I find myself wandering restlessly around the apartment in the dark, my thoughts drifting.
Until I stop dead in front of the living room window. My skin prickles.
“This is getting to be a thing,” I murmur in disbelief, staring down at the man pacing back and forth under the streetlight across the street. I always thought having a stalker would be an incredibly creepy experience, but then again, I never thought I’d know exactly who my stalker would be. That shaves an edge off the creep factor, leaving me more fascinated than frightened by this new development in my life.
Even at a distance, A.J.’ s agitation is clear.
He paces in long, even strides. He flexes his hands open, then closes them to fists. It appears that he’s muttering to himself. Every few feet he turns abruptly and goes back in the opposite direction, starting the whole process all over again.
Without thinking about what I’m doing, I turn on the lamp beside the window, flooding the room in light.
A.J. stops pacing. He looks up at my window. I stare down at him, waiting, hands shaking, heart racing, wondering if I’ve just made a terrible mistake, while simultaneously not caring if I have.
After a lifetime of holding my breath, I watch as he slowly steps off the curb and crosses the street.
When he’s out of view around the front corner of my building, I run to the front door. I press my ear against it, straining to hear any sound. The elevator was fixed a few weeks ago, so now I can’t hear steps on the stairs, but I do hear the cheerful ding as the elevator stops on my floor and the doors slide open.
It’s a few excruciating moments before heavy footsteps begin to move toward my door.
They pause just outside. My heart feels like a trampoline with a dozen fat ladies jumping up and down on it. After a moment, A.J. says my name. His voice is barely audible. He knows I’m standing here.
I take a deep breath and open the door.
He dwarfs the doorway. He’s in faded jeans, boots, the signature black hoodie that shadows his face. His hands, trembling, hang at his sides. His eyes burn a hole right through me.
In a gravelly voice, he says, “Tell me to leave. Tell me to go away and shut the door in my face.”
Before I can change my mind, I reach out, grab the front of his sweatshirt and gently pull him into my apartment.
He stares down at me with those burning eyes, his face hard. “One last chance. Tell me to leave.”
“I don’t want you to leave.”
Without looking away from me, he swings the door shut behind him with a flick of his hand. We stand for a moment, tension thick between us, until he says, “Bedroom.”
That single, husky word wreaks havoc throughout my body.
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About J.T. Gessinger
J.T. Geissinger is an award winning and best-selling author of dark, sexy romance.
She is the recipient of the Prism Award for Best First Book, the Golden Quill Award for Best Paranormal/Urban Fantasy, and was a finalist for the prestigious RITA© Award from the Romance Writers of America. Her work has also finaled in the Booksellers’ Best, National Readers’ Choice, and Daphne du Maurier Awards.
She lives in California with her husband, on whom all her heroes are based.
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