Page 12 of Stalker's Toy

Ihaveto know more.

The watch on my wrist vibrates, the electric pulse drawing my focus away from the screen.

Ten hours of staring, six cups of coffee, one woman who's beginning to eclipse every other thought in my head.

I've sifted through endless records, each piece fitting perfectly into the image I'm constructing.

It's like she was meant for me in ways that should terrify her should she understand the depths of my fixation.

My watch buzzes again, a nagging insistence that demands my attention.

I sigh in frustration, clicking on one more link.

It's her first day on the job.

Fishnet stockings, red hair, a blood-colored halo.

Green eyes daring the world to look past her scars.

That first meeting wasn't an accident, and neither is this one.

There's a magnetic pull to her I can't ignore, one I will rise to claim.

She's careful and elusive, exactly what I've been looking for.

And she’s at my house at this very moment, cleaning it for me.

Getting it ready for me.

I could be there, seducing her, and yet knowing that I will come home knowing more about her than she’d ever willingly tell me makes my cock hard.

In time, she will be sitting on it.

Another jolt on my wrist tells me it's getting late.

I wish I could wear it down through sheer will, the way I do everything else.

But it’s well past time for me to head home and I reluctantly shut off my computer.

Mia will be there, her beautifully unique face waiting for me when I log in tomorrow.

Sitting back with a sigh, I contemplate just sleeping at the office, but of course, life has a way of interrupting me.

A call arises when I'm least expecting it, the way it always does when my mother decides to nag me.

"You'll forgive the intrusion," she says in a tone that suggests forgiveness is neither needed nor desired.

Tilde Lindberg.

Mother, art dealer, architect of my deepest neuroses.

I pinch the bridge of my nose, already tired from the conversation I know is coming.

"Mother," I say, keeping my voice neutral. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

The silence stretches just long enough to be uncomfortable.

"Do I need a reason to call my only son?" She laughs lightly, the sound rehearsed. "Perhaps I do."

---