Page 43 of Driving My Obsession

I lean down and kiss her. It’s the first time my lips have grazed hers, and I’m lost in the warmth of her mouth. I seek her tongue and—

And she bites the ever loving fuck out of my lower lip.

Pain sears through my face, and a low growl erupts from my chest as I get to my feet. She scoots backward and spits. I run my tongue along my lip, tasting the blood and feeling the bite mark in the tender flesh. Fuck. That’s hot. Irritating, but hot. She looks up at me with a doe-eyed stare, probably wondering what my next move will be. Fuck if I know. I can’t decide between wrapping my hands around her throat or fucking her absolutely senseless. Maybe both. I stare her down as the battle rages inside me.

“Why the fuck would you do something so incredibly stupid?” I ask.

She licks her lips and shakes her head as she stands. “Because I’m fucking confused! My body wants one thing, but my brain says it’s a horrible idea, and I don’t know what the fuck is going on anymore. Stop fucking with my head!”

I know exactly what she means. “It’s the same for me. I shouldn’t want to fuck a whore, but I can’t deny how much I want you.”

“What? No,” she says. “It’s not the same because I’m not who you think I am. I’m not a whore, but you are undeniably a stalker-slash-murderer! I can’t keep playing this cat-and-mouse game.”

Cat and mouse, huh? She should really be more careful with her words.

“You don’t know how much fun a cat-and-mouse game can be, but I can show you. Should I show you, tragedy?” I ask, brushing my hair back and spitting blood on the ground.

She shakes her head, but the wild look in her eyes tells me she’s waging her own war in her mind. She’s curious.

I fold my arms over my chest. “I’ll be nice and let you decide. You can go inside the house and we’ll continue chatting over drinks if you want.” I pause and smirk. “Or you can run. I’ll even give you a head start so you can find a good hiding place. If you choose to run and can remain hidden until nightfall, I’ll drive you back to New York and let you go. But if I catch you—and Iwillcatch you—you’re going to spread your whore thighs for me. You’re going toletme inside your pretty little cunt. When I catch you, you will give yourself to me and fuck me like you like me. Your stalker. Your future killer. Choose wisely.”

She looks toward the house, the wheels spinning in her mind. I’ve placed the deal of a lifetime at her feet. The odds may not be in her favor, but I’m betting on her need to cling to the small chance that she can evade me.

“Do you promise you’ll let me go if you don’t find me?” she asks, her chest rising and falling.

“Do you promise to let me inside you when I do?”

She closes her eyes and nods.

“Then run,” I say.

A fleeting moment of indecision flits across her face before she turns toward the woods and bolts forward. Her hair trails behind her like a red banner in the wind. That—coupled with her white shirt—will make spotting her pretty easy. I walk to the front of the house and flop down in a chair to watch her until she disappears. The head start is the least I can do, especially considering how she’s still limping on her right side. The odds are stacked against her in so many ways.

I begin a countdown in my head, working my way backward from one hundred. When I hit zero, the game will truly begin. And I won’t be denied my prize.

ChapterTwenty-Six

Oaklyn

This fucking sucks. The woods go on forever, and I’ll never find a place to hide. We’re in the middle of nowhere, my ankle hurts, and I just need to find a place to lie low. I duck behind a rock and pant as I peek over the edge. I don’t see him. I don’t hear him either. But I know he’s coming, and he’ll definitely find me if I stay out in the open like this. Watching the woods with wide eyes, I recall memories from my childhood as I search for a forgotten place to hide. We never played hide-and-seek when I was little. If we were in the woods, it was to—

I mentally snap my fingers. The treehouse.

My legs shake as I take off again. My father built a large tree stand for hunting whitetails in winter. Not a fan of the cold, he included walls on all sides, as well as a roof. When my mother began complaining and saying he needed to be more present for us, he gave up hunting and converted the stand to a treehouse for me to enjoy when we summered here. Ambrose will be searching the ground for me. I can only hope he won’t think to look above eye level.

The old treehouse comes into view. Branches snake through the windows, and the camouflage paint has faded from years of neglect. The forest has tried to reclaim it, but it still sits on a sturdy branch, its rear wall securely anchored to the trunk. Well...itlookssecure. If it’s not, I’m sure I’ll find out when I plummet to the ground.

My fingers grip the wooden blocks my father repurposed into a ladder. The rusted nails poking from the wood don’t reassure me. I lift my leg as high as I can, testing the strength with my weight. I hop on my good ankle, trying to gain momentum. It takes all my strength to hoist myself up, and a splinter goes through my finger as I nearly slip. I grit my teeth and look up at the warped floorboards fifteen feet above me. The steps aren’t even the sketchiest part of this thing.

When I get to the top, I wiggle the wooden boards and test their strength. They don’t give way, so I hoist myself into the death box with a grunt. I freeze, listening for an inevitable creak of wood. The floor holds. Scooting backward until I reach the rear wall, I look around for any weapons, but the only thing left in this treehouse is the table. It’s bolted to the wooden beams beneath it, and it looks sturdier than the fucking floor. It won’t be of any use to me. With a sigh, I close my eyes.

And I wait.

Bushes eventually rustle outside, the sound somehow so far and too close at the same time. I bite my lip to keep from whimpering. I’m so torn. My mind is split in half. I don’t want him to find me, but is that because I fear what he’ll do to my body? Or because I fear I’ll enjoy it? I don’t want to know the answer. He can’t find me.

“Tragedy?” Ambrose yells, and I throw my hand over my mouth to stifle the scream that begs to free itself from my lungs. He’s near the tree. It sounds as if he’s directly beneath it.

Blood rushes in my ears, and I can’t hear a thing aside from my pulse pounding away inside my skull. How can I listen for receding footsteps when my eardrums refuse to work properly? Seconds tick by. A cramp ratchets through my leg, and I squeeze my eyes shut. I need to readjust, but what if he’s still standing below me?

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