lack of interest in them was. Maybe I should take that as a sign that this kink isn’t for me, but I can’t. Not until I’ve tried it with Claire.