Page 134 of Stalker's Toy

Not until our final touch is added.

The piece is complete.

The way she sits is as deliberate as the way she spoke earlier.

Her body does the talking this time, and it’s saying exactly what I want to hear.

I brush against her skin.

She doesn’t even hesitate as her legs fall open, showing me the prize her thighs had hidden from me.

Her eyes don’t leave mine, and the silence lets me fill in the gaps.

I don’t need to ask, but I want to.

I want to know if she’s scared.

If she’s thrilled. If she’s both, and in what combination, and to what degree, and if the not knowing is why it’s so fucking exhilarating.

I want to be buried in that cunt, to feel it pulsearound my cock.

I drive faster.

She sits like an artist, like an art piece, like an audience all at once.

She is herself.

She is composed and steady, not asking any questions, just watching.

I like it that way.

I like the silence.

It says so much.

We get closer to the club, and every single light turns red before we reach it.

They’re so fucking deliberate, like Mia.

My anticipation is out of control.

I don’t let anything stop me.

I park the car in a way that is both precise and reckless.

Like me and Mia.

Like what we’re about to do.

Rain has left a film on the windshield, and the neon glow from the club’s entrance refracts through it.

Everything is a wet red, or a blur, or both.

We step out of the McLaren and into the sound of dripping water.

Into the pulse of distant bass.

The rain has stopped, but the night is still heavy with it.

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