Page 25 of Tempt Her

So I try talking with Stacey when I can, but I have to keep working since I’m on this job alone now.

No.

I have to be careful.

You’d think a woman who looks like her would be so confident it’s obnoxious.

The opposite is true.

The way Stacey talks about herself, she’s like a puppy in a corner, cringing when you go to pet it because someone else is abusing it.

Even when I’m not here, I can’t stop thinking about her. Shit, I almost used gloss paint on the walls this morning, noticing how little in this house even looks like it belongs to her.

It’s like she’s one ofhisbelongings too.

I’ve never felt something like this for a woman. Curious. Protective. Connected. Horny as a motherfucking dog. I try reasoning it away;it’s because she looks like that, dumbass.

But I’m young, not dumb.

I’m more than hot for her.

I know more than how I want to take her up against a wall and rip her yoga pants open to fuck the hell out of that pussy, teasing me through their outline; I want to be inside more than her sex.

I want inside her heart. I want her secrets. I want to know why a woman like her is married to a man like Gentry Evans... and why won’t she leave him?

She can have any man she wants. Then again, she doesn’t seem like a gold digger.

No, she wants more. Something she can only get herself. Like the pictures she takes of others, Stacey wants her pride.

But today ended again too quickly. It’s five o’clock and time for me to leave, but it’s dark in her house.

And quiet.

Her husband, the little pus-wad, boomed in here a few hours ago. I heard his shouts at her in the kitchen, something about their party. Then I heard the garage door slam and his BMW squeal out of the driveway. I’ve sealed up everything in his office I’m painting, but I haven’t heard a peep from Stacey since he left.

It feels rude, wrong just leaving her alone. It makes my heart hurt. And I’m a professional; I’ll inform her I’m done for the day.

Yeah, it’s more than that, but that’s what all these damn cameras will see.

“Stacey?” I call through the empty house and something about the sound of her name soaring from my lungs. Something about searching for her, wanting to find her. Something about knowing somewhere in this huge house full of furniture and loneliness, she’s hiding.

“Stacey?” I gently ease again, poking my head into the kitchen.

Barely do I hear sniffles coming from behind the swinging pantry door. A light shines underneath it.

Quietly, I approach it, sure now it’s her crying on the other side. “Stacey?” I gently tap the door. “You okay?”

She sniffles again. “Yeah. Thanks, Luke.” Her voice quakes. “Have a good night.”

But I won’t, not knowing that she’s crying. Not by following the rules of marriage or work or Ford’s warning I know I should heed; I don’t care.

I can’t hear her hurting and walk away.

Carefully pushing the door open, I don’t want to hit her with it, and I don’t. She’s sitting on a step ladder in the corner of this massive walk-in pantry the size of a small bedroom. The shelves are organized, with every item neatly labeled. There are even glass containers filled with candy I never see her eat, but it sure looks fancy.

“Hey.” She quickly wipes at her tears. “You need something? Is the driveway gate stuck again?”

She’s worried about me when I’m the one who needs to know, “What’s wrong?”

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