By: Melanie Harlow

“Yes!” I cry out softly as the orgasm swells to the breaking point, my core muscles clenching the firm shaft of the Naughty Rabbit. “Oh God, Brad, you’re so—“


My eyes opened. Did I just hear something downstairs?

Fumbling with the off switch, I removed the Naughty Rabbit and hid it behind my back, as if shame would be my biggest problem if some intruder was in my house. (Actually, the thing was pretty solid. I could’ve probably used it as a weapon.) With my heart hammering in my chest, I set the vibrator down, uncuffed my hand from the towel bar, turned off the water, and listened.


I stayed that way, dripping and breathless and shaking for another minute or so, then I pulled the curtain aside. The bathroom door was still closed.

But I couldn’t remember locking it.

Stepping over the side of the tub with the fuzzy cuffs still dangling from my left wrist, I tried the handle. It turned easily, and the lock didn’t pop.

Omigod! My jaw dropped open and my hands flailed. I’d been so anxious to get to the Brad Pitt part of my crummy day that I’d forgotten to lock the door! I lived alone, but I always, always locked the bathroom door when I showered at night, especially if I was taking toys in with me. (After all, my mother had a key to my house.) But I’d been so worked up—and tipsy—when I came upstairs that I hadn’t done it. Note to self: three glasses of wine in an hour is too many.

Suddenly I couldn’t recall double-checking the lock on the front or back door before coming upstairs, either. Wait, had I even locked it after coming in from the grocery store? My stomach churned as I tried to piece together the last couple hours—after a late rehearsal at the studio and two difficult conversations with helicopter dance moms, I’d gone to Kroger, come home, put away groceries, and answered a phone call from another dance mom I should have ignored. Looking to unwind, I’d guzzled some wine and gotten distracted by Troy on HBO when suddenly the urge to shower with Brad took hold and I couldn’t ignore it (I wouldn’t have turned down Eric Bana or Orlando Bloom either. Sweet Jesus, all three of them in one movie…). Telling myself I deserved a little break from reality after the week I’d had, I’d poured a third glass of wine, stumbled upstairs, and dug out my personal Secret Box of Sexy from under my bed. The wine and the Box were now sitting on the vanity next to the candles in a sad little romantic display of a typical Friday night in my life.

But I had a bigger problem.

Had someone gotten into my house? Worse, was he still there? Friday night fantasies aside, an actual stranger intruding on my shower was not sexy.

Grabbing a towel from the cupboard, I held it to my chest and peeked out into that hallway.


But something wasn’t right. I could sense it. With dread coursing through my veins, I slid the cuffs off my wrist, tossed them into the Box and hastily dried myself a little. Still half wet, I exchanged the towel for the robe on the bathroom door hook and slipped my arms into the sleeves, moving slowly, trying to calm my galloping-out-of-control heart by telling myself not to be paranoid. Really, what are the chances that the one night you forgot to double check the locks is the night something bad happens? And you probably locked them anyway; you always do.

But just in case, I said a quick Hail Mary.

Confession: I am not a very good Catholic. My Hail Marys and Our Fathers and Unfailing Prayers to St. Anthony and whatnot unfailingly coincide with moments of great calamity or impending humiliation in my life. I try to make up for this by attending mass (sort of) regularly and helping out at the Capuchin Soup Kitchen on holidays. Whether or not this actually evens the scales as far as God is concerned remains to be seen, but so far so good.

Tiptoeing into the hall, I immediately felt cool air blowing up the stairway. A draft, as if I’d left a door not just unlocked, but open.

Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God. Poised at the top of the stairs, I listened hard, but my heart was booming so loudly I couldn’t hear anything else. My chest hurt, too. After a minute or two of tense silence, I started down the stairs. It’s nothing, I told myself, although a small part of my brain thought I might be having a heart attack. Maybe I left a window open. Maybe I didn’t lock the door and it blew open. Maybe I just forgot to turn the heat up when I got home from the studio and that’s why it feels cool. See? Look at that, front door’s closed.

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