Chapter 14

Chapter Fourteen

Sarah

M y day starts with a sour taste in my mouth. I forgot to brush my teeth last night when I collapsed in bed. I’d been too exhausted to even turn off the bathroom light. The taste was clearly some psychosomatic flashback to the fruit, because I end up tasting it again as I brush my teeth. I toss my toothbrush in the tiny bin beneath the sink and gargle with mouthwash to get rid of that weird flavor that seems to linger.

With minty-clean breath, I force myself to go for a run. It’s been months since I took the winding ATV paths behind my house and got in a good workout. I’ve gained ten pounds, and I feel shittier overall.

It doesn’t help that I’m so miserable at my job. Maybe I wouldn’t feel so bad if I actually got out of the house more often and allowed the dopamine to flow through my brain.

I close the door behind me and loop around my house toward the trees. It’s nice out today, and much cooler than it has been. As I stop beside the tree line, I dust off my fitness watch and wrap it around my wrist. My pulse appears on the screen, flashing a perma-stressed ninety beats per minute.

Once I’ve checked that my shoes are tied tight, I head through the archway of leaves and surround myself with towering trees. I start with a slow jog. My body hardly seems to remember that I used to do two miles a day before I started my own practice.

The trees blur as I pick up speed. Shades of green meld together until they look like they belong to one gigantic plant. My breathing picks up as my feet slam into the soft soil beneath my shoes. Every additional pound I’ve gained weighs heavily on me as I try to run, and I’m finally forced to stop.

I place my hands on my knees and bend at the waist, blowing everything from my lungs to stop the painful stitch running up my side. As I try to catch my breath and slow my racing heart, the hair on the back of my neck prickles. I assume it’s from the sweat, so I reach toward my neck to wipe it away, but the prickling sensation only spreads down my arms.

Now I’m suspicious. I feel watched.

I stop and turn on my heels, looking at the woods behind me, but aside from the trees, I see only a rogue chipmunk bouncing across the path.

Calm down .

I’m in the middle of the woods. The biggest threat to me is some rabid rabbit or something. I chuckle to myself at the thought of punting some crazed, fang-bearing bunny through the trees after it charges at me.

“Get a hold of yourself,” I whisper before taking off at a slower jog.

It doesn’t work.

When I’m running, I usually obsess over every footfall and each burning sensation in my thighs, but right now I can’t stop thinking about feeling watched by someone. I slow to a stop and turn around again. There’s nothing. In fact, there’s absolutely less than nothing. Not even a chipmunk scurries across the path.

When I turn back around, a hand clamps over my mouth. I try to scream, but my assailant’s palm swallows the sound. A rubbery texture slides against my cheek as the man leans forward. The strong scent of latex wafts from his mask. It’s a full skull mask, covering everything to keep me from seeing his eyes, his hair color—anything that could identify him.

Oh god, this is how I die.

That’s what I get for going on a fucking run. Has binge watching Law and Order taught me nothing?

I shift my weight and send my sneaker into his kneecap. His leg buckles, and he releases me for a microsecond, but it’s not enough time to escape. It’s enough time to scream, though, and I suck in a breath and shout for help the moment his hand leaves my mouth.

He grips my arm and yanks me backward.

“What do you want from me?” I ask, fighting to pull each word from my panicked, breathless body.

A muffled voice comes from behind the mask. “Every-fucking-thing. I want everything from you.”

“Please don’t,” I beg as the tips of his fingers dig into my skin.

He pushes me toward a tree, and my back slams against it. The fear chokes me. My fitness watch blares with a constant barrage of beeps as my pulse peaks at terrifying levels when his hand goes over my mouth again.

With his other hand, he grabs my wrist and twists. “I love that I can see just how your body reacts to fear. You’re so scared, aren’t you? Afraid of what I’ll do to you. Your mind is racing, too. Are you wondering if I’ll fuck you?”

How do I even answer that? Of course I’m afraid. I psychoanalyze men who’ve done these things and have these disgusting thoughts when they see a woman alone. Men who can’t control their impulses.

I want to put on my therapist cap and talk to this man as if he were a patient, but I can’t. My vocal cords are frozen. The words are stuck too far down, and all I can do is nod as tears stream down my face and drip onto my chest.

“Don’t worry, I’m not going to fuck you,” he says.

A breath of relief blows out from instinct, but then he pins my wrists above my head. The rough bark rakes the backs of my hands.

“Don’t talk or make a sound. Don’t scream unless it’s from pleasure. If you can’t follow directions, I’ll slit your throat and leave you to bleed out right here.” The words struggle to overpower the frantic beeps blaring from my watch.

I nod and he removes his hand from my mouth before turning his attention to my leggings. He bunches the slick material in a tight grasp before ripping the fabric down my thighs. When I consider screaming and begging him to stop, his threats silence me.

His hand lands at the juncture between my legs and before I can even react, two of his fingers plunge inside me. I gasp and release a silent cry, but his threat tightens my throat and keeps me from screaming. He pulls his fingers from me and then plunges back inside again. And again. He continues this onslaught until my eyes roll back against my will.

“Fuck, you’re tight,” he growls.

His words get to me. His touch gets to me. He fucks me with his fingers and then draws out to swirl my clit before pushing inside me again. A rebellious moan escapes my lips, and I can almost sense his smirk beneath that mask.

“Are you enjoying a masked stranger fucking your sweet, innocent cunt? You’re a bad girl.” His muffled words are like delicate strings, and they pull tight until my pelvis curls and pushes my heat against his palm. He grinds the meat of his hand against me as he moves his fingers inside me.

Guilt swarms me like bees. Each stinging thought stabs into me with a jolt.

This feels so good.

This is so wrong.

I’m going to come.

I’m going to come to a psychopath’s touch.

In the back of my mind, I know something more will follow this. Masked rapists don’t just make their victims come before running off into the woods.

Just enjoy this moment , I tell myself. When was the last time someone touched you? Wanted you? When was the last time you didn’t feel so alone?

I buck my hips against him, gyrating my pelvis to chase the sort of orgasm I haven’t experienced in a long time. I snatch hold of that pleasure and selfishly ride it until my muscles contract at a dizzying pace and a wave of warmth rushes my brain. As his erection presses against the inside of my thigh, I spasm around his hand and scream out.

“You’re coming for me? Dirty fucking girl,” he says, his low, gravelly voice hidden behind the rubber.

As the orgasm wanes, I suck in air and lean against the tree. He pulls his hand from me and lifts his mask enough to slip his fingers beneath. Then he does something that sends another jolt of heat through my core.

He licks and sucks me off his fingers.

A low groan mixes with the wet sounds of his mouth as he tastes me. Then, without saying another word, he struts away from me with the confidence of someone deranged.

Once he’s out of sight, my legs find the strength to run again. I mentally note every feature I can think of in case I call the police, but what would I even say to them? A mentally ill man in a mask just cornered me in the woods and fingered me until I came?

Jesus Christ, I wouldn’t believe me, so how could I expect anyone else to?

I race into my house, lock the door behind me and, with an uncomfortable wetness between my legs, continue thinking about that man’s fingers inside me.

I’ve been assaulted.

I was attacked.

But why was the attack so one-sided?

And will it happen again?