Page 35 of Room 553: A Psychological Thriller

“Laurel,” he said. “Do you trust me?”

I had been in the process of slipping out of my jeans. “Why do you ask?”

“I was thinking you might want to take the lead.”

I studied him carefully. “Why would I want to do that?”

“No reason. I just thought you might.

“Maybe next time.”

“You didn’t answer my question.”

“I just did.”

“I asked if you trust me.”

I felt myself beginning to glow, like I’d been on a dimmer that had just been turned up. He was looking for something beyond surface level, and I was happy to oblige. Almost. “I don’t really trust anyone.”

“That’s a shame,” he said, glancing toward the balcony and then back at me.

“I don’t see it that way.”

“You might in time.”

“Do you have a point?” I asked. “Or can we just get to it?”

His response was quick, nonchalant. “Whatever you want…”

By this point, we didn’t have to agree that anything that happened within the confines of those walls was fair game. It was assumed. That’s not to say I didn’t understand there was a shift taking place, a changing of winds, as was suggested in his question.

Still, we didn’t talk about anything other than what we were doing and feeling in that moment: what we wanted, what we were willing to give. We didn’t need to label it or promise a future. Whether that was because it was so obvious to him that we’d have one or because it was obvious we wouldn’t, I didn’t actually know. For the moment, I didn’t need to know, and that in itself was revelatory. I was simply experiencing, and savoring, and growing. Each time we met, I became more myself.

“Laurel,” he said, calling me toward him. Max didn’t ask permission to blindfold me. He just did. I realized then how close fear and desire live, and how nice it is when you have a little of both.

After he had the blindfold in position, he took my hand and ordered me onto the bed on all fours. I listened as he removed his belt, my other senses heightened on account that I couldn’t see, steeling myself for what was to come. He didn’t strike me—not that time, anyway. He simply fastened the belt around my thighs and entered me from behind.

I had been close to climax when he pulled out. Max was always aware of this, so I wasn’t sure what he was doing. Nor did I have any point of reference. Even with the blindfold, my head had been firmly pressed into the bed. I was half in his world, halfway to heaven, the way he seemed to like it. “Don’t move,” he demanded as though I’d had any intention of it. I couldn’t help myself. I grasped behind me catching air, as I reached for him, pleading without words.

“Does he tell you you’re beautiful?” Max asked, his voice throaty and rough. His question wasn’t spoken in the usual matter-of-fact way. It wasn’t infused with anger, either—a touch of sadness perhaps, but maybe that is just wishful thinking.

I had to think about the answer, even though I knew it well.

“Yes,” I answered, softly. Cautiously.

“Good.”

I waited, expecting him to say something profound. But he didn’t. He removed the belt, flipped me onto my back, and covered my body with his. He searched my eyes briefly and then he placed his hands around my throat and got back to business. He didn’t have to tell me what he was thinking. I felt it.

Chapter Twenty-One

Dr. Max Hastings

AFTER

Today, she comes at me from a different angle. “Do you recall the way in which Mrs. Dunaway brought up her father’s murder?”

“Her father wasn’t murdered.”

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