And I’m not running.
“Not sure that’s the right word,” he replies, conversational as ever. “Stalking does imply a degree of harassment or intent of harm, I would argue. What I do is checking up on you tomake sure you’re safe. I’ve always had compulsions, generally for a short period of time, then I move on to the next shiny new interesting thing.”
I don’t like that. Not at all. I cross my arms over my chest. “So you’re an obsessive, compulsive stalker, but it’s fine, because you always get bored?”
Even with my blurry vision, I can see him smile. “Only one problem, Lily darling. I’m not bored yet. It’s been over a year and I’m still watching you.”
The tension that crept into my shoulders relaxes a little. I’m startled to realize what pissed me off wasn’t the stalking so much as the implication he would get bored of me soon.
There’s something very wrong with me.
“I see.”
“Do you?” He tilts his head.
Not really. I don’t understand why he’s telling me all this. Do stalkers usually confess to stalking their obsessions? I don’t think so.
“See, I fully intended to keep watching you, Lily Trueman.” Cross stands. “I figured you were a good girl, who’d end up with a boring accountant, probably with a scheduled sex life. Twice a month, on prearranged dates. Unremarkable. And then you said you’d suck my team.”
He’s close enough for me to see him clearly now, and his amber eyes have never been brighter.
“That’s when I understood that I was watching because I somehow figured out you were meant for me.” He leans forward over the tray, his face inches from mine. “Watching you come alive when you were getting skullfucked and dry humped clarified a few things for me, darling. I’m keeping you.”
His mouth seeks mine, and I find my lips parting for him, wanting everything he has to give.
I’m keeping you.
He didn’t ask a question; he simply informed me of his intent, and I certainly don’t plan on contradicting him when being kept by him is exactly what I want. What I crave.
Cutlery clatters to the floor as he pushes the tray aside, climbing on top of me. I move the sheets out of the way, as desperate to feel him as he is to touch me. Cross doesn’t remove any of his clothes, just opens his fly before sliding directly inside my already drenched folds like it’s the most natural thing to do.
Yesterday, he fucked me hard, but he takes his time now, making me beg for every inch, until my walls desperately cling to his hardness, my entire body taut. The rhythm changes without warning, from the deepest, most excruciating thrusts to shallow, fast moves that make his cock hit right at the bundle of nerves inside me. He plays my body as though he’s known it all our lives.
“Please,” I beg him, feeling him slow down just as I can feel myself nearing the precipice.
I know him. He loves control. He loves teasing, and denying, and edging me.
“Please what, Lily darling?”
“Let me come. Please let me come,” I repeat, frantically moving my hips up and meet his.
“Do you deserve to come, do you think? Have you been a good girl?”
“Yes!” I cry, hoping it’s true.
“So, you’ll let me get you new glasses?”
“Yes.”
I’m fairly certain there’s very little I wouldn’t agree to on the spot. “You won’t protest when I get the right ones for you—with the split lenses.”
I only wail, bobbing my head in agreement.
“And you’ll use the studio downstairs?”
“I’ll use your bloody studio,” I whimper.
He’s almost stopped now, and my core contracts, bubbling with need.