Page 4 of Stalked By the Intern

And I'm left standing there, unable to move or think, my whole world spinning.

I rush to the bathroom, my mind filled with images of her naked body. I can almost taste her sweetness on my tongue. The sound of the lock clicking into place brings me a sense of relief. I kick the stall door closed, my cock already hard from the mere thought of her. I groan into my fist as I start jerking off, imagining her long brown hair tangled around my fist as I pull her head back and force her to watch.

Her breath hitches, and she whimpers as I roughly take her, driving into her. Each thrust has me growing more desperate, my saliva pooling in the corner of my mouth. She tastes like honey and innocence mixed with fear, and it's intoxicating. My heart pounds in my ears, and all I can hear is the slap of our skin meeting. Her pretty little moans fuel me further.

Her nails dig into my shoulders, drawing blood, but I don't care. I want more. I bite down on her neck, leaving a mark that matches the ache in my chest. She gasps, and I feel powerful. I'm in control here. I'm the one she craves, even though she doesn't know it yet.

My release comes suddenly, hot and intense. I can't help but let out a guttural groan as my seed hits the cold tiles. My eyes are clenched shut tight, vision blurred with lust. My hand fumbles for paper towels, desperate to clean myself up before anyone sees what I've done. The room spins around me, and I pray no one walked in on this.

I catch my breath, trying to calm down the racing of my heart.

Jesus, I'm out of control, wanking off in the company bathroom every time she looks at me. I've got to stop this shit.

Pulling my pants back up, I sink down against the stall wall, trying to hide the evidence of my weakness. I should be focusing on work, on becoming a real lawyer. But all I can think about is making her mine, claiming her completely.

With shaking hands, I open the stall door and rush out, avoiding any eye contact with Willow or anyone else in the office. My cock still twitches beneath my pants, aching for more. I need her, not just sexually but emotionally. She belongs withme. I need to make her see that.

Back home, I lock myself in my bathroom and slide down the door until I'm sitting on the cold tile floor. My cock is rock-hard, aching for release. I need this obsession to end, but it only seems to grow stronger. I close my eyes and picture Willow's luscious lips wrapped around me, taking me deeper into that perfect mouth of hers. My hips buck against the wall as my hand works furiously, pumping myself towards release. Her taste is on my tongue, her moans filling my ears as she takes me all in.

A shudder runs through me, and I come hard on the floor, grinding my teeth together to muffle the animalistic sounds escaping my throat. It's brief relief, but it's all I have. I wipe myself clean and toss the tissue in the trashcan, already missing the feeling of her.

Tomorrow can't come soon enough. I need to be near her. I need to watch her. Touch her. Make her feel what only I can give her.

***

The next day at the office, I sneak glances at her from across the room, my heart racing every time our eyes meet. The desperation to have her is almost tangible. It pulses through me like a living thing.

She's fucking innocent. She doesn't know what she does to me. The way she bites her bottom lip when she concentrates on a case, the way her brown hair falls over one eye when she's deep in thought...these are my private moments, mine alone.

God, Iachefor her.

I watch as Willow works diligently on a case file. My mind wanders back to where it shouldn't go—her moans echoing in my ears. I need more of her, and soon. She has no idea what she's in for. My obsession with her grows stronger every day.

The day drags on excruciatingly slow until finally, it's time for her to leave. I trail behind her, hoping for a moment alone. My heart skips a beat when she stops at the elevator, waiting for it to arrive. I can't help but admire her from afar—the sway of her hips, the way her long brown hair falls across her shoulders, and those damn captivating blue eyes that don't see me standing right here.

My chest tightens, and once again, I'm reminded of how invisible I am in her presence. As the doors close, I let out a heavy sigh, knowing another night of fantasies lies ahead.

Soon after, I follow her outside into the cold winter air where snowflakes fall gracefully around us. The sweet smell of coffee and chocolate wafts from a nearby café where she stops, and I can't help but picture our lips meeting over a warm cup together.

Soon, Willow. Soon, you'll be mine.

CHAPTER

THREE

Andy

The envelope slipsthrough the mail slot like a whisper, a slender beacon of creamy paper against the worn floorboards. My pulse quickens, my fingers shaking as I retrieve it, noting the elegant script that spells out her name—Willow Hartley. Invited. A charity event. The weight of the cardstock feels heavy with opportunity, with a chance to be near her again.

I crack the seal, unfold the invitation, and the words swim before my eyes. Every letter, a step closer to her world. It's not just an event. It's a moment, a door, a possibility that stretches taut across the expanse of my longing. Willow will be there, radiant in her element, and this time, we won't be confined by the sterile walls of the office where our encounters are nothing but fleeting exchanges, haunted by the presence of others.

"Come support a great cause," the invitation coaxes, but all I can hear is the siren call of her voice, the chance to breathe the same air she breathes, to exist in her orbit without the pretense of work between us.

I lay the invitation down and pace the room, mind racing. This has to be perfect. I need to be perfect—for her. The closet door groans open under my impatient hand, and I survey the contents with a critical eye. Not the charcoal suit—that's too corporate, too stiff. No, this requires finesse, a delicate balance that screams sophistication without drowning in it.

My hands settle on the navy blue blazer, the fabric smooth and cool beneath my touch. Paired with a crisp white shirt—no tie—it's casual elegance, the kind that says I belong here, in the world of champagne flutes and cultured laughter. But it's the shoes that will set the tone. The oxblood Oxfords, polished to a mirror shine, drawing the eye and holding it, just like I'll hold her gaze when the moment comes.

A smile plays at the edge of my lips, dark intent warming my blood. I hang the outfit on the back of the door, each piece a silent promise of the night to come. In that crowd of philanthropists and socialites, I will stand out. I will be the one she remembers.

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