I’m in a TEASING MOOD!
I’M IN A TEASING MOOD!
JEALOUS STALKER
S.t.a.l.k.e.r
It’s just past midnight, and I’m in her place now.
Quiet. Careful. Sitting on her couch like I belong here.
Because I do. Don’t I?
The small house is lived-in in a way that makes my chest ache.
The kind of semi-tidy shared space where one person starts off a complete slob—Jules—and the neat freak—my sweet girl—picks up the slack for as long as possible, until she can’t.
The aforementioned security system is a joke, as is the deadbolt. Above it is a thin chain lock a strong gust could break.
She shouldn’t be here alone tonight or any night. Not in a place this easy to enter.
The place smells like vanilla, a hint of citrus, something floral that makes my teeth ache with wanting her.
Throw pillows with worn seams. A fuzzy blanket slung across the couch.
There’s a chipped mug on the coffee table with EAT. SLEEP. HEAL. printed in cracked purple letters. It’s hers, but I know the boyfriend used it—another thing of hers the fucker touched without permission.
My fists bunch between my thighs, and I force out a slow breath.
Tonight’s confirmed my every fear. She’s soft in here. Open.
Unprotected.
I’m the only thing standing between her and a world that doesn’t deserve her.
When I put my phones and surveillance gadgets away, I had every intention of staying put in my hiding place in the trees.
But I couldn’t. Watching her through the video feed wasn’t enough. I needed to make sure she was okay.
So the second the neighbor finished his smoke and went inside, I let myself in. Now I settle in, make myself comfortable so I can watch over my beauty for the rest of the night.
I rub my jaw, staring into the soft shadows of her living room, trying to ignore my cock—that feral beast that hasn’t softened once since she walked into my life—as it turns harder than steel.
It always rises the second I smell her scent. And, being a glutton for sweet punishment, I’ve made sure I can always smell her, every hour of every day.
It started the night I first broke in.
I moved deeper into the house, heart pounding in rhythm with the silence, the air thick with her presence.
There was a hoodie slung over the back of a chair—navy, oversized, soft-looking. I picked it up like it was fragile, pressed it to my face, breathed her in. Vanilla. Shampoo. Girl.
That scent carved its way into my bloodstream like a drug.
I pressed it to my mouth, closed my eyes.
I could’ve come just like that, from the smell alone, from the knowledge that she wore it—maybe even slept in it—her warmth still buried in the fabric.
But then I saw something else. Something better. Half-tucked beneath a pile of clean laundry near her dresser. A scrap of pale blue lace. Her panties.
I stared. My throat clenched and my cock ached behind my zipper. Stiffer, more painful. They were delicate, like her. The thought that they’d framed her pussy—my pussy—made my dick jerk and spew pre-cum.
Made me groan like some feral, wounded animal into that scrap of fabric.
I didn’t think. Didn’t need to. My balls straining to gush somewhere warm and tight, I took the panties and slipped them into my pocket like they were mine. Because they were. Because she was—even if she didn’t know it yet.
Later, alone in my dark apartment, I wrapped the lace around my fist. Breathed her in and fisted my cock slow and brutal, prolonging the agony while I fixed my gaze on the two dozen photos of her pinned to my walls.
Then I went one better. I pictured her stretched across those white sheets, trembling thighs parted, mouth gasping my name—my real name, even though she didn’t know it yet. Pink lips parted. Breathless. Pink pussy begging to be filled.
She would cry at my size, no doubt. I was a big fucker, packing nine inches of solid steel. But I would make it good for my princess. And who knows, she might welcome a little pain along with the pleasure. Cry as she begged for more inches—inches I would gladly give her.
Anything…everything for my princess.
As long as she let me nut deep, deep d—oh fuck.
When I came, I destroyed that delicate fabric. Not out of disrespect, but devotion. Because no one has ever made me feel this sick. This feral. This alive. This hers.
It was an honor to drain my balls into her panties. But I didn’t intend to rest until I drained my load deep in her beautiful pink cunt. And now her roommate was out of the way, the clock had truly started counting down.
STAKING HIS CLAIM
“I didn’t know you wore glasses,” I murmured, his avid scrutiny making my skin heat all over again.
I was beginning to wonder whether I would ever get used to Fletcher’s singular focus when it came to how he watched me. Not that I was complaining.
He plucked off the glasses with his free hand and smiled. “I don’t usually but sometimes eyestrain is a bitch I have to endure. How do you feel?”
I stretched and slid out of bed.
Fletcher’s eyes caught fire as I padded over to him butt naked. When he eagerly patted his thigh, I settled in place, my arms draping around his neck.
“I feel great. Very rested.” Not entirely true.
My internal muscles were hella sore and the last few orgasms had bordered on painful, all but wrecking me. But no way was I denying myself a chance to be close to Fletcher. That was what aloe vera and warm baths were for.
Besides, Monday was racing toward us at warp speed. There were several cases that needed Fletcher’s attention and after taking the rare day and a half off, I doubted he would come up for air the second he stepped into his office. I had to take my chances where I could.
“Are you’re in the mood to play, baby?”
My head bobbing, I kissed along his jaw and whispered in his ear, “I’ve always wanted to act out a stern professor, naughty student fantasy.”
His breath hissed out and his cock twitched. “Fuck, Emily.”
The book he was holding tumbled to the floor and I saw the cover.
JEALOUS STEPbrOTHER
Asher
She’s mine.
Every breath, every flash of her eyes, every stubborn inch of her. I want to lock her up in my penthouse. But I’m letting her step foot in the studio again today, which means my crew will see her.
They’ll talk to her.
They’ll think things they have no right thinking.
I almost want them to slip up again, to let a stare linger too long, let a joke land too close to her skin. I’d rip the whole building down just for the excuse to punish them.
And her.
Especially her.
Because I can still taste her from last night. Still see the way she shook and sobbed and gushed when she came apart for me. Still hear her voice shaking when she told me exactly what it felt like when I was inside her the first time.
And it’s a miracle I’m not dragging her back to bed to finish what I started.
Instead, I invite the crew I tossed out back in to collaborate on the fall line.
I don’t consider yesterday a wasted day. Lessons needed to be learned. And they’re talented enough to be worth my patience.
But I watch them like a hawk from behind my drafting table as I set Scarlett to work.
The skirt I chose for her today rides up when she leans over the cutting table. Her lips part when she’s thinking. Her eyes light up when she lands on a clever design tweak I didn’t see coming.
God help me, it’s not just the sick, filthy things I want to do to her that scare me. It’s how badly I want to see her smile like that again.
By midday, I know my crew’s been sufficiently cowed. They’re polite, professional, and careful about where they look.
I send them away with instructions to work remotely tomorrow.
Which leaves Scarlett and me in the studio alone.
Her phone starts pinging from where she left it in my desk drawer as per House of M’s no-phones-on-the-floor policy.
Normally, I’d ignore it.
Today, I don’t. She’s mine. I have the right to know who’s contacting my girl.
Plus I know the code. Of course I do.
I stride over, swipe in, and scan the screen.
A string of texts from her mother about Montauk this weekend, concern slipping in with each unanswered message. The naughty little minx didn’t text her mother back like I asked her to.
My jaw ripples as thoughts of how I’m going to punish her reel through my mind. I’m about to slide the phone back when another notification slides down from the top of the screen.
And—the fuck?
A job offer.
From one of my competitors in Florence.
Every muscle in my body goes taut. My thumb hovers over the message before I open it and read just enough to know they want her.
To take her away from me.
Not happening.
I delete it without a second thought and with zero guilt just as she comes in from the adjoining workspace, cheeks flushed from a burst of creative energy.
She starts to tell me about her latest sketch, but I’m already crossing the room.
By the time she realizes I’m behind her, I’ve caged her against the drafting table, one hand flattening over her stomach, the other sliding down the curve of her thigh.
She stiffens. “Asher—”
My open palm lands on her left ass cheek in a hard smack.
She yelps.
My dick jumps at how her firm ass bounces as I deliver another smack, same place, even harder.
She cuts herself off mid-shriek, her gaze bouncing between the door and my face, adorable bewilderment and rage building on her own. “What are you—Arghh!”
Smack.
I rain down two more on her right ass cheek to make a neat five, then I toss the phone onto the table.
Gripping both cheeks in my hands, I growl in her ear. “Call her.” My voice is quiet, but there’s no mistaking the command in it. “Right now. Tell your mother you’re not coming to Montauk this weekend.”
Her breath hitches. “That’s what this is about?”
“Don’t test me, little girl. Do what I told you to do yesterday.”
Her chin comes up, her eyes flashing. “Why? I can’t just cancel—”
“Yes, you can. And because I said so.” My hand slides under her skirt and, fuck me, her skin is so smooth, so hot from my spanking. “And because you belong to me this summer. All summer.”