Page 15 of Stalker's Toy

The staff barely look up from their screens as I pass, completely unaware of the woman I can't get out of my head.

They're ignorant of how much they don’t matter, how much nothing matters except getting home to her.

It should be amusing, but today it only irritates me.

In the elevator, I resist the urge to tap my foot like a child who can't wait for his turn on a ride.

But isn't that exactly what this is?

A delicious game I've never been more eager to play.

When the doors open, I step out and the tension drains from me like air from a balloon.

Finally, escape.

I spot the McLaren, my favorite car, ready to take me wherever I want to go.

It's not long before I'm driving like a bat out of hell, eager to return home.

I drive past the iron gates and watch through my rear-view mirror as they close behind me.

Once I'm parked, I waste no time and head inside.

It's been two days since I've seen her and I'm an addict looking for a fix.

That's what Mia is–my addiction.

She's in the kitchen when I walk through the door, red hair pulled into a careless knot and body wrapped in black like a gift.

I stuff down the urge to grab her, pin her against the counter, and make her come on my cock.

I watch her move with a confidence that suggests this is more than a job to her.

To Mia, everything is art.

The way she wipes down the counter, the way she tucks a stray hair behind her ear.

She's so absorbed that she doesn't notice me standing in the doorway, taking her in like I'm preparing for a new canvas.

The moment stretches, and I almost don't want to break it.

The air is obnoxious, the scent of bleach burning my nostrils, and she finally looks up, green eyes piercing the distance between us.

Her gaze is steady, almost challenging, as if she knows how much I think about her.

As if she knows and doesn't care.

I step into the kitchen, closer than I need to be, close enough to see the slight tension in her shoulders. "Looking for extra work?" I ask, trying to sound casual but feeling the raw need behind my words.

She pauses, letting the question hang in the air, then continues wiping the counter as if I've given her something to consider.

"I'm not actively looking," she says, her voice soft but clear. "But I could use an extra ten hours a week. For school. The bills that come along with college aren't exactly always covered."

I know she has a scholarship, but that likely pays for her courses and equipment.

I doubt it helps with her monthly rent, or even groceries.

That must be why she works for me.

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