When you hear the car alarm down the block, you come to your senses. You stifle the desire to moan as Nick's mouth moves to your neck, his hands softening their grip. Realizing that he could easily overpower your resistance, you take a deep breath, and after going limp, you slide down the side of the car and out of his embrace. Before he realizes what has happened, you've begun running down the sidewalk toward your apartment.
You feel a rush of power as you flee, laughing loudly, imagining his dumbstruck impression at the car as he wonders what happened to you. You look over your shoulder, and feel a jolt of adrenaline as you see him chasing you. You look ahead and see the steps of your apartment just a few yards away.
"Take that Mr. Feminists-Need-to-get-Laid," you think, "I'm going to beat you."
You reach the steps, and as you climb, you fumble for the key. You can hear the rhythmic pace of his running getting closer and you imagine yourself a silly girl in a horror movie. You have a moment of fear, but it's the same kind of fear that you have watching horror movies—that surprisingly enjoyable pulse that makes you laugh. And that's what you do again. As you reach your key to the lock, you giggle with nervous pleasure. You're still laughing as you open the door.
It's not until you go to close it, and his foot slips in to prevent it, that your laughter stops. You feel just the tiniest frisson of real fear before you push it away. This is just an average college guy trying to get into a woman's pants. You've handled plenty like him before. So you move to the stairway several feet from the door, ponytail snapping again, and adopt a look that is a combination of boredom and derision.
