Page 75 of Arranged Obsession
It’s unhealthy. Honestly, it’s a little fucked. But no part of me wants to stop.
I follow her into her office. She does her best to ignore me as she sits down at her desk and pretends to log into her laptop. I watch her tap at her keyboard for a few minutes, totally engrossed in the way her lips move and her eyes narrow as she reads something, and finally, she looks over with an ugly glare.
“Aren’t you supposed to be checking in with Finn?”
“Oh, I never planned on that.”
“You said you were looking into the business. I’m not involved with that stuff.”
My eyebrows raise. “Aren’t you supposed to be, though?”
“My name’s on the paperwork. That’s the extent of it.” Her jaw works. “Seriously, what are you doing here?”
I lean back in my chair and shrug, checking my nails and trying not to smile. “You’re the business.”
She groans and leans her head in her hands. “I hate you.”
“You definitely don’t.”
“Seriously, Cormac, you can’t just sit in here with me while I work. I need space.”
I shuffle my chair back and gesture. “Better?”
“You know what I mean.” She does not look amused. “Can’t you go into the conference room or something?”
“You won’t even know I’m here.” I go very still. I’m good at acting like I don’t exist. “Just do what you normally do.”
She rubs a knuckle against her forehead before throwing her hands in the air. “Fine, sit there, just don’t talk, okay? I have a bunch of emails to send. I’m looking for a director for the shelter.”
I don’t say anything. She gives me another hard stare before giving up and going back to her laptop.
I’ve watched a lot of people over the years. Killers, rapists, thieves, and worse. I’ve killed more than a few of them. But never in all my life have I been so enraptured by a single person.
It’s everything about her. The way she touches her hair absently. The way she adjusts in her chair as her lips press together in frustration. She types fast, but she always seems to go back and delete what she wrote, only to start all over again. She seems indecisive, but when she does finally make a choice, she goes all in and doesn’t back down.
An hour passes that way. All I do is sit and stare and think about her. About her taste and her moans. About her laughter and her smile.
How light I feel when she’s around.
“Oh, shit,” she says, flinching when our eyes suddenly meet. “I forgot you were there.”
“I can do that sometimes.”
“Have you moved at all in the last half hour?”
“Not really.”
She narrows her eyes. “Are you even breathing?”
“A little bit.”
“That’s freakish, you know?”
“There’s a reason I’m good at what I do.”
She crosses her arms, absently clicking a pen. “I don’t really want to hear about how good you are at murdering people.”
I shrug slightly, cocking my head. “Why not? It’s my passion.”
