Page 16 of Stalker

Backing away, I mentally kicked myself for thinking anything fond about the vapid man as I replied automatically. “Yes, Sir.”

As I left his house through the back door and crossed the patio to the guest house, the clicking of my heels annoyed me so much that I tore them off. I then walked across the stone in my expensive stockings, shredding them with every step.

In an attempt to ignore the embarrassment still burning in my gut, I purposely avoided looking at the hot tub altogether.

Questioning every decision that led me to Mr. Bryce’s front door, I slammed the door shut to my guest house and leaned against it.

My cell phone pinged in my pocket, and I opened it, hoping maybe it was a funny meme from my sister or something to distract me, but found an icon lit up I didn’t recognize.

I walked through my space on autopilot as I clicked on it and paused when the message thread from last night with the mysterious person popped up with a new message.

Are you feeling braver tonight?

I eyed it momentarily and then laid it down on the bathroom counter as I stripped out of my dress and put on the bathrobe I bought myself for my birthday last year. When I saw it in the store, I thought about snapping a photo of it and sending it to Tyson as a gift idea but realized before I even got my phone out that day, that he wouldn’t get it for me even if I put it in his cart digitally and told him just to click buy.

He’d find some reason not to.

So I grabbed the sexy pink thing and bought it for myself.

And as I walked around the guest house of the bajillionaire I worked for, with a fresh glass of wine in my hand and a message from a man on a sex site I didn’t know on my phone, I felt powerful.

Fuck Tyson, and his little boy issues. And fuck the big man in the main house who continuously made me feel small all day.

I picked my phone back up and leaned back in the large reading chair in the corner of my living room and opened the message back up.

Depends. What do I get for giving you anything?

Feisty. I like a little fight with my chase. What do you want?

Information. Your profile is blank and I’m not about to talk to John Doe just to find out he’s some creep in his mama’s basement with a limp dick and a boredom kink.

I smiled down at my phone triumphantly for finally feeling big and bad, even if it was to a faceless John on the internet. I needed to feel in charge of something in my life.

Ask your questions.

Before I could even start typing out the hundreds of them that came to mind, another reply popped up.

But for every question you ask, you give me something in exchange.

What, exactly?

I’ll name the price after I give you my answer. Ready to play?

Fuck it, sure. Why did you message me? My profile is blank, just like yours.

Yours isn’t blank, it’s just evasive. I saw enough to interest me. So I messaged you. Now I want a picture.

I instantly prepared for the annoyance or disgust to bloom at his request that came every time Tyson demanded nudes from me. But it didn’t come.

Of what?

Your decision. But it has to be taken right now.

He was letting me choose the direction I went, instead of demanding to see my body or something revealing. Something about that made me want to send him something scandalous. I contemplated sending him a photo of the fake plant in the corner or somethingequally as disappointing, but found some middle ground between nudes and herbology porn.

I crossed my legs, letting the pink silk of my robe part just enough to reveal my knees and lower legs down to my French tipped toes, and snapped the photo.

The lighting was low, adding to the sensuality of it and perhaps it was the wine I was quickly consuming or the intrigue of talking to a stranger, but arousal bloomed in my belly.

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