Page 43 of Blindside Sinner

When my cell phone rings.

“Oh, goddammit.” I shake my head and ignore it. Wait for it to stop.

When the noise dies, I close my eyes and start again from the top.His hands brush my hair to the side…

BRRR. BRRR. BRRR.

I huff out my frustration and yank the damned thing off the bedside table. An incoming call is lighting up the screen.CALLER UNKNOWN.

I slide my finger to answer. “Is this…”

“Hello, Sloan.”

I want to scream and tear my hair out. This can’t be real life; it’s too cruel. All I want is forone good thingto happen to me today, but no—now, I’m definitely not going to get to come, and my heart is in my throat because the only person who ever calls me from an unknown number is a psycho killer holding a debt around my throat like a noose.

Except that’s not quite true.

Apparently, one other person calls me from an unknown number.

“I’m off the clock, asshole! You can’t just bother me whenever you want. I don’t exist at your beck and call.”

He laughs, but it’s strangely husky and breathless. “Beck and call, hm? I like that.”

“Fuck you, Beck.”

“Oh, tell me more.” His voice is deeper than normal, raspy.

“Happily.” I push myself upright in bed and tug my pajamas back into place. “You’re smug. You’re condescending. You’re an arrogant…” His breath gets louder. Faster. “What are you doing?”

No answer.

“Beck?”

More breathing. Faster and sharper. Hitching rhythmically. Almost like…

“Jesus fucking Christ, please tell me you are not masturbating right now.”

I can practically hear the insolent smirk in his voice. “Guilty as charged.”

“That’s disgusting!”And hot.“What the hell is wrong with you?”

His breaths come even faster. He’s caught me in the worst possible position, because the lines between my fantasy and real life are blurring just enough to keep me on the phone.

“I’m hanging up!” I warn. But it’s an empty threat and he knows it. I’m not going anywhere. He’s holding me captive, at his mercy, same as in the fantasy. I sit there with the phone pressed to my ear as his soft moans edge closer and closer together.

Then they all become one long, ragged exhale, a grunt, and I know what’s happening without having to ask.

The sound of Beckett Daniels coming is going to stay with me forever.

Then he murmurs, “Sweet dreams, Sloan,” and hangs up.

I smash the END CALL button and drop the phone on my lap like it’s a hot potato. My skin heats with shame.

“Asshole,” I mutter to the empty room. But it’s a limp, lifeless curse. Anyone listening would know I don’t mean it.

My hands are trembling. I’ve wasted the lotion and the silk pajamas and a pretty good fantasy on that tool bag. I just need this day to end. Not one bit of it has gone my way.

I slide under the blankets without bothering to set an alarm. Chances are, I’m not going to sleep anyway.

---