Page 31 of Jealous Stalker

The words throb in my head like a wild, savage jumble drumbeat. Or the countdown of a bomb detonating.

I stagger into the shadowed corner of the room. My knees give way and I drop onto my knees. My breath pants in uneven puffs and my cock jets pre-cum into my jeans.

She took an ambien.

Because she was tired? Stressed?

Or because of me. Because of the kiss she wants?

The kissIcrave more than I want my life’s supply of oxygen?

I crawl forward on my hands and knees, tremors rattling through me hard enough to shake my bones, loud enough to wake the dead. When I find myself once more, crouched beside her bed, watching the rise and fall of her sleep…herdeepersleep, I know I can’t do it.

Not because I don’t want to. Because I don’t trust myself to stop after one kiss. Or two. A hundred.

I know myself. Know the unfathomable depths of the untamed feelings that grows each day for Ella.

What if I can’t stop?

What if take and take and take?

Her lips part, and she whimpers in her sleep. As if disputing my thoughts. I start to reel back but her leg pops out from beneath the comforter, almost hitting me in the chest.

More pants rip from my chest as I stare at Ella’s candy pink tipped toes, inches from my mouth. My touch. I never considered a foot fetish, but right in this second, I want to worship every one of those pretty digits.

God, I can’t stand this! I need to leave. Return to my place in the trees, among the wild as the animal I am.

Every cell in my body screams as I stagger to my feet. Drag my protesting body to the door. My hand grips the doorframe as a different, more harrowing thought slams deep.

This…is what she wants. I vowed never to deny her.

If I deny her, even at the risk of my own, unhinged deeper obsession, will she hate me?

No. Fuck…I have to go. Have to?—

My thoughts stutter when she stirs, then rises from the bed.

Christ.

I was so consumed by her note, by my rabid needs that I didn’t clock what she was wearing. Which is so next to fucking nothing it might as well be non-existent.

The tiny crop T-shirt bares her most of her belly, and her God, I want to pin her to the nearest surface, tongue that belly button while she squirms and begs for mercy. Mercy I won’t give.

Beneath that woefully inadequate scrap of

In all my weeks of surveillance, I’ve never seen her in something so skimpy. Is she tempting me or is this a coincidenceof knowing she’s alone in her house? That she won’t risk running into anyone else so she’s dressing how she wants?

But she’s riskingme. My willpower. The bare crumbs of my sanity.

I almost want to mutter a prayer. For her to return to bed. For the ambien to kick in harder.

But…hell…she’s leaving her bedroom. Heading straight for where I’m frozen in the hallway.

I plaster myself to the wall as she pads, barefoot, past me. I let her walk a few more steps before I snag the string. It tugs, grow a little taut. Then she stops. Stares, unblinking into the middle distance.

My eyes, helpless slaves to her world-ending beauty, travel over her lush, dangerous curves. Each breath she takes feels like a warning siren, each pump of that pulse at her throat, a detonation, and I swear the earth tilts just to worship her.

I knew her ass was lush, crafted by witches to send men like me straight to our graves, and seeing the juicy perfection of it before me, staring at the two mouthwatering divots in the small of her back, the very place I’m going to aim a lifetime of cum shots at soon, the edges of my vision blacken again.

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