Page 133 of Stalker's Toy

I want to say something about how gorgeous she looks.

How vulnerable and exposed.

How different from the first time, and how I never want her to leave.

But I don’t say a damn thing, just give a small nod and lead her to theparked McLaren.

I open the passenger side door for her.

It’s more than an invitation.

More than courtesy.

It’s a statement: she belongs here, and she belongs to me.

Now that she lives with me, everything is different.

The distance between us is gone, replaced by something more immediate and more manageable.

It’s a better kind of torture, one that gives me some satisfaction instead of just consuming me whole.

We didn’t say a word to each other the entire time I painted her, and this is the same kind of silence.

The same kind that says I don’t have to spell out what I want.

Sheknows.

She knows what I want and shecravesit.

I slip into the driver’s seat, and the engine purrs to life.

A sound, finally, breaking the silence.

A real one instead of a figment or an imagination or a memory.

I steal a glance at her.

“Ready?” I ask, voice as steady as it needs to be.

“Yes,” she says, softly but deliberately.

A confirmation.

I drive off into the night.

The tires make their way across the asphalt as my thoughts make their way across her.

I’m pleased.

Possessive and pleased.

She’s with me, and we have the entire night ahead.

My focus is split between the road and the masterpiece beside me, and I don’t care where it’s leading.

I know the destination.

I know the paint isn’t dry.

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