Page 4 of Obsessive Stalker

Waving her hand merrily as though she and I are the best of friends and not a mother and daughter with a strained relationship who’ve only been brought together by the circumstances, she climbs into her BMW sedan and speeds around the corner.

The relief I feel is immediate, washing over me like a cool ocean wave. Closing the door and locking it, I walk to the kitchen and fetch the pint of rocky road ice cream that I’d been saving for tonight. Knowing I’d want something comforting after the visit from my mother.

I take the ice cream to my upstairs bedroom, where I change into a pink cotton pajama set before turning out the lights. Settling into my bed in the dark, I grab the television remote, ready to flip through Netflix and find some fluffy romantic comedy to fall asleep to.

“Is there a reason you’re concealing information from your own mother?”

I scream, kicking off the blankets while my hand fumbles in the dark towards the nightstand. I open the top drawer. I’ve got the can of mace in my hand when the intruder’s hand circles my wrist, catching it while his other hand pries the mace from my shaking fingers.

“Darling, you know I love the way you fight me,” he says. “But just once, I’d like to have a simple conversation with you, without any weapons involved.”

Damien’s deep, rumbling voice and familiar cologne confirm his identity. But even if it didn’t, I’d know it’s him just by his hands.

They’re the hands I memorized on sight, weeks ago. Hands that I can recognize even in the darkness, just by the way that they feel - the long fingers and wide palms, the rough calluses, the dry and comforting warmth that they transfer to my skin as it sizzles beneath the contact.

“Is this all?” he asks with disgust. “Your life is in danger, with the threat still at large, and they left you with a can of mace? You should be armed with a .22 at the very least.”

With a hand still around my wrist, he tosses the mace back in the open drawer. I wrestle against him but it’s pointless. He overpowers me easily, climbing on top of me in the bed pinning me back against the pillow by the shoulders.

He leans over me to the nightstand beside us and turns the lamp on. Immediately the room is flooded with warm light, casting shadows on his chiseled face, his green eyes alight from the glow.

Seeing him here in the flesh is better than any dream, worse than any nightmare. My body responds to him just as it did before, every nerve ending on fire and crying out for him. His grip on me is tight, powerful, reminding me that Damien is big enough, strong enough, to crush me between his fingers…but I don’t feel afraid.

“A .22?” I ask, glaring at him. “Why such a small gun? The one I shot you with was much bigger, and I think I handled it just fine.”

“You handled it well,” he agrees softly, his eyes growing warm. “I have the scar to prove it.”

My eyes wander his torso. Somewhere behind the black tee shirt that hugs his muscular body so well, his skin is marred with the evidence of our last encounter.

“I thought it would have killed you,” I whisper.

“Next time aim higher,” he replies.

“Next time?”

“I’m sure there will be a next time,” he says. “At least one more attempt to kill me, before falling in love with me. If not, I’ll be disappointed. Your fighting spirit is the reason I chose you.”

I shove against him and he releases me, pulling away and standing up. Backing against the headboard, I pull my knees to my chest.

“What the fuck are you talking about? Chose me for what?”

He smiles, wicked flames in those beautiful green eyes.

“What did I tell you before?” he asks. “Did you think I wouldn’t come back for you? That I wouldn’t find you?”

“But you were in Brazil,” I breathe.

Fuck.Why did I say that?

His smile grows.

“Miss me?” he asks. “Yes, I’ve been traveling and wrapping up some business. Had to, before I could come see you. Not to mention heal from the bullet they extracted from my chest. Were you disappointed when I didn’t come for you sooner?”

“No. Of course not.”

The lie is obvious, lingering between us as Damien stares me down, his gaze like an X-ray through the cotton pajamas I’m wearing. I’m conscious of the fact that I’m not wearing a bra, my nipples easily showing through the thin fabric, and the shorts barely cover the bottom of my ass, riding up whenever I move.

Damien is aware of this too. His eyes wander away from my face and travel hungrily down my body.

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