the time they reached her building, Jenna’s dress clung to every curve, and she didn’t mind a bit when Dafoe undressed her with his eyes.
* * *
You’re getting closer, he thinks. He looks ahead through the Hansel and Gretel forest, bare branches drooling rain.
She’s right in front of him. Striking distance. But his eyes race past her to the cabin. His first glimpse this morning. Same brown color as the woods but the roof line gives it away.
You’re getting closer.
* * *
Asthma. She hasn’t had an attack since she was a kid and would get frightened and anxious. She’s having one now. Gulping for air, but getting nothing. It’s been so long since this happened, yet it feels so familiar, like the body’s memory is better than the brain’s.
I can’t … breathe.
Five more steps to the door.
Dear God, get me there.
She doesn’t consider the strangeness of her plea, the wildly tangled prayer of panic to the patriarchal “God-the-Father” of her broken childhood. She beats on the door with her fist while her other hand tries the handle. The door opens. She barges in, looks back. The first time in minutes.
He’s twenty feet away.
“Fuck,” she gasps. Breathless, she slams the door. Flimsy lock in the handle.
Her gaze finds the window. Glass. So fragile.
Like you.
She looks around the room. For anything. It’s small and empty.
BAM.
She jumps at the wicked sound of his fist on the door. She takes precious seconds to concentrate on breathing while he beats a bizarre rhythm on the wood. It is a rhythm. Like a rite. And strangely, this scares her more than anything that’s happened so far. She catches a half breath. Enough to make her want more. Enough to make her think she might survive. Enough to let her look up.
He’s staring at her through the glass.
So fragile.
Like you.
* * *
Jenna’s doorman stepped aside with a smile that undercut his dignified façade. She possessed little more restraint, stepping into the lobby still holding her red shoes. They ran to the elevator, leaving behind wet footprints.
Alone, sweeping up through the building floor by floor, they kissed feverishly before she jerked away from him once more. With a quick glance, she indicated a security camera in the corner of the elevator. “It’s not supposed to be on unless there’s an emergency, but you never know.” She wanted her appearances on YouTube to be on her terms.
But waiting for the privacy of her apartment was agonizing. With a lurch, the doors opened, and they raced down the hall. She stabbed a code into a keypad before pressing her thumb against a Plexiglas plate. The bolt slid open.
As soon as the door shut, they held each other like they were the first and last people on Earth. Her dress dropped to the floor, sopping wet, and she felt the warm caress of his eyes as keenly as his hand moving gently against her legs.
Jenna unbuttoned his shirt and kissed his chest, then luxuriated in the feel of his fingers slipping into her panties, touching her.
He kneeled, and she watched him peel off her panty hose. He nuzzled her hungrily, and her breath began to come in bursts. She felt a teasing release of lace on her hips and bottom as her panties came down, like he was peeling her open. His kisses never stopped. He removed her bra so smoothly he might have been a magician.
Shaking too much to stand, she lowered herself to the plush Persian carpet and moved her legs apart, accommodating his intentions without a word, trembling. He brought his lips to hers, though his hand remained faithful to her most intense pleasure. She wished he had five hands, and pressed herself so hard against his chest that she felt enveloped. In a frantic flurry, she yanked his pants all the way down, rolled him over, and pressed his back to the floor. His hands cupped her bottom and drew her forward to his tongue. In furiously fast moments he made her cry aloud.
* * *
Tiny cabin. Staring at her is like looking at someone in jail. She’s not going nowhere.
She’s chesty again, like she’s still running hard. Those big breaths that make her big breasts come alive. He sees their outline clearly, like watching a wet T-shirt contest. He smiles ’cause he knows that kind of breathing doesn’t come from running. It comes from being scared shitless. Nothing else does it like that. He’s seen it before. Lots. They run and run and where do they