Turning the key in the lock, I think something feels slightly off, like when you walk down the block but can’t shake the feeling that someone is paying you way too much attention. I look around, up and down the hallway, and see everything seemingly normal. Shaking my head, I take the key out and give the door a shove with my foot, quickly enter, and lock up behind me. I am a city girl after all.

My shoulder aches from carrying my laptop and handbag, so I set them down on the kitchen counter and then I shrug off my coat and drape it across one of the dining room chairs. Returning to the counter top, I sigh, and with one hand massaging my stiff neck, begin to sort through the accumulated mail with the other.

What I notice right before he grabs my neck in the crook of his arm, pushing me back against the kitchen wall, is the way the air suddenly feels inexplicably icy. Then all I can think about is being able to breathe again.

With his arm still wrapped around my neck, he turns me around so that I am facing the wall while easing his grip slightly. My breath returns, but my heart pounds harder in my chest.

“Stay calm,” he says, “and quiet.”

As if I could think of doing anything else but just that. I don’t think I could find my voice if I tried. I force myself to concentrate on just breathing, in and out, slowly, deeply, trying to still my heart.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” he says so composedly that I almost believe him. “I want you to turn around slowly when I let go, don’t say anything.”

Though he lets his arm drop, and I can’t see him from my position facing the wall, his proximity is undeniable. My apartment feels as if it has shrunken to a space no larger than the three square feet the two of us inhabit. Slowly, as slowly as if I am moving with the utmost caution through a completely darkened room, I turn around.

He immediately presses me back against the wall, his hands this time pushing against my shoulders, his hips pressing against mine. I see him now for the first time, so much larger than my five-foot-one frame, even in my four-inch heels, he dwarfs me, but his eyes are where mine are drawn. Dark and inky, they have a depth I don’t expect. I can’t look away.

“Please, please take whatever you want and leave, just leave,” I say as softly as I can, never taking my eyes from his.

He replies in kind, eyes locked to mine, “I intend to do just that, but you see, what I want, what I came for is you.”

My knees get immediately weak and if it weren’t for his hips pressed to mine, I think I would fall to the floor.

“Now, I told you not to speak, didn’t I,” he says shaking his head, “you need to learn how to listen. It will be my privilege to teach you. First though I am going to let go of you, but you don’t move, not an inch, and this time you do not speak. Do you understand?”

His eyes have become even more shadowed as he speaks to me. Without meaning to, I find myself simply nodding. He takes a step back, his arms fall to his sides and he looks at me from this new vantage point.

“Stay,” he says and as he begins to open kitchen drawers, my fear grows. I watch his back, taking in as many details as I can, noting that his tight jeans and grey zipped sweatshirt cover a taut and lean six-foot-plus frame, that his tousled hair is as dark as his eyes. His casual, street-type clothing seems incongruous given his serene and articulate speech.

When he returns his attention to me, I see him clutching a roll of duct tape that he absently tucks into the pocket of his sweatshirt. The sight of him reaching for the poultry shears makes me wonder if I should be fearful or thankful that he didn’t choose one of the knives. My breathing gets shallower and shallower as panic causes adrenaline to course through my body.

I know that I will cease to breathe at all in another second. He seems to sense my building anxiety, and before I can pass out or run for the door, he is grasping me again. This time, he lets both his hands first assault my breasts and then moves lower, feeling my crotch through my skirt, as a moan escapes his full, pouted lips.

“Now we’re going to go into the bedroom. I’ll be right behind you. Don’t make me hurt you, I’d prefer not to,” he says so softly and seriously that my entire body shivers in response. “Walk and not a word.”

He puts a hand gently on my back and guides me to where he wants me to go. He follows me through the bedroom door and, closing it behind him, steps in front of me and sits down in the corner wing chair.

“Tell me your name,” he states matter-of-factly.

“My name is Tess,” I manage to force out.

“Take off your blouse, Tess,” he says, cementing his intentions in my mind. “You’ll find it best to respond quickly to what I ask of you.”

His eyes stay fixed on mine, even as I open button after button of my burgundy silk blouse. I idiotically think of the moment I first saw it and tried it on and of how soft and cool it felt against my skin. Seeing it, so thoughtlessly dropped in a pool at my feet, seems to somehow reinforce the gravity of my situation.