Page 48 of Call You Mine

I slam my head on the steering wheel before exiting and walking to the front door of the building. I don’t have to text her letting her know I’ve arrived. I saw her staring out the window which means she knows I’m here, at least because I told her I was coming for her.

When I reached out to one of my old connections, a hacker who used to do some under the table work for the Pleasant Hills Cobras Kai is now at the head of, I didn't think he’d figure it out so easily. It helped that when I bought Wynter her new phone, I had him insert a trackable sim card which allowed me to keep track of her whereabouts every second of the day.

Is it a little unconventional to stalk her for my peace of mind?Maybe.

Is it necessary?Hell yeah.

Especially when she’s so unwilling to share the truth behind her return. When a girl shows up at your doorstep, bloody and clearly running from someone, you make it your job to ensure her safety. Even if it means breaking all the rules.

Rules are meant to be broken, and with Wynter Servite, I’ve broken every damn one.

Taking my phone out of my pocket, I scroll through every text message she ignored and find the one thing that started my descent into madness.

The fucking picture.

To say my cock grew hard, and my mouth went dry would be a fucking understatement. My heart nearly stopped when her perfect figure wrapped in the most luxurious white lace lingerie flashed on my screen.

Silky smooth skin which begged for me to run my fingers over every inch, only to be followed by my tongue. Wynter Servite is a fucking wet dream come to life. Every inch of her perfect figure adorned by the delicate lace yet she still looked like a fucking sex vixen despite the luxury she was wrapped in.

Expensive. Exquisite. All. Fucking. Mine.

Yet as I wait for her to come down to me, I can’t help but question my position.What the fuck was I thinking running over here like a savage ready to claim my woman the moment I believed she was with another?The fucking picture she sent was purposeful. Meant to get more than just a rise out of me, she’d meticulously plotted to make me believe someone else was with her. That someone else was close to my property, my ass, my sweet little pussy.

Of course, I quickly realized she was bullshitting me when Hank, the hacker, sent me a screenshot of the security footage outside the studio from earlier that morning. That’s when I saw her walking in with two other women, one who wore head to toe black leather, her hair cut short.

My girl was trying to make me jealous. With what purpose? To make me break our contract. To make me be the first to say to hell with the no sex clause. We've gotten so close plenty of times it’s pretty much void at this point, not that I’d be the one to tell her that. Regardless, the stupid rule isn’t what’s keeping me from tossing her onto her back and ramming my dick into her, or flipping her on her fours and thrusting into her from behind until she’s screaming my name into the darkness.

It’s her not trusting me. She’s still keeping shit from me that much is fucking obvious and I can’t take it. I won’t be fucking her until she comes clean. I won’t risk giving her a part of me I’ve never given to anyone else if she’s unwilling to do the same. And she’s proven time and time again she doesn’t want it. If she did, she would have confided in me the day she showed up begging for my help.

It’s not because I’m unwilling to give this whole thing with her an honest shot if she were up for it, it’s because I know it would never work. So why force what’s inevitably fated to end?

It’s just like one of my favorite rappers said.“Having problems in relationships, that’s what happens when you see the world through a broken lens.”

Wynter grew up with designer rose-colored glasses over her eyes, probably still wears them from time to time. But I shattered mine time and time again until there was nothing but glass shards painfully embedded in my eyes.

My mouth goes dry the moment my eyes watch her step out of the building and make her way to me, thankfully now fully dressed. Yet the tight denim shorts barely cover her ass and her white corset style top still looks a little too much like the lingerie she was wearing.

I crack my knuckles before pushing off of the car and turning away from her to open the passenger side door. Without a word she slips inside and I slam it closed rounding the back and heading to the driver’s side. Before I slip inside myself, I look up at the second-floor window, where two women, Kara the photographer and Liza the boutique owner, watch me with curious gazes. Annoyed with their part in trying to make me jealous, I put my sunglasses back over my eyes and slip inside, slamming the door shut before driving off toward the house.

The ride is silent. I can tell she’s nervous, fiddling with her fingers over her lap, but she’s unsure what to say. From the corner of my eye, I watch her chest rise and fall with steady breaths, her perfect tits pushed up to her chin under the sexy as fuck top. My fingers tighten along the steering wheel as my gaze drops to her thick thighs, prickled with goosebumps from the cold air conditioning blaring through the vents. At least that’s what I tell myself.

I wouldn’t be able to handle thinking she was aroused, thinking about what I felt or thought of when her picture came through. I needed to mark every inch of her smooth, porcelain skin with my fingers, my mouth, my teeth. She was a blankcanvas, one I needed to lay claim to so that every damn fucker, including the one I know is haunting her every nightmare, knows she belongs to me.

To tattoo my name on every inch of her. To fuck her so deep she feels it in her soul and it’s branded mine.

Even if I’ll never be able to belong to her. Not completely.

Wynter’s the one to crack the silence first when we pull into the driveway. I park the car, shutting off the ignition, but don’t make a move to exit.

“Are you really just going to sit there like you didn't just violate Kara’s privacy by…” she pauses, unsure what I did to figure out where she was. A few clicks here and there and Hank sent me Kara Parker’s phone number—the photographer who owns the studio and who was the person visible in the background of the photo Wynter sent me.

“By calling her when you were ignoring every single one of my messages and phone calls?” I finish for her, not bothering to look her way. I’m not sure I’d be able to stop myself from claiming her lips which are surely puckered into that sweet little pout she makes when she’s upset.

Feeling awfully suffocated, I tug on the neckline of my shirt, cracking my neck in order to relieve some of the tension.

“How did you even know I was…” Silence follows and I can’t help but turn toward her, watching as realization passes over her face. “You’re tracking me,” she states, rather than asking.

Her statement doesn’t warrant a response so instead, I reach over and unbuckle her seatbelt, invading her space as I lean over her. My beard grazes the bottom of her chin and I slowly glide past her. It affects her, obvious in the sharp intake of breath she takes as the thin layer of scruff on my jaw teases her cheek when I whisper in her ear.

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