Page 9 of Willing Prey

EIGHT

Shane

It’s day four—two days since I fucked Claire in the field—and there hasn’t been a waking moment where thoughts of her haven’t filled my mind.

I can’t stop thinking about the encounter, about her.

I suspected the other women I attempted this with were a poor substitute for the real thing, and I was more than right.

With Claire, the reality of hunting her was a thousand times better than my fantasies.

In my fantasies, she never had that wild look in her eyes, didn’t make sounds so sweet my cock twitches just remembering them.

Her pussy didn’t spasm around me each time I told her what a good little deer she was.

There’s no going back to fantasizing now that I’ve had her.

Work is getting in the way, though. I love my job, to the point where it’s caused the demise of every relationship I’ve had as an adult, but this week it feels like an unwelcome distraction.

I’ve stayed past midnight the past two nights, which is nothing unusual, but now I resent it.

I’m irritated, craving her taste. I only have her for thirty days, and I’m losing time.

Today, I’m leaving at five, work be damned.

Two hours to go.

This morning, Claire was in the kitchen when I went to grab breakfast and coffee for the road.

Sitting at the table in a hoodie emblazoned with the name of an elementary school and a cartoon velociraptor, her hair up in a messy bun, she looked like she belonged there.

She gave me a smile that stopped my heart before nodding at my clothing.

“You don’t look ready for the woods. Those fancy shoes will slow you down.”

That made Gretchen chuckle and warmth slither up the back of my neck.

Gretchen and Margot know why she’s here, but it isn’t something we regularly talk about.

When Gretchen stepped out, I leaned in close enough to smell Claire’s shampoo, dropping my voice to a whisper.

“If you’re the prey, nothing is capable of slowing me down. ”

A flush crept up the front of her throat, making the bruise I’d left on her neck glow an angry red.

Seeing the mark made some animal inside me roar with pride.

Mine , the creature gloated, all mine. That was a new feeling.

It left me trying to hide a rapidly growing erection behind my briefcase when Gretchen came back in.

I check my phone. Only fifteen minutes have passed. Fucking hell.

I need coffee.

It’s a good excuse to get up and move. Clear my head. I need to reset my brain so I can focus on work, not Claire and how she’s waiting for me at home.

I’m pleased to find the kitchen empty but less impressed when the coffeepot is too.

Refilling something after using the last of it doesn’t seem like it should be a challenging concept, but at least half of my colleagues can’t figure it out.

There are a few who legitimately might not be able to operate the high-tech machine, but the rest have no excuse.

After giving the pot a quick wash, I start the coffee maker.

The firm’s kitchen is modern and spacious, painted in neutral tones with sleek gunmetal appliances.

A gray granite island sits in the center, surrounded by chairs.

It’s a pleasant surprise that there isn’t someone in here taking a call, working on a laptop, or socializing.

Settling in at the island, I appreciate the near silence—there are only the sounds of the coffee maker and air-conditioning.

I focus on the soft noises, using them to settle my brain.

Footsteps come from the hall. Before I can wonder who they belong to, Tanner Crowe, a partner and the worst pretend-not-to-see-an-empty-coffeepot offender, steps into the kitchen.

I’m glad it’s him. Tanner’s one of the few people at the firm I like enough to interact with outside of work activities, though I wouldn’t call us close friends.

I’m about to say something along the lines of You would show up now that I’m making coffee when Keith walks in behind him.

Motherfucker.

My good mood sours. Keith’s been with the firm eight years and is gunning hard for partner.

One of his strategies seems to be following Tanner around like a huge duckling trailing its mother.

Tanner is easygoing—as far as lawyers go—and tolerates it, but I enjoy giving him a hard time about the fact that he can barely take a piss without Keith’s company.

While I’ve never found Keith’s presence particularly enjoyable, since the Christmas party two years ago, I’ve found myself growing more and more annoyed by him.

We exchange the usual pleasantries. Keith and Tanner settle in at the island across from me, also waiting on the coffee maker.

I make a mental note that we need to buy a faster one, because, by the sound of its gurgles, I’m going to be here another minute or two.

As they continue their conversation, I size up Keith.

Is this Claire’s type?

He’s tall— whatever —with brown hair— fine— and green eyes— interesting . They’re unique. The kind of thing women might appreciate. I’m wondering if Claire likes green eyes better than brown when I realize Keith is speaking to me.

“Any plans for the weekend?” His tone is cordial.

Fucking your ex-wife better than you ever did.

The surge of aggression I feel surprises me as much as the intrusive thought.

“Hiking.” I can’t quite get my tone to friendly, but I don’t sound like I hate him. Good enough. “You?”

Keith leans back in his chair. “Think I’m going to check in on the ex, see how she’s doing.”

Irritation blossoms into anger at his words.

Jaw tight, fists clenched, I feel precariously close to losing my temper, even though I logically know there’s no reason for it.

What is wrong with me? I’ve never wanted to smash someone’s face into an island before, but the idea is wildly appealing right now.

Tanner gives me a curious look. Do I look like I’m about to lose it?

The thought is unpleasant. Maintaining an unbothered expression regardless of my emotional state is a skill I worked hard to develop as a teen.

Then, my ability to fake apathy meant the difference between my father’s rage burning out before it reached the fuse or triggering an Armageddon-level explosion.

Now, that same emotional control, or at the very least, the appearance of it, serves me well.

My default mode is a mask of neutrality, disdain if I feel like switching things up. That it might be slipping worries me.

Unaware that whether he gets a closer look at the granite countertop depends on my self-control—which feels concerningly shaky—Keith keeps going.

“Last time I reached out, she was still worked up. She’s something else when she’s in a mood.

” His chuckle is indulgent, as if he’s humoring her anger. “You know how women get.”

He looks at me as if I’m going to cosign this statement. “No. I don’t know how they get.”

Tanner laughs like I’m joking. Ignoring him, I lean forward, resting my elbows on the island. “Are you still seeing Naomi?” The paralegal recently left the firm, and I don’t know if it had something to do with the affair or not.

He looks surprised at the question. “Of course.”

“Then why check in on Claire?” The coffee maker completes its job with a cheerful beep, but I don’t move for it.

Keith cocks his head, gauging if I’m serious. Deciding I am, he explains in an almost patronizing tone, “She’s my ex-wife, and I care about her.” He smirks. “And she’s going to be lonely, needy, and still pissed. I wouldn’t turn down a round of hate sex for old times’ sake.”

It takes conscious thought to unclench my jaw. “She divorced you. Why would she sleep with you?”

The confidence on his face may snap the final tether on my temper. “Because we have history. She loved me once, probably still does. Ten minutes of remember the time we and she’ll be naked.”

For safety’s sake, I move to the coffeepot. My fingers are itching to wrap around his neck.

“Won’t work.” I try to sound nonchalant, turning my back to him and focusing on the coffee maker. “She’s not going to get over the affair.”

“She doesn’t have to get over it to sleep with me.” His arrogance could be comical if I weren’t so pissed. “And there’s a chance she might do it for revenge.”

“That’ll teach you a lesson.” Tanner laughs at his own joke. Keith follows suit because of course he does.

“She might do it to one-up Naomi,” Keith insists. “I’ve spent years with that woman; trust me when I say I know how she works. She’s absurdly competitive.” A grimace makes it clear he doesn’t appreciate Claire’s drive.

Claire throwing herself off of the roof pops into my head.

The ferocity of her resistance when I caught her in the woods.

How I had to adjust my grip on her hair because I thought she might rip it out trying to escape.

Her crawling away from my tongue between her legs, even though she was dripping and ready.

Incredible. The thought of a woman like Claire with a man like Keith is infuriating.

“I suppose anything could happen.” Tanner’s voice betrays how entertained he is by this exchange.

Which one of us is amusing him, I’m not sure.

I wonder if his idea of “anything could happen” includes me cracking Keith upside the head with this coffeepot.

When he says, “So the sex must be great, then,” I suspect he’s picked up on the shift in my mood.

Gretchen, Margot, and Claire’s roommate-slash–emergency contact are the only people who know about the arrangement, but I think Tanner noticed I paid her a bit too much attention at the Christmas party. He’s also caught me looking at her Facebook profile on my phone a time or two.

Or ten.

Keith smirks, coffee sloshes over the edge of my travel mug, and I contemplate violence.