Page 32 of Stalked
I move to the bedroom, running my hand over the expensive sheets I personally selected. Egyptian cotton, ridiculously high thread count. Only the best for my Lia. I picture her lying here, her dark hair spread across the pillows, her skin gliding against these sheets.
My cock hardens instantly at the thought.
I unzip my jeans and lie back on her bed, taking myself in hand. Closing my eyes, I imagine Lia here, imagine her body beneath mine again, like that night after prom. The way she'd trembled, the sounds she'd made. The way she'd surrendered to me completely.
“Fuck,” I groan, stroking faster.
In my mind, she's here already. Naked. Mine. No more running. No more hiding from what's between us.
I stroke my cock slowly at first, savoring the buildup. My hand slides up and down my shaft as memories of Lia flood mymind—the way her pussy tightened around me when I took her virginity, how her eyes rolled back when she came.
“That's right, Lia,” I growl into the empty room, my pace increasing. “You've always been mine.”
Pre-cum leaks from my tip, providing the perfect lubrication as I twist my wrist on the upstroke. I close my eyes, picturing Lia beneath me on this very bed, her legs spread wide, begging for my cock.
“You think you can run from me?”My voice echoes against the walls as my hand works faster. “Fifteen years and I still remember how your tight little cunt feels.”
My breathing grows ragged, muscles tensing as I chase my release. I imagine pinning her wrists above her head, watching her struggle against my grip before surrendering completely.
“Gonna fill you up again,” I grunt, hips bucking into my fist. “Mark you. Claim you. Make you admit you're fucking mine.”
The pressure builds at the base of my spine, my balls drawing tight. I'm close now, my hand moving in a blur as I picture Lia's face when she comes, that perfect mixture of pleasure and surrender.
“Fuck,” I groan, feeling my orgasm approaching. “Take it, Lia. Take everything I give you.”
My back arches off the bed as I explode, thick ropes of cum shooting across my hand and onto my stomach. I milk every last drop, my body shuddering with aftershocks.
When the haze clears, I look down at the mess I've made and smile. I swing my legs off the bed and head to the bathroom, turning on the faucet to wash my hands and clean myself up.
As I dry off, I catch my reflection in the mirror. My eyes are still dark with desire, my body humming with satisfaction that feels incomplete.
“Next time I'm in this apartment,” I promise my reflection, “I'll be fucking Lia into this mattress instead of just thinking about it.”
I stare at my reflection as the satisfaction fades, replaced by that familiar hunger that's never quite gone away. Fifteen years—most people would have moved on and forgotten a high school fuck. But Lia was never just another conquest.
Running my hand across the marble countertop, I imagine her standing here, unaware of my eyes watching her every move.
We've built an empire while she was gone. The foster kid she knew is long dead, replaced by a man who owns half this fucking town. Now, when I take her, it won't be on a twin mattress in a shitty apartment. It'll be in luxury, surrounded by everything money can buy.
I could have any woman in Ravenwood with a snap of my fingers, but I've spent fifteen years waiting for the only one who matters. The one who's been mine since the moment I first saw her in that chemistry class.
With one final look around the penthouse, I mentally tick off each camera, each microphone. Everything is ready. Perfect.
I grab my keys and head for the door, a smile spreading across my face. Lia thinks she's coming home to run Elliot's gallery, to build her career on her own terms. She has no fucking clue she's walking straight back to me.
And this time, I won't let her leave.
13
LIA
The gallery's lights cast perfect shadows across the marble floor as I adjust the placement of Marcella Diaz's newest sculpture. Her work deserves the prime spot in the front window—controversial enough to draw attention but with enough critical acclaim to justify the $50,000 price tag.
“Two inches to the left,” I tell my assistant, stepping back to assess the composition. “Perfect.”
I can’t believe I’m back in Ravenwood, running my own gallery—well, technically, Elliot's gallery. Still, he made it clear this space is mine to command.
“The opening's in three days, Ms. Morgan,” my assistant reminds me. “The caterers need final approval on the menu.”
