Whoever is behind me removes their hand and I take the opportunity to try to figure out what’s happening.
“Saint?” My voice is trembling as a sob rips through me. Two arms are wrapped around me now, holding my arms in place. “Saint, please.” I attempt to turn my head to look at him, but whoever is doing this to me pushes my face forward with force. His hand remains on my jaw as he brings his mouth to my ear.
“Don’t. Fucking. Move.”
I’m placed down hard into a chair. I can’t even tell if that was Saint’s voice, which makes me even more terrified. I try to jump up out of the chair, but I’m not fast enough. Hands are around my wrists.
Tape is placed over my mouth.
My arms are pulled behind me, and not gently. A pain sears through my arm and shoulder. I cry out, but the tape muffles any noises I try to make as my hands are tied around the back of the chair.
The rope is digging into my wrists so hard, I can feel my skin burning.
I get a couple of good kicks in before he can secure my feet long enough to tie them to the chair. Tears spill out of my eyes the longer this goes on and the less control I have.
This is actually happening.
There’s no way Saint would let this game go this far. I am in actual pain.
For the first time since waking up just minutes ago, I feel like my life is in danger.
My body grows still and I try to stop the tears, because whoever he is, he’s no longer restraining me. I need to calm down so I can think of how to get out of this. The rope and the knots are enough restraint to render me useless. I’m tied so tight to the chair, I can’t even move my hands or feet without the rope digging into my skin.
I hear things crashing behind me. I don’t know what he’s doing. I hear drawers slamming and I pray he isn’t looking for a knife.
After several minutes of trying to listen to the noises he’s making so I can anticipate what move he’s about to make next—the front door opens.
It doesn’t close.
I can feel the outside breeze making its way into the house behind me.
I hear nothing but small gusts of wind and my own quiet hysterics for several minutes.
I squeeze my eyes shut and I pray. I haven’t been to church in a long, long time, but I pray enough to make up for all the services I’ve missed. I pray that he’s gone and that he isn’t coming back. I pray that I’m able to free myself.
I pray that I’ll survive this.
I pray for what seems like hours, but I’m sure has only been a fraction of an hour. I start to wiggle my wrists to see if there’s any way I can free myself when I hear footsteps returning. My heart rate, which just recently started to calm down, immediately picks up again.
“Megan?”
I open my eyes at the sound of Saint’s voice. There was concern in the way he said my name. I hear the front door swing open even further and Saint is immediately by my side. He sees that I’m tied up, so he rushes to a drawer for a knife. He comes back and rips through the rope, and just the sight of him here has me crying harder than I was when I was being dragged through the house.
There’s no reason he would show up here at this time of night. None at all.
He did this.
When my hands are untied, Saint starts working on the rope around my feet. I tear the tape away from my mouth, and then I immediately slap my hands over my mouth and sob even harder.
“Megan, it’s okay,” he says reassuringly. “I’m here. You’re safe.” I feel the rope give from around my ankles. I start kicking at it to get it away from me.
Saint helps me stand up, but right when he goes to wrap me in his arms, I push away from him. I push him hard. I don’t want him to touch me.
I can’t believe he thought I would be okay with this.
I rush to my bedroom and then slam the door to the bathroom once I’m inside. I flip the light switch, but the power doesn’t come on.
He cut the power to the house.
I turn on the water to the shower, trying to calm down, but I feel like I might be having a panic attack. I take off my clothes and step into the shower, gasping for breath. I let the hot water beat down on me for a minute, hoping it will calm me, but it doesn’t.
Then, when the lights miraculously turn back on, that doesn’t calm me either. It just proves Saint is the one who turned them off in the first place.
Several seconds after the power comes back on, Saint knocks gently on the bathroom door.
“Get…out,” I say between sobs. I try to sound angry, but my voice is nothing but scared right now.
I hear the bathroom door open and my legs begin to tremble.
“Megan,” he says, his voice soothing. It does very little to ease the fear in me or the pain in my wrists. “Megan, I’m sorry. I thought—”
“You thought I wanted you to attack me?” I yell through my tears. “Are you out of your fucking mind?”
I hear him sigh heavily.
I squeeze my eyes shut. Did I ask him to do this?
No. I didn’t.
All I did was tell him about the book. It wasn’t an invitation to break into my fucking cabin.
But did he assume that’s what it was? An invitation?
Did I confuse him?
I don’t even know what to think.
I don’t even know if I have the right to be angry at him for doing this. Did I subconsciously want this to happen?
I lean against the shower wall, completely confused and still crying.
Did I even lock my front door last night?
I didn’t.
Right after Saint left, I took my laptop to my bedroom and wrote until I fell asleep.
In all the nights I’ve stayed in this cabin, I’ve never once not locked my doors.
My hands are covering my face when I hear the shower curtain pull back. I can’t even look at him. I’m angry. Embarrassed. Still a little bit terrified.
“God, Megan,” he says, his voice full of remorse. “I am so sorry.”
I keep my hands over my face because I’m still crying, but I’m shocked when I feel him step into the shower. I’m even more shocked when his arms wrap gently around me and I can feel that he’s still wearing his clothes. He’s standing in the water with me, getting soaking wet, but he’s holding me against his chest.
As much as I want to punch him right now, I want to be held by him even more.
Maybe this was nothing more than a terrible miscommunication.
“Last night,” he says, “I thought you were asking me to—”
I shake my head to interrupt him. “I know,” I whisper. I remove my hands from my face and wrap them around him, pressing my cheek against his wet shirt. “I don’t know if that’s what I was asking you. What we’ve been doing—it’s confusing. I barely know you, and then this…”
He presses a kiss against the top of my head, and then he just holds me quietly for several minutes.
After my tears have subsided, I finally pull away from his chest and look up at him. His eyes are full of remorse. He lifts a hand to my face and rubs his thumb under my eye, wiping away mascara that’s been smeared from all the crying.
“I’m sorry,” he says sincerely.
I nod. “Okay. Just…make sure I’m actually asking you to do something before you do it from now on.”
“Okay. I promise.” He cups my cheek and asks, “Do you want me to leave?”
I immediately shake my head. I know I was terrified of him a few minutes ago, but it wasn’t him, per se. It was the character he was playing. The scene I more or less asked him to act out. I can’t fault him for that.
“Don’t go,” I say. “But can we just…I don’t want to pretend tonight.”
Saint nods, and then pulls me back to his chest. “Okay. Let’s just be us.”
After what just happened, that sentence shouldn’t make me feel good, but it does. Those words send a warmth through me that I didn’t expect he could make me feel again after tha
t.
I just can’t bring myself to be remain mad at him for something I inadvertently suggested he do.
The lights are on, and other than a few kisses, I’m not sure I’ve experienced enough with this man to feel comfortable being completely exposed to him. I have no idea how to get out of this shower without his eyes being fully on me.
It’s as if he can read the situation with complete clarity. He lifts his eyes away from me and reaches out of the shower for a towel that’s resting on a nearby hook. He wraps it around me and then kisses me gently before he steps out of the shower.
He takes off his soaking wet shirt and looks at me like he doesn’t know what to do with it.
I step out of the shower and reach into the cabinet to grab him a towel. “I’ll dry your clothes. A towel is the closest thing I have to something that’ll fit you.”
I slip out of the bathroom and wait for him to open the door and hand me his clothes. When he does, I take them to the laundry room and throw his clothes in the dryer.
In a way, I feel like I have the control right now. He can’t leave before his clothes are dry, so at least I know he’ll have to stay longer than he’s stayed the last two times he’s been here.
Saint is in the kitchen when I exit the laundry room, wearing the towel tied around his waist. He’s setting a teapot on the stove. “Want some hot tea?” he asks, his back to me.
“I’d love some.” I’m also still wearing nothing but a towel, but unlike Saint, I have things I can change into.
I slip into the robe I was wearing the night he first showed up here. I felt exposed in front of him then, but now that he’s wearing nothing but a towel, I feel like putting on too much would make me feel overdressed.
I go to my bathroom and take a few minutes to regroup. I look in the mirror, and my hair is a frightening wet mess. I blow dry it and then pull it up into a knot on top of my head. When I go to put the blow dryer back in the drawer, I see my bottle of Xanax. I sigh with relief and open the bottle and swallow one.
When I walk out of the bedroom to rejoin Saint in the kitchen, he’s pouring two cups of tea.
Saint without a shirt is exactly how I described Cam to look like in the book. Rippled muscles across his back; a narrow waist; tanned, smooth skin.
I’m going to need to go back and rewrite how I described his arms, though. Now that I know the astounding strength in them, I’m aware what I have written does not do them justice. I fought with everything I had earlier, and he reacted like I wasn’t even trying. Knowing he would use that strength to protect me feels comforting.
Saint slides my cup of tea toward me. I take a sip and close my eyes because I’m finally feeling calm. The Xanax is kicking in and it’s exactly what I needed after what happened.
When I open my eyes, Saint is watching me while he takes a slow sip of his tea.
I want to ask him so many questions, but part of me prefers the mystery that surrounds him. I know very little about him other than his name and his occupation. But if I ask too many questions, the answers might contradict all the ways I’ve built his character up in my mind.
Saint sets his tea on the counter and then takes my cup from my hands and does the same. He slides his hands down my back until both of his hands are gripping my ass, then he lifts me and sets me on the counter next to the stove.
He takes my hand and looks at my wrist, then lifts my other hand and does the same. He runs his thumbs back and forth over my wrists. They’re red where the rope dug into them.
“Did I hurt you?”
I shake my head. “I’m fine.”
He tilts his head, narrowing his eyes as if he doesn’t believe me. “Be honest.”
I shake my head. “I’m fine. I’ll be fine.”
My answer seems to convince him enough. I’m being honest. I might have bruises on my wrists and ankles tomorrow, but it’s nothing serious. I’ve been bruised worse during sex before. It’s not like he was intentionally trying to hurt me. He was just doing his best to follow through with the role-play I started.
At least I think I started it.
I’m not even sure who started this.
Either way, I don’t want to stop. I want more of this—more of him. I have so many things I want to write now that he’s here. And even though I absolutely do not want to repeat what happened earlier, I’m starting to appreciate that it happened. I feel like anything I write in the book will be absolutely accurate thanks to Saint.
I can see the heat behind his eyes when he looks at me, but I like that he’s not pushing things. I’m sure he’s leaving whatever happens next up to me.
I lift a hand and drag my thumb over his bottom lip, then I lean forward and kiss him. Even his kiss is hesitant. He lets me decide what direction I want this kiss to take, so I slip my tongue into his mouth.
He’s standing between my legs now, and his towel leaves very little barrier between us, so I feel him harden almost instantly.
I wrap my legs around him and that’s when he takes my control of the kiss away from me. He cradles my head with his hand and deepens the kiss, pulling me to the edge of the counter so that I’m mostly being held up by him.
I let my head fall back as he drags his mouth down my throat. I close my eyes, dizzy beneath his touch. I feel his fingers on the hem of my robe.
“Can I?” he whispers.
I lift my head and look at him, then nod quietly.
His eyes fall to my chest, and I then he unties my robe. I lift up a little as removes it and pulls it away. He tosses it over his shoulder, sucking in a small gasp of air as he looks at me, then runs his fingers down the center of my chest.
I can’t help but stare at his wedding ring as his hand moves to cup my breast.
Are my breasts prettier than his wife’s?
Am I prettier than his wife?
He takes my nipple in his mouth and I fist my hand into his hair, pressing his lips against me even harder. He sucks at my breast without a trace of the gentleness he’s been displaying since I got out of the shower.
The hungry side of him has taken over, and his mouth is suddenly all over me—on both breasts, then my neck, then back to my mouth. I can barely keep up with the parts of me he’s focused so intently on before he moves on to another part of me.
He lifts me off the counter and holds me against him, one hand wrapped around my lower back and the other cupping my ass while his tongue is deep in my mouth.
I’m glad he’s carrying me right now because I think I’m too dizzy to walk.
He drops me on the sofa, rips his towel away, and then lowers himself on top of me. It happens so fast, I don’t get a good enough look at him to determine whether or not this is going to hurt.
I’ve never had that before—the kind of sex women have in the books I write. Every man I’ve ever been with has been of average size, so I’ve always had to imagine what it would be like to be fucked by a man who is so big, it actually hurts.
As soon as I wrap my legs around him, it’s clear that I won’t have to imagine it any longer. I can feel the intimidating length of him rubbing against my thigh.
When he repositions himself so that he can start to slide into me, I wince.
“Relax,” he whispers, his mouth feathering mine. “You’ll forget about the pain soon. I promise.” The gentleness in his voice coupled with the reassuring look in his eyes makes me putty beneath him.
He begins to push the rest of himself into me, and I close my eyes, savoring every second of this. I pay attention to the pain, to the pleasure, to the noises we’re both making. I imagine how I’m going to describe this when I write it all down.
Painful, yet satiating.
Sensual, yet animalistic.
We find our rhythm almost instantly, and I stop thinking about how I’ll describe this. All I can think about is how good this feels. Those thoughts are occasionally mixed with worry about the current state of my morals, but that worry is easy to pack away when Saint kisses me.
I could get used to this.
So used to this.
That thought terrifies me.
SIX
SAINT LEFT THE cabin at four in the morning.
Before he left, he fucked me again, on my bed.
I don’t know where he told his wife he was last night—possibly working a night shift—but he said he’d be back again this afternoon.
Which is why I’m confused by the knock at my front door. There’s no way it can be afternoon—I never sleep that late. But he’s knocking loud and the sun is bright. I force my eyes open wide enough to look at my phone. It’s a little after nine in the morning.
Why is he already back?
I toss the covers away from me and grab my nightgown. I shuffle to my bedroom door and open it, shielding my eyes from the brightness of the living room. I glance toward the window overlooking the front yard and immediately stop walking.
That’s not Saint’s car.
That’s Michael’s car.
Fuck.
Fuck, fuck, fuck.
What is he doing here? Did he bring the girls?
I can’t even believe this.
They never come here when I’m writing.
Just as I’m turning toward my bedroom to make sure nothing of Saint’s was left behind, Chloe cups her little hands around her eyes and presses her face against the window. “Mommy!” she squeals. She backs away from the window, pointing inside at me. “Daddy, I see Mommy!”
Michael is looking through the window now. He waves at me. “Surprise!” he yells.
I walk as slow as I can get away with toward the door. I glance around me, hoping there’s nothing here that would reveal to Michael that I’ve spent the past week pretending I’m not married.
What have I done?
Saint is supposed to come back today. I need to text him as soon as possible and let him know not to show up here.
My hands are shaking as I reach for the lock on the door. When I open it, Chloe and Andi push past their father and they both wrap their arms around me. I hug them back, because these weeks I spend at the cabin are honestly the toughest weeks of the year for me, being away from them. But it allows me to write my books much faster so I can spend more time with my girls when I’m at home.
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