Page 10

I got into my Mercedes and drove back to the office in silence. Rebecca had the gallery director’s contact information prepared. I called the gallery and made it clear that I intended to acquire After the Fire.

Money, as always, would handle the necessary persuasions. By the end of the week, Samantha would possess the painting she could not stop looking at, but I would command her full attention.

Marcy could wait. Samantha could not.

I drew a small circle around her name in the program and smiled. The day had grown crowded with other people’s needs and the tedious nostalgia of old friends.

Evening traffic had thinned considerably by the time I left the office. I dismissed James for the night, preferring to drive myself.

Preston University gleamed like a polished jewel in the fading light, its walkways populated by students shedding the weight of lectures and youthful ambition. I parked my black Mercedes at a discreet distance from the fine arts building and waited with patience.

She emerged at precisely 7:42pm, right on schedule. Her black dress from the benefit had been exchanged for jeans that accentuated her legs and a tight crop top that did little to conceal the curve of her breasts. Samantha Whitmore moved with the unconscious grace of someone who had not yet learned how perilous it was to be observed so closely.

I followed on foot, maintaining the distance of an unremarkable stranger who belonged on campus. She never glanced back. I memorized every detail of her route: the shortcut past the sculpture garden and the final stretch to her modest condo complex near campus. It was a pretentious declaration of independence for someone carrying her last name.

She unlocked her door and disappeared inside. Lights flickered on behind the curtains. I waited ten minutes, circling the building once to confirm the layout, before approaching the back door. The lock proved weak and yielded easily to my tools. I stepped into her kitchen as though I already owned the space, because soon enough, I would. I moved silently through the living room, past the half-finished sketch on the table, and down the short hallway. The bedroom door stood conveniently ajar.

The closet offered sufficient depth. I eased inside among her clothes—silk blouses, the black dress from the benefit, all carrying the faint trace of her perfume. I left the slatted door open just enough to maintain my view.

Water ran in the bathroom and then stopped. She emerged wrapped in a towel, her skin still flushed from the heat with droplets tracing enticing lines down her collarbone and along the swell of her tits. She dropped the towel onto a chair and stood completely naked and unselfconscious. She stretched with her arms overhead, her back arching slightly in a way that displayed her body to perfection before sitting on the edge of the bed.

The lotion bottle clicked open. She poured some into her palm and began working it into her legs with slow smooth strokes from ankle to thigh. Her hands glided over her hips, across her stomach, and up to her tits as she smoothed the cream into her skin. Her dusky pink nipples hardened under her own touch and she lingered there for a moment with her eyes half closed as if the simple motions brought her quiet pleasure.

My cock grew hard against the fabric of my slacks as I watched her. I pressed my palm firmly against it stroking slowly through the material in long steady motions that matched the rhythm of her hands on her own body.

I continued watching as she turned and spread lotion over the backs of her thighs and her perfect ass, bending forward slightly to reach lower.

She was absolutely exquisite.

I kept picturing what would happen once I had seduced her properly. She would melt for me, falling so deeply in love that she would spread her legs for me whenever I wanted it. She would be eager and dripping with need, begging me to fuck her again and again without hesitation or shame.

Her resistance would crumble under the weight of that obsession. She would crave my hands on her body, my cock buried inside her, and she would give herself over completely because she would belong to me.

I imagined my hands replacing hers and my mouth covering every inch of skin that glistened with lotion. I pictured exactly how she would tense up and gasp when she finally realized she was no longer alone in her sanctuary. The moment she noticed me, her careful composure would disappear.

She finished lotioning and slipped into a thin tank top and panties and turned down the covers. The light clicked off and her breathing gradually evened into the steady rhythm of sleep.

I remained in the closet until she had fallen fully asleep. Only then did I slip out and stand beside her bed, gazing down at her peacefully unaware face.

“Soon Samantha you won’t shower alone. You won’t lotion your skin without my eyes on every inch of you. You won’t sleep without understanding exactly who watches you in the dark.”

I left as quietly as I had entered, securing the door behind me. The night air felt colder on the walk back to the car and my erection had still not fully subsided.

Marcy could wait. Everything could wait.

Samantha Whitmore was already mine.

She simply didn’t know it yet.

Chapter 3

Samantha

Iunlocked the front door of Dad’s house and stepped inside.

The house smelled like lemon cleaner and whatever the cooks had made for breakfast. I dropped my bag near the entryway and headed toward his office.

Dad sat behind his desk with paperwork spread in front of him, a cup of coffee in one hand and a slice of chocolate cake beside him.