Chapter 3
Logan
I’m glued to the window, watching Emma for signs of worry or fear, but she seems perfectly happy, going about her morning with a huge smile on her face. I relax, releasing a deep breath. It was the first time I jerked off in her bedroom while she was in it, and I thought for a moment she was about to wake up.
I would have kept going if she did. It felt too fucking good to stop.
After I left her place, I got maybe three hours of sleep before I was up again, watching, watching, watching. It’s a compulsion at this point, and I hate that it’s daytime and so many hours will pass before I can be in the same room as her again.
I reach for the pair of panties I stole from her laundry hamper last night. They are black and trimmed with lace, but seem comfortable. Emma doesn’t wear sexy lingerie, yet her underwear still drives me crazy. Her scent clings to these, and I bury my face in them, taking a deep, satisfying breath.
Fuck.
The desire I couldn’t contain last night comes back, filling my body with heat. It’s got worse lately. Thinking about her, wanting her—I could control these urges at first, but not anymore.
My reckless behavior last night is proof of that.
I press the binoculars to my face, watching her as she dances around her kitchen wearing just an oversized T-shirt and a pair of tight shorts, her hair a wild mass of curls. Her oven is on, but I didn’t catch the moment she started cooking, so I don’t know what’s inside. It’s obvious whatever it is makes her happy, and happy Emma is fucking gorgeous.
With my free hand, I ease my zipper open and wrap her panties around my stiff shaft. I had to be quiet in her bedroom last night, but she can’t hear me now. No one can, which loosens my tight throat enough to make sounds, though not to speak.
As soon as my fingers squeeze tightly through the fabric, I let out a primal groan that’s half-delirium, half-pain.
This won’t bring me the relief I crave, and still I do it, my hand moving with rough speed as I watch my beautiful neighbor. She stops dancing and bends over, her ass right in my view, and I moan and thrust into my hand.
God-fucking-damn. She’s perfect. And no matter what I do for her and how many nights I spend watching her, I’ll never have the privilege of being as close as I want to be.
All I have is this. Getting myself off while I watch her secretly, stealing meaningless slips of intimacy that mean nothing to her and the world to me, and running away every time she says hello.
It will never be enough.
My orgasm is lackluster, fizzing out as spurts of my cum soak the panties I stole. I stand there, the binoculars pressed to my eyes so hard, they will leave marks. My body is wracked by shuddering breaths of exertion and longing.
Perversely, I want her to see me now, wild and sweaty, her underwear sticky with my spend. I want her to know what she does to me.
And yet, I’ll never cross that line. As long as I hide what I do, she can live in oblivious serenity. I’ll never break her trust and happiness by revealing myself.
I put Emma’s panties in the washing machine and wash my hands, glancing at my face in the mirror. Blue eyes look back, and I try to smile. It comes out lopsided and wrong, and frankly, a bit creepy. I have this scar in the corner of my mouth that pulls at my lips. It looks grotesque, and even though I’d like nothing better than to smile at Emma, I know I shouldn't.
When I go back to my window, she takes out a baking tray full of golden muffins and my mouth waters. I’ve seen her bake from time to time enough to know that she enjoys it, and suddenly, I want nothing more than one of those muffins. She made them with love, because that’s how she does everything, and I want a piece of that love for myself.
She puts the tray on the counter and leaves the kitchen, and I grapple with the sudden urge to just go in there and get one. I don’t know what she plans to do with them. For all I know, she’ll leave them at the shelter or give one to every child she meets today, and by the time I come into her house at night, none will be left.
But I've never been this brazen before. I can’t break in while she’s home, awake and conscious. Besides, even if she doesn't see me, she’ll notice if one muffin goes missing. I don’t want her to worry or suspect anything.
My computer pings, and I rush over, knowing Emma just got a message.
Marc : Hey! I’m back home for the holidays. Can I see you tonight?
My stomach fills with ice when I see the name. Marc is Emma’s ex she broke up with a year ago after he left for a job in Florida. It was amicable. They both decided they weren’t up for a long-distance relationship.
I know this, because I did a deep dive into Emma’s past after I broke into her social media accounts. I know the name of every boyfriend and crush she’s ever had, just like I know all her favorite dishes, books, and movies. I’m pretty sure I know her far better than Marc here, and yet, he’s the one chatting her up while I stare helplessly at his message, hate roiling in my gut.
I could kill him , I think suddenly. Tie him up and drop him in the lake. She’d never know. No one would. They wouldn’t find him until spring.
As three dots appear on the screen, indicating that she’s typing a reply, blinding jealousy makes me clench my fists even as I force myself to breathe calmly.
Truth is, I just scared myself a little. Even during my deployment, I never thought so callously about killing people. Of course, I had to be ready to take lives, and I did, but it was always in the line of duty.
Yet now, when I briefly imagine burying Marc at the bottom of the lake, I feel a flash of pleasure and deep satisfaction.
Because if I eliminate him, he’ll never take Emma away from me. That’s troubling and definitely something to watch out for. It’s a new, shocking facet of my obsession.
The computer pings again, and I follow the conversation, breathing slowly to contain the murderous monster in my chest.
Emma: Sure! Let’s meet up at the Chimney at seven? I’ll let everyone know!
Marc: I thought it would be just you and me.
Emma: Sorry, already wrote Sasha and Drew!
My shoulders slump in relief, my rage and jealousy settling. It’s obvious Emma doesn’t want to meet with him one-on-one. He’s definitely eager, though. The tension that just left me creeps back in as I stalk over to the window. She sits on her bed, her phone in her hand. I hone in on her expression. She’s frowning. Is she worried or upset?
The urge to drown Marc comes back, and I suppress it as best I can. I can’t kill him, and if she decides to invite him over, after all, there is nothing I can do about it. Still, I know I’ll follow her to the Chimney, the nicest pub in town, and wait outside in my car to make sure she’s all right. I’ll follow her when she walks back home.
Frosty Springs is a small, safe town, but I still watch over Emma every time she’s out late. I’d never forgive myself if something happened to her.
For the next hour, she makes frosting for the muffins and decorates them in white and red, dusting golden sprinkles on top. My stomach growls, but I ignore it, unable to look away. She’s so cute when she’s focused, her face schooling into a severe look, brows pinching together. I can tell she cares a lot about how the muffins come out.
Whoever gets them is fucking lucky. I’m jealous of them, just like I’m jealous of Marc, and yet, I feel smug, too. Because I am the only one who sees her in those private moments when she thinks no one’s watching. When she’s home, with just her pets around, Emma is different than she is among people. I get to see her without the mask on.
When the muffins are ready, she puts on makeup, and I watch, unease turning in my stomach. She’s doing way more than normally. Her usual go-tos are mascara and some lip gloss, but now, she’s putting on lipstick and blush. I stare, alarms going off in my brain.
Is she seeing someone? Is that why she blew off Marc? But who? How? I monitor all her messages and watch her around the clock. How did something like this fly under my radar?
She puts on her jacket—no hat or scarf, and it’s twenty-one degrees out, for fuck’s sake—and I get ready to follow her. This is dire. I need to know at once who this guy is and run a background check to make sure she’s safe.
( Or drown him in the lake. No. Fuck. Bad Logan.)
Except, Emma doesn’t go to her car. I watch her from my window, my heart hammering with wild jealousy, and I fail to see what’s happening until it’s too late.
She crosses the street and looks up. When she sees me in the window, watching her, she gives me a wave and a gorgeous, red-lipped smile.
She comes up to my front door.
The doorbell rings, and I stumble away from the window, too fucking late. She knows I’m home. She knows I saw her.
What do I do? I can’t let her in! But I can’t ignore her, either. I just know that would make her sad, and I’ll die before I become the reason she cries.
I take another panicked step back and stumble against a chair. I fall to the floor with a thud just as the bell goes off again.
Crap.