The Firefly Effect Read Free Page B

mouth.
    Still, he says nothing.
    I sense that I haven’t been asleep for long, barely long enough to dream, but I can’t seem to tear my gaze away from the intruder to check the maritime clock on the wall.
    Trapped in the nebulous twilight between sleeping and waking, it doesn’t even occur to me to panic. Or maybe it’s the wine. I don’t know, I’m still trying to process what’s happening. Am I really awake? Or is this just the most vivid dream I’ve ever experienced? And didn’t I lock the front door? I thought I did. What the fuck is this? Men don’t just wander into random houses so they can sit and watch women sleep. Do they?
    Then I remember my state of undress. Oh, shit – no wonder he’s looking at me that way. Like he wants to devour me alive.
    And at the exact same time, I also realize that I’m definitely not dreaming. Because it just struck me where I’ve seen this guy before. The photo on the dresser of the bedroom I’ve been occupying. He isn’t a burglar or some weirdo off the street or even a figment of my sleepy imagination. He’s Leah’s brother, what’s-his-name. Butthead.
    I have to say, somehow this was not at all what I expected from someone with a nickname like that.
    This explains it, though. Why he looks familiar. But what’s he doing here?
    And why doesn’t he say something?
    I can feel his eyes on me, holding me motionless in their inky depths. My traitorous nipples pucker and stiffen in response to his fixed appraisal. I press my thighs tightly together, knowing the rest of my body will be just as anxious to betray me. I should say something, confirm his identity, ask him why he’s here, something , but I seem to have been struck dumb. Or maybe I don’t want him to say anything. Oddly, I have to admit that I am reluctant to have this strange spell broken.
    From the soft glow of the television, Amy Lee sings to us of paper flowers.
    So far his hands have been out of my line of vision, but now one reaches up to casually undo the first button of a shirt that’s the same charcoal color as his eyes. The situation is becoming very real, very fast, and he doesn’t miss the sharp intake of my breath.
    He pauses and tilts his head slightly, waiting for me to protest. When I don’t, he calmly continues, his long fingers moving in a way that’s surprisingly fluid. Who knew fingers could be sexy? I watch them, fascinated, until all the buttons are undone and the shirt slips quietly to the floor.
    He stands.
    Feral heat surges through me and I bite my lower lip. Beneath his faded jeans, I can already see the bulging outline of his erection. Am I really about to do this? It’s like I’m playing a part in a movie, only I haven’t been given the script. I’ve never been a reckless person – if anything, I’ve become way too reserved – but here I am, about to have sex with a total stranger.
    And I want this.
    Oh sweet Jesus, how I want this.
    Consequences be damned.
    He kicks off his shoes and slides the jeans down his legs, taking his black jockeys with them, and my breath quickens as the most intimate part of him springs free. Jackpot is the first thing that runs through my mind, the second being that it's weird how comfortable I feel with this person I've never met before. I don't even know him, yet I trust him. I'm not afraid. It's as if I've been waiting for him forever.
    Again, that could very well be attributed to the wine. I've always been a lightweight.
    Hesitating, he reaches back down for his jeans and digs a leather wallet out of the back pocket, fumbling through it for a condom. That's a relief – now I don't have to think of a tactful way to bring up the subject of protection. Leaning over me, he tucks it under the couch pillow beneath my head. His eyes meet mine as he does, and a whisper of a smile touches his lips. He's so close I catch a whiff of the subtle, woodsy scent of his cologne. I want to breathe this man instead of air, he smells so good.
    I wrap my