She’s still so fucking sweet on my tongue, the taste of her mouth making me ache to find out what the rest of her would be like under my mouth. I can still feel the way her body responded to mine, the way her fingers curled into my coat, the way she kissed me back before fear made her push away. That moment of surrender, brief as it was, told me everything I needed to know.
She wants this. She wants me. She's just too afraid to admit it yet.
I’m aching, so hard it hurts, my erection refusing to abate. I’ve been hard since the moment I set eyes on her in the flesh again, and I feel desperate for a release, but not from my own hand. Not right now. Not yet.
I carry my vodka to the windows, looking out over the city. My gaze snaps back to her apartment as the lights start to come on, and I see her walking through her living room.
My cock throbs, and I reach down, adjusting myself with a rough groan. She knows now. Knows my name, knows my face, knows that the man from Boston and the stalker who's been sending her gifts are the same person. She can't unknow it, can't pretend anymore that this is just some anonymous admirer she can ignore.
I'm real now. Undeniable.
I take a sip of vodka finally, feeling the cold burn of it down my throat, and I wonder if I should feel regret—feel guilty for scaring her, for cornering her outside her gallery.
But I don't feel guilty. I feel satisfied.
She finally knows I exist. She finally understands that someone sees her, wants her… will do anything to have her. And more importantly, she finally had to confront the truth she's been avoiding: that she wants me too.
She can lie to herself all she wants. But she can't lie to me.
I’m sure she’s thinking about running right now, considering if there’s anywhere she could go that I wouldn’t find her. I’m sure going to the police again has crossed her mind, that she’s wondered if they might take her more seriously now. They won’t, of course, I’ve made sure of that. But I do wonder what her next move will be.
I watch her go into her kitchen and emerge with a bowl in her hands. I watch her set it down on the coffee table and leave it there, staring at it as if there’s answers there she can somehow parse out. And then she drops her face into her hands. I can see her shoulders shaking slightly, and I realize she's crying.
My chest tightens, an uncomfortable, unfamiliar sensation that I don’t want to think about too hard. I don't want her to cry. Don't want her to be afraid or hurt or traumatized by what I'vedone. I want her to understandwhy. That I’m protecting her, claiming her, ensuring that she will be desired and wanted andknownas deeply as she could have ever dreamed of. That lesser men will never touch her again. That she’ll be treated as the treasure she deserves to be.
The fear is a part of that understanding, I think. Part of breaking down her resistance, part of making her understand that fighting me is useless. She needs to be afraid before she can surrender, to understand what I'm capable of before she can accept what I am.
She stands finally and moves to her bathroom. She’s gone for a long time, and when she comes out, wrapped in a familiar white towel, my body tightens with a pavlovian response, pre-cum leaking down my shaft as my cock jerks with an urgency that warns me how badly I’m in need of release.
Even from this distance, I can see how tired she looks. She needs someone to take care of her, I think, tossing back the last of the vodka and setting my glass aside. She needs me.
She looks toward the window, her hand tightening on the towel. She stands there for a long moment, and I wonder if she’s guessing that I’m watching her. That she’s finally piecing together the vantage point I’ve enjoyed up until now.
I watch, my cock throbbing and my body knotting with dread as she walks to her dresser, yanks out clothing, and disappears into her bathroom. When she comes back, she's wearing pajamas—soft cotton pants and a tank top. I watch her climb into bed, pulling the covers up to her chin. She doesn't turn off the light immediately. Instead, she lies there staring at the ceiling, and I wonder what she's thinking. Is she replaying the kiss the way I am? Is she trying to understand why she kissed me back? Is she planning to run, to go to the police, to do something to escape this?
Or is she accepting the inevitability of what's happening between us?
She reaches for her phone on the nightstand, and for a moment I tense, wondering if she's going to call someone. But she just looks at the screen for a moment, then sets it back down. She's alone with this. Alone with the knowledge of who I am and what I've done. Alone with the memory of that kiss and the confusion of her own response to it.
Good.I want her alone. Want her to have no one to turn to, no one to help her make sense of this except me. My jaw tightens, and I watch her with a building ache at the base of my spine, knowing that I’ll get no release tonight. That she’s going to deny me that, after the way she kissed me today.
I’m so hard it hurts, but I don’t touch myself. If she won’t give me her pleasure tonight, then I won’t take my own, unless my own body betrays me again in my sleep. That, I have no control over, especially not when I’m caught in this state of near-constant need.
She turns off the light finally, and the room goes dark except for the ambient glow from the city outside her window. I can imagine her lying there, curled on her side, one hand tucked under her pillow.
But this time is different. This time she knows I exist. This time she's lying there thinking about me, probably unable to sleep because her mind is racing with questions and fears and unwanted desires.
This time, I'm not just a shadow in her apartment. I'm real.
I watch her for a long time, my own body tense with need. I want to be there with her. I want to climb into that bed and pull her against me, to make her understand that she's safe with me, that I'll protect her from everything except myself.
I’m still watching the dark window of her bedroom when I hear the front door of the penthouse open. I don't turn around.There's only one person with access to my penthouse besides me, and I've been expecting him.
"You're back," Kazimir says, his voice carefully neutral. "How did it go?"
I pause for a moment. "She knows who I am now."
"I assumed as much." He moves into my peripheral vision, standing a respectful distance away. "And?"
