Page 1 of Stalking My Stalker

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ALI

He’s here again.

My stalker is in my bedroom.

I knew the moment he entered. Not because he made any noise–he’s so quiet he’s basically silent–but because I can smell him. That delicious, masculine musk that sets my nerves alight every time it enters my nostrils. If someone bottled up his sweat and sold it as cologne to men, it would increase their chances of getting laid by a million percent.

It’s one a.m., which is about usual for him. I guess he waits until this late because he assumes I’m sleeping. He won’t speak. He won’t try and wake me. He’ll just get closer and closer, and I’ll continue to pretend I’m asleep as a sublime chill slinks down my spine and my toes tingle like they’re on fire.

He used to just watch me from the vacant house across the street using a pair of binoculars. I caught a brief glimpse of him one night when the light glinted off their lenses. Not enough to pick him out of a crowd but enough to know it was a man with his hand down his pants. I know I should have called the police right then and there, but something inside me was turned on by what he was doing–as sick as that may sound.

After fifteen days of watching, he finally grew bold enough to break into my apartment. I’d barely been sleeping since I saw him, so I was awake. I felt the cool draft from the window as he slipped inside, silent as a wolf stalking its prey. That was the first time I smelled his luscious scent. I was petrified, but at the same time, I was viciously turned on.

Does that make me perverse?

Probably. After all, it’s not something I would ever tell my friends about. They all think I’m some nice, naïve girl because I’ve never been with a man. But we all have our kinks, right? Maybe mine make me a degenerate, but then again, maybe not.

That first time he invaded my bedroom, I lay there still while he crouched by the window, unmoving. I could tell he was in amazing shape just by the controlled and steady sounds of his barely-audible breaths. Not to mention the strength it would take to scale the wall to my second-story window. I kept my eyes closed, so I can’t say for sure how long he stayed. But when I finally built up the courage to crack open my right lid, he was gone. I felt an enormous sense of loss. It was like being abandoned by someone who cared deeply for me, and all I wanted was for him to return.

But the next night, he was nowhere to be found. I thought I’d lost him forever.

Then, two nights later, I felt him enter my room again.

His virile aroma snaked into my nostrils, igniting a primal fever within me. I had to force myself not to smile as I lay beneath my sheets, clad in nothing but a tiny pair of pink lace panties. I guess I was hoping he would lift my comforter to expose me and see me dressed for him.

But he didn’t.

Not that night. It took four more days of stalking for him to do that.

Four nights in a row he returned, watching me, moving closer and closer, until finally he was so close to my bed I was able to feel the warmth from his body radiating over me like a furnace. It was terrifying. It was thrilling. My heart was beating so hard I was sure he could hear it pounding the mattress. Yet still I lay there like a face-down Sleeping Beauty until he finally took hold of my blanket and gently pulled it back.

Instant adrenaline rush.

Titillating sensations burst from between my legs. My nipples were instantly hard. My entire body flushed with heat as I felt his eyes scouring every inch of my exposed skin. My neck, my bare back, my legs, my butt–barely hidden by my thin lace panties.

Does he like what he sees?

That question repeated countless times in my mind as he stood there in the dark, towering over me like a sweet-smelling giant. I felt no fear. No panic. Just a desperate need for approval. I’d put on a sexy pair of undies for him, and I wanted to know if he liked them.

Okay, so I’m a little freaky. Where does it say that 18-year-old virgins can’t be freaks? Just because I haven’t actually done anything yet doesn’t mean I don’t have fantasies.

That night, as I lay on my side, I finally took a chance and cracked open one eye and finally caught a glimpse of him. My stalker. He was so tall, and so broad, with jet-black hair and a matching beard. He was wearing a ripped T-shirt, and the moonlight streaming in through the window allowed me to see the tattoo sleeves extending up his taut, muscled arms and wrapping around his thick neck. His ashen eyes reflected the pale light of the night as his eyes lasered down at me like a predator.

His magnificence shook me to my core. He was even more gorgeous than I’d imagined. It was all I could do to containmyself as goosebumps spread across my body. My gaze drifted to his hands. They were thick and sturdy, and I mused about how they would feel exploring my body. Discovering every inch of me. Touching me where I’ve never been touched before.

The moment was so tense it became unbearable. I was right on the edge. I wanted to roll onto my back and show him my naked breasts. Scream at him to touch me. Show him the unbearable lust that was surely pouring from my eyes.

But I didn’t.

I just lay there.

And that’s what I’ve been doing every night for the last week since he first pulled my covers back. And every night, after taking his time looking at my body, he puts them right back where they were and slips out the window like a ghost, leaving only his scrumptious pheromones behind. And then, without exception, I slip a finger between my legs and touch myself, thinking of him until I reach completion. I fall asleep a blissful mess, sweaty and messy, desperate for the next night when he will return.

My mysterious stalker triggers all my feminine instincts. When he’s in my room, everything feels primal. It’s as though I’m a female member of the human species and he’s a male who has found his future mate, and it’s only a matter of time before he makes a move to claim me.

Claim me.

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