Intrusion

(Look at this! Two and a half years later and I FINALLY get around to submitting another story (in my defense, my Bachelor's degree was slightly more important than my writing; I will not apologize for this). This is a different genre than I'm normally used to writing, so go easy on me in the critiques. There are no fantastical demons in this tale, but I hope you enjoy it just the same. As always, you guys are the best.)

* * *

Three hours. Three fucking hours of extra work because Clark couldn't figure out how to fix the damn accounts.

Miranda scowled as she yanked her purse and work bag from the car, slamming the door shut in frustration. She muttered curses to herself as she hit the lock button on her key fob and stormed across the parking garage, making her way towards the stairwell. Her heels clicked along the cold cement, the sound echoing off the slate grey walls.

It had been a long day at work - painfully, unnecessarily long. Somehow, someone in the accounting sector of the investment firm (probably that airhead bimbo Janice) had fucked up one of the accounts, putting an extra couple of zeroes where they didn't belong. The error had gone unnoticed for weeks, until the owner of the account called up the firm's manager, confused and frightened as to why his account was suddenly thousands of dollars short. That sent the entire team into a panic, and Miranda, along with three other members of the firm, was forced to spend three extra hours working to rebalance the accounts.

Not that the extra money wasn't bad, but those last three hours were stressful beyond belief. The firm's manager was riding their asses to get the accounts fixed so the investor - one of their single biggest clients - could rest easy. It would have taken two hours if that idiot Clark had just written down her calculations the first time instead of trying to redo the math himself. There was a reason she was given those last two promotions ahead of him, but the man was too proud of his own imaginary skills to notice the obvious. At twenty four, she was one of the youngest members of the firm, yet she had proved herself enough (in mathematical skill, not blowjobs) to have authority over nearly everyone in her department.

Miranda sighed as she made her way up the stairwell. She couldn't really be mad at him. Clark was a good guy, if a bit egotistical, but a genuinely sweet, honest guy who, like her, had put in a lot of extra hours at that place. He'd been stressed, she'd been stressed, everyone had been stressed. His insecurity and her anger were only emotions, though understandable ones. By the time they'd gotten the accounts fixed, the entire 'emergency team' had been laughing hysterically about the whole situation.

Despite the few upsides, the extra work had left her exhausted. And hungry. She should have eaten dinner hours ago, nestled into her small sofa watching another

Criminal Minds

episode. Instead, she'd sacrificed her meal in favor of a bigger paycheck.

Big mistake. Hotch is worth more than overtime any day.

She continued up the stairs, waving tiredly at the apartment staff. Normally, she'd smile and greet them as she climbed the stairs, but she was far too exhausted to do anything more than lazily flick her wrist and grunt. She hated being like this - tired to the point of being dismissive and irritable. Once she got to her room, she'd run a bath, crack open a bottle of wine and finally get the rest she deserved. Her entire body ached for a bit of relaxation, her skirt felt tight and confining, her heels making her feet burn. A long bath and a dozen hours of sleep were exactly what she needed.

Climbing the last two agonizing flights to her floor, she turned down the brightly lit (if slightly dingy) hallway and started digging for her keys. Stopping at her apartment door, she breathed a sigh of relief as she unlocked the deadbolt and pushed the heavy slab of wood open. She stepped in, kicking the door closed and dropped her keys on the small table next to the door. She relocked the door, then flicked on one of the small table lamps, illuminating the small room with a dim glow.

Miranda's place wasn't anywhere near the lavish, sprawling condos the firm's executives owned. If anything, it was slightly larger than one of those dinky studio apartments she'd owned when first starting out, but it was more than enough to satisfy her. The main living room was large for an apartment complex like this, big enough to fit her dark oak bed and a small dining table along the back wall, and a couch towards the front wall. A small wooden chest sat in front of the couch, acting as a TV stand and memento holder. Off to her right were two smaller rooms: a fairly good sized kitchen, boarded by a small hall closet, and a bathroom, complete with both a shower

and

a tub (a luxury in this part of town). The rent for this place was a tiny bit high, but it offered a 24-hour maintenance and security crew, and access to an indoor pool and gym, so it was worth the extra cost. She'd gotten lucky with this place.

Miranda took a few steps into her apartment, dropping her briefcase to the floor and stretching against the confines of her tight blazer. She yawned, reaching back to pull her long, dark hair out of her ponytail, shaking her head to whip the strands loose. She sighed again, unbuttoning her blazer and throwing it over the arm of her couch. She kicked off her heels and set them down by her briefcase, reveling in the feeling of cool wood beneath her bare toes. Cracking her neck, she started towards the kitchen, planning to reheat some of last night's pasta and mulling over which wine to choose-

She jerked to a stop halfway across her living room. The window behind her bed was open, the heavy pane of glass pushed all the way up, letting a soft, cool breeze flow into the room. That particular window was the only one in her apartment that faced the street, the only one that opened towards an unsecured part of the building. All of the others faced towards the courtyard at the back of the complex, or to the side of the building, where the gated parking lot was. This was the one vulnerable spot of her apartment, and it was open.

I swear to god, I locked that window before I left.

A small bubble of panic started to blossom in her belly. Her apartment was three stories off the ground, but her window was placed just next to the fire escape. Anyone who leaned over far enough would get a good view into her place. Heart racing, she started to turn around, hoping to open her briefcase to access her phone. She'd call the front desk, ask if security had seen anyone crawling around the building, request them to send up a guard and sweep her room. Her panic swelled with every heartbeat. She wasn't rich, so there wasn't much for anyone to steal from her place, but she was an attractive young woman, and she wouldn't put it past anyone to-

A small sound, tiny in comparison to the pounding of her heart, made her blood freeze. A muffled squeak, the sole of a shoe slipping on the floor, made her stomach drop. Whoever had slipped into her room was still here, and they were far more aware of her presence than she was of theirs.

There was enough of a pause for her to take a sharp breath, but nothing more. A heartbeat later, the intruder had stepped behind her, cupping a hand over her mouth and yanking her backwards against him. His other arm wrapped round her waist, pinning her arms at the sides. She gave a muffled shriek and kicked out frantically, trying to use her fingernails to scratch and claw at his arm. Her attacker was intelligent, calculating - he'd worn a thick, long-sleeved sweater, rendering her nails useless. He'd put on heavy leather gloves, thick enough that she wouldn't be able to injure his hands if she tried to bite. This one was smart, seasoned possibly. He knew the usual tricks and moves and had a plan to counter every one.

She continued to kick and scream, trying to get some sort of momentum or advantage against him. The cards, however, were woefully stacked against her. Not only was her attacker intelligent and experienced, he had size on his side. Even without her heels, Miranda stood at a respectable 5' 8", but her shoulder blades barely reached her attacker's chest, putting the man behind her well over six feet. He was powerful, too, the thick muscles of his chest and arms twitching every time he had to counter her escape attempts. Despite her best efforts of fighting back, Miranda recognized the absolute hopelessness of her situation: this man was intelligent, powerful, and prepared. She stood no chance.

Still, her instincts drove her to continue fighting. This was

not

how she would go out, left to die meekly at the hands of some hulking stranger. If he did plan to kill her, she'd make sure he'd have one hell of a time doing it.

No, not like this. I am

not

dying like this.

She continued to kick and scream against him, trying anything and everything she could to get away. The arm at her waist released her, freeing her own hands and allowing her a second of mobility. It only lasted a second. Before she could try to grab or claw at the man behind her, she felt a small pressure at the neck that froze her in place. The razor-thin edge of a knife pressed against her throat, cold and hard against her flushed skin. Her heart rate doubled, panic now turning into cold, hard fear. He

did

mean to kill her, and like everything else, he'd come prepared for it.

He held the knife against her throat for a few seconds, never pushing, never slicing, but making certain the threat was known. Miranda stilled, tears pooling in her eyes, a muffled sob escaping her lips. This isn't how she wanted to die, not in a bloody mess like this. She didn't want to die at all, but the prospect of being hacked to death by some unseen intruder made the idea even more horrifying.

Not like this...not like this...

Instead of jamming the blade into her throat, her attacker pulled his hand downward, letting the blade skim along the delicate flash of her neck and collarbone. He stopped at the edge of her shirt, lazily dragging the tip of the knife softly along her skin. She dropped her gaze to her chest, watching the knife glide over her skin in slow, swirling motions. Her attacker lowered his hand again, this time to the buttons of her blouse. He turned the knife so the edge of the blade slipped under the first button. He paused, holding her still as she watched his hand. He flicked his wrist, the blade slicing through the tiny threads of the button and sending it flying out of sight, clattering softly against the floor. Miranda's stomach dropped. This wasn't just about killing her. He had something much more sinister planned first.

The intruder did the same act with each button of her blouse, slicing them loose and causing her shirt to open a bit more each time. With the last button, her satin blouse opened fully, fluttering to her sides and exposing her abdomen. Her full breasts, coated in sweat from her panicked struggle, heaved against the soft lace of her bra. She whimpered mournfully against his gloved hand. His intentions were clear; this was far more about breaking in and murdering some random girl. He wanted much more than to simply hack her to bits. He wanted to play, first. With the knife still in his hand, her attacker reached up and grabbed a free edge of her shirt, pulling it down and away from her skin. He peeled it off and tossed it away, leaving her in nothing but her bra and skirt.

He dropped his hand again, gently dragging the knife back down her abdomen. The tip of the knife skimmed back and forth across her tight stomach, dipping in and out of her bellybutton on each pass. He then drew it up her chest, letting the tip glide along her skin, never allowing it to draw blood, but still allowing the threat to linger. He drew the knife back to her neck, barely pressing the edge of blade against her throat. The hand covering her mouth gave a quick squeeze, and the blade pressed a tiny bit harder into her neck. His message was clear: you make a sound, I make a move.

Trembling, Miranda swallowed hard and nodded. The hand covering her mouth slipped away, and she dragged in a quick, thankful breath. The blade pressed against her throat again, reaffirming the warning. Whimpering softly, she dropped her shoulders and closed her eyes, accepting her part of the deal. The hand that had previously covered her mouth slipped down to her breasts, reaching around to cradle one heavy mound in his palm. She shivered and whimpered again, but kept her mouth closed.

The intruder rubbed his hand along the underside of her breast, testing the weight with his fingers. The knife at the throat slipped away, relieving the slight pressure from her skin. She felt him reach back behind her, heard the soft glide of metal against leather as he sheathed his blade. Miranda was thankful, but not foolish. The blade was gone, but the man controlling it was fast as lightening and far stronger than she was. Even if she tried to scramble away, he'd quickly overpower her and he might finally put that knife to use. That was a roll of the dice she wasn't willing to play.

His free hand skimmed up her waist and cupped her other breast in his palm. Gently but firmly, the intruder pulled her back against his body, his powerful chest pressing against the thin blades of her shoulders. She was trapped now, caught between his hands and his body. A feeling of unease settled into her stomach, warning her of what was to come. This wouldn't be pleasant, nor would it be anywhere near comfortable. But considering how he'd played with her so far, threatening but never injuring, her best bet might be to play along. If she played well enough, she might make it out unscathed.

The fingers of one hand slipped forward to the center of her bra. Quick and nimble, they managed to unclip the clasp between the cups of her bra, letting the soft lacy fabric fall away. His hands reached up and cupped her breasts against, now bare and open to his touch. His gloves were warm, the leather soft and smooth against her skin. He rubbed her breasts gently, almost carefully, feeling their weight in his hands. The cool breeze that seeped in through the window made her nipples tighten involuntarily, forcing a tiny moan from her throat. Heat flooded her cheeks, pure embarrassment and revulsion. This was the most terrifying, vile, intrusive moment of her life. And yet somehow, her body found a way to enjoy the sensations. Damn it all.

Her intruder must have noticed her reactions, because he now took the time to play with her. The fingers of one hand reached up and gently pinched one nipple, drawing out another soft moan. He pulled and twisted, trying to coax a stronger reaction out of her. This man must be a professional, because it worked painfully well. Another moan, louder this time, slipped from her lips, followed by another wave of embarrassment. She shouldn't want this, shouldn't be aroused by it, but somehow he made her body react against her will, forcing her to enjoy something she should hate.

He gave her nipple one final, gentle twist before releasing it, pulling his hands away from her breasts. She whimpered again, suddenly missing the warmth of his hands shielding her skin from the cold air. He took a single step back, giving her only a few inches of movement. She felt his warm hand caress the soft skin of her shoulder just as she heard him unsheathe his knife. The fingers on her shoulders hooked around the strap of her bra, pulling it away and letting it slip to the floor. A heartbeat later, the tip of the knife was pressing gently against her chest again, just hard enough to make a soft indent in her skin. Miranda swallowed and stood completely still, not wanting to press her luck any more than she had to.

The intruder started to move, his heavy footsteps echoing off the walls as he slowly began to circle her. As he moved, the tip of the knife moved with him, dragging along the tender skin of her shoulder to her back. He moved slowly, carefully, giving Miranda the impression that he was inspecting her, looking her over just as a farmer would look over a prize bull at auction. She desperately hoped she would pass inspection; God forbid he was one of those psychos that fell into a rage at any slight imperfection.

As far as looks went, Miranda stood a fair chance of passing inspection. Her face was a soft oval with a thin, straight nose and bright green eyes. Long dark hair spilled over her shoulders in loose waves, contrasting her pale skin. Full lips and delicately arched brows complimented high cheeks and a narrow jaw. With her height came a long, lean frame that most women would die to have. Her legs made up most of her height, long and toned from years of running. Her stomach was strong, yet softly feminine. Her breasts might be considered large for such a slim figure, but they were by no means ridiculous. She was attractive in nearly every sense of the word, though she preferred to get by on her brains rather than her looks, but she hoped in some ludicrous way that her attractiveness might offer her some advantage here.

As he circled around to face her, Miranda finally got a look at the man who'd been tormenting her so ruthlessly. It wasn't much of a look, though. Her intruder was, indeed, much larger than she was, standing at least a head taller than herself, with muscles that could still be seen under all his clothing. He was covered head-to-to in black: heavy black boots, tight black jeans, thick sweater, gloves, and ski mask. He'd covered every inch of himself to avoid identification. The only part of him that she could see was his eyes, uncovered by the eyeholes in his mask. Despite his rough, forceful handling, his eyes were strangely soft. A warm, shining grey, they seemed far more welcoming than his hands.

He paused directly in front of her, those soft grey eyes scanning her face, her body. She blushed fiercely and dropped her gaze to the floor, painfully aware of how naked and vulnerable she was. They stood there in the dim light, silent, his eyes relentlessly examining her figure as she desperately tried to forget his presence.

A light tap on her shoulder brought her out of her self-induced trace. Slowly, she raised her gaze to his, chewing the inside of her cheek nervously. His gaze was steely, yet somehow soft. Twisting the knife playfully in his fingers, he jerked his head towards the bed. Her eyes flicked between him and the bed, the pit in her stomach growing. His gaze narrowed slightly, impatient with her reluctance. He jerked his head towards the bed again, this time with a bit more force, his eyes never leaving hers.

Terrified and embarrassed beyond belief, Miranda drew a shaky breath and nodded, taking a tentative step towards her bed. He stepped behind her, following her as she moved and blocking her only escape route. She stopped at the edge of her bed, looking down at the dark wood frame and thick grey blankets piled on top of the mattress. She swallowed harshly, the painful reality of her situation finally setting in. This man hadn't simply crawled into her room intending to rob her. He might not have known precisely who she was, but he most certainly knew a woman lived here; her apartment was far too femininely decorated to be mistaken for some frat boy bachelor pad. He'd probably stayed here for hours, waiting for her to come back.

Jesus, he'd waited for me

.

She swallowed again. This man wasn't just practiced. He was an expert.

A rough shove against her shoulder knocked her off balance, forcing her to fall forward. She had enough time to catch herself on the footboard of her bed, using her hands to grip the thick rail of wood for balance. Her intruder moved quickly, taking advantage of her vulnerable position. He reached a hand around to her hip, his fingers gripping the small tab of her skirt's zipper. He pulled it down sharply, opening up the last piece of protective clothing she had. His hands gripped the edged of her waistband, pulling the fabric down her legs and letting it slide to the floor. Miranda chewed her lip and squeezed her eyes shut, horrified and embarrassed. All that stood between her attacker and the most precious part of her body was a pair of thin, lacy panties.