Page 39 of Knotting With A Stranger

Release hits hard and fast, a growl escaping. I use my towel to catch the ribbons of cum spewing free.

For a moment, everything is perfect.

Then I hear a small gasp from the doorway.

My eyes snap open. Through the glass door, illuminated by the dim spa lights, stands Lily. She’s wearing sleep shorts and a tank top, her hair loose around her shoulders, her gaze wide as they meet mine. She’s flushed, whether from embarrassment or heat or something else, I can’t tell, but she’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen—all tender curves and sleep-mussed hair.

For one endless moment, we stare at each other—then she flees. Her footsteps echo on the stairs, quick and light.

“Fuck.” I clean up quickly, grinning despite myself. The look on her face—shock, yes, because she watched me, but for how long? Interesting.

With a towel wrapped around my waist, I find myself outside her door again. I hear her pacing inside, the floorboards creaking with each step. My instincts scream to go to her, to explain, to claim, but that would only frighten her.

Every muscle in my body tenses as I struggle against the urge to break down this door between us.

“Fuck,” I hiss through clenched teeth, pressing my forehead against the cool surface of her door. My palm presses against the wall beside it, fingers splaying as I try to ground myself. The beast inside me claws at my restraint, demanding I take what’s mine.

I can smell her through the door—that intoxicating blend of vanilla and peppermint, now laced with fear and something else. Something that makes my blood run hot. My breathing turns ragged, each inhale feeding the fire burning in my veins.

I listen to her movements, tracking her like prey. One turn of the knob is all it would take.

Pushing away with a strangled sound, I run trembling fingers through my hair as I force myself to back up. Not like this. Not when she doesn’t know who I am. Not when I’m this close to losing control.

Instead, I retreat to my room and grab a notepad and pen. Old school communication, since phones are useless in this storm. Settling with my back against the wall near her door, I start to write.

“Shouldn’t all good bakers be asleep by now?” Then I slide the note under her door. There’s a pause in the pacing, then the sound of paper being picked up.

A moment later, a note slides back. “Says the man who clearly can’t sleep either. You had other activities to keep you occupied.” The little drawn emoji makes me smile.

“Fair point. Though, I’m not the one wandering into saunas at 3 a.m.” I add my own emoji, just like old times.

Her reply comes quickly, written on the back of my note. “That was an accident! I was exploring. I didn’t expect... that. I should have knocked first.”

“Exploring strange houses in the middle of the night? Someone’s been watching too many true-crime shows.” I start a fresh page, remembering how we used to debate the merits of different murder weapons.

Her next message has a poorly drawn knife sketched in the corner. “Hey, in my defense, most murders happen in homes the victim is familiar with. I’m just being cautious.”

“By wandering around alone? Pretty sure that’s how horror movies start.”

“Please. I’m clearly the final girl in this scenario. I’ve got all the qualifications—tragic backstory, practical shoes, and excellent situational awareness.”

“Is that what you call walking in on private moments?”

There’s a longer pause before her response. “I prefer to think of it as gathering evidence. Never know when you might need blackmail material.”

My laugh is probably too loud for the late hour. God, I’ve missed this—her quick wit, the way she can turn any situation into a joke. “Blackmail? That’s cold, baker girl. All those true crime shows are affecting you.”

The next note takes longer to arrive. When it does, her handwriting is slightly shakier. “How did you know I watch true crime?”

This is it. The moment, to be honest, to tell her everything. My pen hovers over the paper for a long moment before I write. “I’ve missed our chats.”

The silence from her room is deafening. Then, very softly, I hear her gasp. The sound is followed by complete stillness—no more pacing, no more notes.

I wait for what feels like hours, hoping for another note to slide under the door, but nothing comes. Finally, when the first gray light of dawn starts to creep through the windows, I stand and make my way back to my room.

Sleep still won’t come, but now for entirely different reasons. She knows. The ball is in her court. All I can do is wait, hoping she’ll give me a chance.

The storm howls outside, but for once, I don’t mind being trapped. After all, she’s here. And maybe, just maybe, that’s exactly where we both need to be.

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