Page 13 of Obsessive Stalker

His words both scare me and arouse me at the same time, that special mixture of fear and lust that Damien always seems to inspire within me, making me wet with only a few sentences and that intense, deep green stare.

“I’ll never beg on my knees for you,” I breathe.

He smiles, coming closer to sit on the edge of the bed beside me. I can’t help but watch his body as he does, those firm muscles shifting beneath smooth, tanned skin. There’s a twisted scar on his chest and beneath it, a fresh cut from the knife I wielded last night.

I’m confused by the way the sight makes me feel guilty, makes me feel sorry for him. Those healing wounds on his chest both came from me, not to mention the broken nose I’d given him last month. All in self-defense, all more than justified, and yet I feel bad that I caused him pain.

Last night he gave me a gun and I could have pointed it at him and pulled the trigger. I could have ended all of this madness, ending his life and ending this game of hide and seek once and for all.

But I didn’t.

And I cannot, for the life of me, understand why. I can’t understand anything about the way that I act around Damien, the way he makes all of my hard edges go soft, makes me want to give in and relax, let him call the shots and take the reins.

I’ve never been the type to let a man tell me what to do. In fact, I abhor most of the men I met while growing up in my father’s wealthy circle. Country clubs, private schools, horseback riding with his colleagues’ sons. He was trying to marry me off before I was even old enough to get married, trying to get rid of me like the dead weight that I am to him.

Daughters are only good for marrying off to the highest bidder, building family connections, broadening my father’s network of wealthy friends.

Damien leans over, pulling the blanket from my grip and sliding it down my body to reveal my nakedness again.

“Rest assured, my dear,” he says quietly. “I’m very much attracted to you. And I plan to take you as soon as you give me the word. In fact, if you’re disappointed to learn I didn’t take advantage of you last night, I’m happy to allow you to take a ride on my cock today…right now, if you’d like.”

I narrow my eyes.

“No,” I say, pulling the blanket back and holding it over my body firmly, waiting for him to yank it back down and push me down onto the bed, to open my legs with his powerful hands and drive his shaft inside of me the way that I fantasized about it for so many nights before, nights when I woke up in a sweat, images of Damien in my mind, breathless and wishing I could have the real thing.

But as he promised, he respects my ‘no’, pulling back and standing up.

“Very well,” he says. “You can get dressed. There are a number of outfit options in your closet for you. Oh yes - you seem surprised, pet. But you shouldn’t be. I’ve been anticipating your arrival for a while now, and you’ll find that I prepared well.”

“I don’t need you to buy clothes for me,” I say.

He smiles.

“There are a lot of things I intend to do for you that you don’tneed,” he says. “Any wife of mine will have more than her basic needs met. You’ll never want for anything as long as you’re with me. Not clothing, food, shelter…not joy, intimacy, or pleasure, either.”

Pleasure.

Just another promise, another heated word that carries with it a certain weight, triggering that warmth in my core, that wetness between thighs.

As though he knows exactly what he’s done to me, Damien comes back to the bed, cupping my chin in his hand, bringing his lips to mine but not kissing me, just a millimeter of distance between us.

“Don’t think I’ve forgotten about your punishment, though,” he says softly, his eyes glowing. “I have some business to deal with today, but I’ll be back tonight to administer your discipline.”

My eyes widen.

“Bad girls get punished, my dear,” he reminds me. “So do your future husband a favor today, and be a good girl while I’m gone.

7

Damien

“Good evening.”

Good evening?

Tell me that this motherfucker didn’t just say “good evening” to me.

I glance around the room. I expected to meet somewhere remote, somewhere neutral, but Martin Redding insisted on meeting on his turf. One of his properties in Seattle, far from his wife and his children, including the daughter that he still believes to be hidden in the Tahoe safe house.

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