What the fuck is that supposed to mean?
Sasha: You don’t even know what I look like, and you’re THIS hooked. That’s a win in my books.
I’m not hooked.
Sasha: That why you were jealous when we started this convo, Little Devil?
That’s preposterous.
And we’re so not in nickname territory, buddy.
Sasha: If you say so…
Sasha: You know what I think?
Nope. And I don’t care, either.
Sasha: I think you’re scared you’re gonna like what you see.
Yeah, right. Am I supposed to believe you’re God’s gift to womankind?
Sasha: Guess that’s for me to know and for you to find out.
You’re the worst.
I dropped the phone onto the couch like it had personally offended me and paced the length of my apartment, dragging a hand through my hair.
This was spiraling out of control. Fast.
And the truly damning part was … I wasn’t even embarrassed enough to stop.
“He’s the worst,” I muttered again, this time to the empty room, even though the heat hadn’t dissipated yet and my pulse hadn’t slowed.
This was reckless. This was how people ended up regretting things. There was nothing safe about a man who could find me this easily, who spoke with this kindof confidence and enjoyed provoking reactions from me as if it were a sport.
I should delete the app.
I should stop replying.
I absolutely should not be smiling like an idiot.
But the idea of him already knowing what I looked like — of him picturing me this whole time while I’d been talking to a faceless voice — sent a shiver down my spine that had nothing to do with fear and everything to do with being seen.
Which was ridiculous.
And dangerous.
And … kind of intoxicating.
I picked my phone back up, stared at his last message, and sighed.
This is a bad idea, I told myself one last time, fully aware my words no longer carried any authority.
Chapter 17
Sasha
Theblockwassettlingfor the night. Lights were dimmed and voices lowered. Bodies arranged themselves for sleep or restlessness or whatever passed for it in here. I was flat on my back, phone balanced loosely in my hand, staring at nothing.