Page 70 of Stalker's Toy

I get halfway to my studio, change direction, end up in the master bedroom with another drink in my hand.

I'm fucking lost in my own house, but not for long.

The bed's too big for one person, and too big even for two.

California king with a custom frame and Egyptian sheets.

I think about driving over there right now, stormingin, showing up in the middle of the night to remind her who owns her.

Just to see if she'd try to fight me off before I could pin her down.

Another drink, and she's still in my head, her nails dragging down my back, my hands tight around her throat.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

I never wanted anything this much, not even my own success.

I lay back on the sheets, head swimming with the single malt and her voice, the only two things I can actually stand.

Maybe I'm getting too soft, and my father was right.

Maybe I am a sentimental asshole who just needs to man the fuck up.

My mother thinks so, every time she catches me dreaming or distracted.

What would they think of Mia?

Of the way she lights me up inside?

I'm sure they'd nitpick the age difference, but I don't care.

I want what I want and I'll always get it.

I can't stop thinking about it—the way she came apart and melted, her whole body going liquid whileI pounded her.

The way she shook as she came on my cock.

The way I came inside her, raw and reckless, no fucking care in the world except the way she took it all.

I need her.

Tonight.

Grabbing my keys, I head to my McLaren.

Obnoxious as it is, I can blend in with the rich college kids.

I trail her and her roommate, Larsa.

They’re coming from somewhere, all dolled up and looking pretty.

Somewhere where they got hammered and didn’t think of the consequences of being two drunk girls, out alone at night.

Jealousy rips through me.

Now who could she be dressed up for, but me?

Though, to be fair, I prefer her in undress.

---