Her smile tells me that I’ve completely won her over. I smirk. And everyone says Yulian is the one with charm.
The moment the door shuts, I head upstairs to the third floor. Number Thirty-Four beckons. It doesn’t take me long to jimmy the lock and let myself in.
It’s always interesting to step into another person’s private space with no one else present. You see the little knick-knacks they’ve gathered, the detritus of a life much different than yours. You see what they love and what they neglect. You see where they sit, where they eat, where they sleep. It’s intimate. The kind of thing that can make your heart soften.
In Jessa’s case, it makes my cock throb.
A pair of fluffy flip-flops sit by the foot of the sofa. There are a few books stacked on the two shelves that flank the TV unit. Cookbooks, mostly, with the occasional bodice ripper romance novel thrown in for spice. A house plant in the corner begs for more water. The kitchen, on the other hand, is clean and well-loved.
I glide down the hall and into her bedroom. My eyes scan everything, taking notes, collecting facts.
Indentation on the pillow suggests a side-sleeper.
Pile of dirty clothes in one corner—dry cleans when she can, handwashes what she can’t.
Culinary encyclopedia on the nightstand, a pair of glasses on top. Must read before bed.
I turn around and notice a wooden dressing table with a design of painted daisies down the side. The oval mirror above it has pictures slid beneath the frame.
Most are uninteresting. Jessa as a baby in her mother’s arms, Jessa in chef’s whites on her graduation day, Jessa and her ex-fiancé as he proposes to her.
But one catches my eye.
I know everything there is to know about Dane William Dempsey, thirty years old, takes Xanax recreationally and plays video games, lingers too long on his lunch breaks, lifts weights at the twenty-four gym down the road twice a week but spends most of the time between sets browsing porn on his phone. He is irrelevant to me now.
The man Jessa is with in the picture, though? That’s not Dane.
He’s holding her like he loves her. An arm slung around her shoulder, warm and cozy. They’re standing on a suburban street, beaming up at the camera. She smiles pleasantly, easily.
I memorize the stranger’s face and then I move on.
When I go back into the living room, I notice the two wine glasses sitting out on the kitchen counter. Interesting.
I take a seat on the window seat and gaze down at the street below. It’s not long before I see someone turn the corner.
She’s wearing ankle boots and a light gray trench-coat. Her blonde hair flutters loose behind her. I wonder if she knows that she switches her hips when she walks, that every man who passes by does a double-take, that cars slow down just to watch her.
I wonder if she knows I’m watching her now.
She strides quickly down the street and then disappears into the bowels of this building. Sixty seconds until she’s here, maybe less. My limbs twitch with anticipation and my dick is now fully erect. Inconvenient, but the anticipation of tonight has been building steadily the last couple of days, so it’s not particularly surprising.
I glance towards the two empty wine glasses, wondering who she could have been entertaining. A friend? A date? The man in the photograph from her bedroom?
I hear the faint sound of footsteps in the hallway. Then the key twists in the lock.
She opens the door and walks in without looking up into the dark apartment. I stay where I am, still and ready.
She drops her bag onto the floor and hangs her coat up on the hanger next to the door. She’s wearing ripped black jeans and a thin white sweater that reveals the black lace bra she’s got underneath. Finally, she turns on the lights.
She still doesn’t notice me and I can see why—she’s deep in thought. Even as she checks to make sure she’s locked the door securely, she doesn’t once seem to sense that she’s not alone in the apartment.
Not until she’s halfway into the living room does she spot me.
Her mouth parts in a gasp, her golden eyes widening in fear. She looks stunning when she’s terrified.
Good. She should be.