Except one look at the bed makes me pause.
I had almost forgotten about my stalker’s last text.
Written in rose petals is the word she drew on my stomach the night she came to the studio.
Mine.
A trembling breath leaves me at the memory. God, what is wrong with me? First, I willingly let my stalker fuck me in the middle of the night, then the next day I had my hand between Gemma’s thighs?
I am my own wrecking ball.
One more reason to add to the list of why I don’t deserve Gemma.
My head feels like it’s about to spin off. I’m thinking about both Gemma and my stalker nonstop. My only reprieve is when I’m making music.
The fact that my stalker has only texted me once since that night has me a little on edge. It’s been nagging the back of my mind, on my thoughts when I’ve laid down at night. I keep wondering if I did something wrong or if she saw me flirting withGemma—even to the point that I wonder if she has access to the cameras in the studio.
God fucking help me if she does.
I’ll be expecting Gemma’s nails in a box any day now.
I shouldn’t give the musings about my stalker any attention. I should only be thinking about Gemma and that noise she made when she came. I froze at the fire behind my eyes when she asked me out earlier. I want her. I really do.
But she really does scare the hell out of me.
Until I’m ready, I’ll hang onto the images of her face as she tried to deny her orgasm, how wet her pussy was for me, all the looks she watches me with that make me want to pull her into a corner and kiss her until neither of us can breathe.
I take those thoughts with me as I grab a peach out of one of the paper bags, then head into the bathroom to turn on the shower. I need this room fucking scorching before I even think about stepping beneath the shower head.
Leaving the water running, I sink my teeth into the peach and make my way back into the bedroom to pull out some underwear and tights to wear after.
Pink thong…
Pink thong…
Where the hell is my pink thong?
My gaze lifts to the mirror as a thought hits me.
Shit.
Is my fucking underwear missing?
One glance at the rose petals on the bed tells me they probably are, and it’s fucked up that the thought of her carrying my underwear around makes my thighs squeeze.
Think about Gemma, not your stalker.
Think about how much you wanted to get on your knees the other day. Think about how you’re going to take your time with her once you finally give in. Dream of the day she pulls you ontoher waist and walks you into the shower, onto the bed… just to finally have a taste.
If I’d just lied earlier, it might be her pussy in my mouth instead of this stupidly delicious fruit.
I close my eyes and savor the taste, imagining that it’s her I’m devouring. That it’s her wetness on my mouth, her squirting cum trickling from the corners of my lips and down my throat. The thought makes me whimper and savor and suck the fruit a little slower, and it’s barely a minute before I’m so taken by the fantasy that I have to take care of my throbbing cunt.
I grab one of my vibes from the bedside dresser, having to move my handgun out of the way to get to it, and then take the lipstick wand into the shower with me.
The steam swarms me as I step out of my clothes. Visions and fantasies swirl through my mind, so consuming that I’m on autopilot as I enter the shower and the hot water hits my skin.
I want it to be her hands on my shoulders, her fingers running down my sides. I’m starved for it—so much that a whimper leaves me even before I’ve touched myself. My eyes close as I press the button on the wand, let my head drop back and allow those visions to completely fill me.
