Her eyes lock on mine, pleading, and I know then that I need to make her come. I need to make her come harder than she’s ever come before.

I hold her gaze as my thumb finds her clit. I press into her, making only one small tight circle around the nub before she goes over the edge with a scream that tears right through me.

I swear softly as her body milks my fingers, her back arching so high I think she’s going to buck me off.

I’ve never made a girl come this hard using just my fingers. Hell, I’ve never been so close to coming without even touching my cock.

I try to tell myself that she’s just a hot piece of ass out for a good time, but the possessive feeling in my gut hasn’t eased up.

If anything, I feel more possessive, even more pissed that after she leaves here, she’ll find some other guy to finger her to ecstasy.

I am in so much trouble.

I wait until she stops shuddering before I withdraw, but the second her eyes open and her wet pussy quits convulsing around my fingers, I slide my hand away from her, unabashedly wiping my hands on my jeans.

“How was it?” I ask, my voice a little harsh. I mean it to be.

She looks startled when I sit up, moving away from her.

“Yesterday you wanted to know where your kissing skills rank,” I say softly. “I want to know how my fingering skills stack up. Better or worse than that pretty boy pop singer?”

Jenny’s lips part—in shock? hurt? anger? I don’t know, and I don’t care, I just know that I need to keep this girl the hell away from me before I lose my damn mind.

She props herself up on her elbows, her breasts straining against the fabric of her tank top, and making me realize that I haven’t even seen her tits yet.

Incredibly, my cock hardens even further, and I push off the bed before I reach for her.

“Don’t worry about it, babe,” I say, adjusting my erection as I stand. “Your tight little snatch told me exactly how much you liked that.”

“Get out,” she whispers. “Get out.”

Yup. That seems about right.

I deserve nothing less than a slap right now, and I’m well aware of it. Still, instead of apologizing, I turn and walk out.

As I do, I realize that I just experienced the most intense sexual experience of my life and didn’t even come.

Hell, I didn’t even take my fucking boots off.

I take the stairs two at a time, hating myself, hating her for making me feel out of control.

I barely make it in the door of my temporary home before I’ve got my hand wrapped around my cock, jacking off to the memory of her hot panting and soft cries. I imagine that it’s her hand touching me. Her mouth.

I come with a ferocious roar that nearly splits me in two.

And as I try to catch my breath, my hand still on my softening dick, my face buried in my elbow, I try and figure out how the hell I’m supposed to face her tomorrow.

Jenny

Are you feeling bad for me?

Don’t.

Here’s a not-so-well-kept secret about singer-songwriters.

The bad stuff in life, other people’s oh shits—they’re our bread and butter.

I’m not saying that we hurt less, or that we don’t wake up wanting to castrate Noah Maxwell, but the smart ones among us take all that hurt and anger and bitterness and do something with it.

The more intense the emotion¸ the easier and better the songwriting.

Let’s just say the morning after my bedroom incident with Noah, I do some of my best work.

Most of the time when I’m working on a song, I’m not thinking about anything other than the way the notes fit together, or the way the last chorus changes keys, or how much rhyming is too much rhyming.

I don’t think about how the song’s going to be received, or which one is going to be the lead single.

I just focus on the music itself. The rest is my label’s problem.

But every now and then I know a hit song when it pops into my head.

And this one—this one fueled by last night’s anger—is going to be a chart-topper.

Why? Well the melody’s catchy as heck, upbeat and a little edgy at the same time. But the theme’s also universal.

Mark my words, “Predator” is going to be right up there with Carrie Underwood’s “Before He Cheats” and SHeDaisy’s “Earl Had to Die” on the karaoke favorites list of scorned women everywhere.

My working title was “Bastard,” and while it certainly applies, no way that’s making it on the radio.

But the title “Predator” is a whole other level of perfect for Noah Maxwell. I’ve never met someone quite so skilled at subtly stalking a weaker creature and watching for flaws, just waiting to exploit them.

And this is not a hunter who seeks a quick, clean kill. Oh no. This is a man who takes sick pleasure in letting his prey bleed out.

Only he made a misstep with me.

He left me wounded, but far from dead.

And now that I’ve got that song out of my system, I have revenge plans. Big plans.

I stay locked in my room all morning working on the song, so I don’t see him until nearly three. He’s in the kitchen installing a garbage disposal in the sink he put in yesterday when I go in there to get my car keys and a quick snack for the road.

Noah freezes when he sees me, and for a second I think maybe he wants to say something. Like, oh, I don’t know, sorry.

He doesn’t.

He continues fiddling with the sink as I pull half of yesterday’s turkey sandwich out of the fridge and take a bite.