Chapter 8 Sebastian
SEBASTIAN
Ivy Hart is not a problem.
I repeat this to myself as I lace up my running shoes.
She is simply a woman who broke into my house, cooked dinner, reorganized my kitchen, and looked extremely pleased with herself while doing it.
Perfectly normal behavior.
Not a problem.
An audiobook plays through my earbuds, the narrator explaining how to establish and hold firm to boundaries.
Boundaries. The word Ivy doesn’t like.
I return from my run earlier than usual—knees tight, head still buzzing from an earlier meeting at work that went nowhere.
When I open the patio door, I nearly have a heart attack.
Ivy is in my living room, sitting cross-legged in one of the chairs like she’s waiting for me.
“Your door was unlocked,” she says, smiling up at me.
I nod. I leave it unlocked when I run so I don’t have to carry keys.
I blow out a breath and pinch the bridge of my nose, trying to remain rational.
She lives three doors down. It’s a safe neighborhood. She technically isn’t doing anything dangerous.
“Ivy,” I begin, trying to grasp the words I was just listening to moments ago. “We really need to—”
“I made you dinner. It’ll be ready in fifteen minutes.”
She stands, a bright smile on her face. “I can’t stay long. I have things to do.”
“You don’t need to be here at all.”
“I know.” Her smile is as bright as the sun. “I enjoy doing this for you.”
“But you shouldn’t.”
I’m about to explain the concept of trespassing when she pats my shoulder, and my brain short-circuits from the damn chills rolling through my skin.
“Taking care of you makes me happy.” She gestures to the oven. “Make sure you use the oven mitts. They’re on the counter. Don’t want you burning yourself.”
“I know—”
“Don’t forget to refrigerate the leftovers. You can take them for lunch tomorrow.” She grabs her coat and zips it, still giving me instructions. “Don’t worry about the dishes. I’ll do them tomorrow.”
Then she waves, shoves her feet into her boots, and exits onto the deck. I watch her climb the railing, swing one leg over it, then the other, and jump.
Without thinking, I open the door and look out, worried she hurt herself. She’s already on her feet, walking toward the trail in the woods with feline grace.
I close the door and hurry away from it before she catches me watching her and returns.
She probably has nine lives, just like a cat.
As I pour a glass of water, the smell of dinner wafts through my nose. My stomach growls.
She made filet mignon. My favorite.
I drink the glass of water, trying to reassure myself. At least my stalker cooks my favorite foods. And cleans the kitchen.
There are worse things in life.
The third time it happens, she’s already in my kitchen.
Not just in the kitchen—using it.
The dishwasher is humming, and the counters are wiped down. She’s barefoot, hair pulled back in a ponytail, humming softly like this is a perfectly reasonable way to spend a Tuesday afternoon.
“You forgot to eat,” she says, opening my fridge. “Again.”
I gape at her. She’s definitely stalking me. How else would she know I skipped lunch?
“I had coffee,” I hear myself feebly offer.
Seriously. What the hell is wrong with me? Just establish boundaries. She’s a petite—
She gives me a look that stops my thoughts. The kind you give a man who should know better.
Tread carefully. She may know how to cast spells.
“I appreciate all you’ve done—”
“No problem.” She pats my cheek. “I love taking care of you.”
Until I make you mad. Then what will you do? Glue my ball to my leg?
“That’s great.” My smile is fake. Sweat runs between my shoulder blades, and it has nothing to do with running. Or my job.
She stops, brows raising as she studies me. “Why are you looking at me like I’m about to glue your ball to your leg?”
Oh. My. God. She’s a witch. Or psychic. She can read my mind. Why does this keep happening to me? Why do I attract the crazy ones?
“Sebastian.” A concerned look is on her face. She grabs my arm, steering me to a chair. “You need to sit down. You look pale.”
Sit. Pale.
My brain is functioning at the level of a reptile.
“I’ll get you a drink.” She dashes to the fridge and grabs a bottle of water. I watch her closely to make sure she doesn’t pour anything into it. Or start chanting.
She whirls around and opens it, then hands it to me. “Drink.”
I stare at it for a moment. She didn’t tamper with it from what I saw.
My mind is spinning as I take a drink, trying to come up with a plan to get her out of here without angering her.
“You’re so tense.” Her fingers begin kneading and massaging my shoulders. Water dribbles from my lips as I groan.
God, that’s heaven.
My body betrays me, relaxing under her touch.
“That’s it,” she purrs in my ear. “Just relax. I’ll work the kinks out.”
Her voice is seductive, lulling me into a false sense of security. Yet it excites me. My cock thickens, standing at attention, as I lean back in the chair, enjoying every second of the massage.
Magic. Her fingers are pure magic.
A groan escapes me as my head falls forward. She works on my neck, the tension easing.
“Oh. Someone’s aroused.”
I barely register what she says. She’s digging her elbows into my upper back. My head drops, chin to chest, a sound of pure pleasure escaping.
My eyes widen as her hand slides down my chest, rubbing over my long-sleeved tee. Her other hand is still working on my shoulder.
I should say something. Stop this.
But her touch has made me a prisoner.
Which is weird since I usually recoil from touch, unless I want sex.
Oh, God. Sex. Don’t think about that right—
Her hand is on my dick. She begins rubbing me through my pants. Her boobs are practically popping out of the V-neck shirt she’s wearing as she leans over me.
“Ohhh… so big,” she whispers, eyes wide, awe in her voice. “So hard.”
My cock twitches. I swear on my mother’s life—the one I don’t talk to—that I’ve never been harder. Which is a very weird thought to have right now.
Ivy moans as her hand wraps around me. She pants slightly as she strokes me through my sweatpants.
My hand reaches for her hair, wrapping around the long, silky locks. My chest heaves as she pumps her hand faster, and I know I’m seconds from coming in my pants like a horny teenage boy.
“Ivy. Please—”
I try to tell her to stop, but she strokes me faster.
And that’s it. I go over the edge, my cock erupting inside my pants.
“Oops. Someone made a mess.”
I slump in the chair, my eyes on the ceiling.
I jerk when I feel her hands and a warm, wet rag.
“Shhh. I’m just cleaning you up.”
I can’t speak. My voice fails me when I need it most.
She sets to work like this is normal. Like she’s done it a hundred times.
When she’s finished, she pats my shoulder. “After you eat, take a shower. Don’t worry about your sweatpants. I’ll wash them later.”
She leans down, brushes her lips over mine, and heads toward the door, grabbing her coat from the back of the couch as she goes.
She still has the rag she used to clean me up with.
“Are you going to wash that?”
She looks at me, then at the rag. For a moment, she stills.
“Uh huh.” Then she shoves it in her pocket, flutters her fingers at me, and says, “Enjoy your dinner. I’ll clean up in the morning.”
She’s gone before I can utter a word.
Her boots hit the ground. The silence that follows her departure is deafening.
My eyes go back to the ceiling. I snort, shaking my head.
My stalker gave me a hand job through my pants, cleaned me up, and left with the used rag.
I’m fairly certain that’s not covered in the audiobook on boundaries.
She’s either going to do some bonding spell that will prevent me from ever getting away or shove the sperm-soaked cloth inside her, hoping to get pregnant.
My smile fades.
That won’t work, right?
I’m nearly positive it won’t.
But just in case, I’d better Google it.
I arrive home from work the next day, determined to put an end to this madness with Ivy.
I unlock the door and follow the smell of food to the kitchen.
She’s wearing an apron—and those damn leggings.
This time, her pink hoodie is unzipped, showing some cleavage.
Be strong.
Boundaries, remember?
“We need to talk.”
She gives me a bright smile. “Welcome home.” She approaches, long hair curled away from her face, cheeks pink, eyes sparkling.
My audible book did not prepare me for extracting myself from a gorgeous stalker.
Seriously, she could be a model.
A curvy one. With an amazing ass and tits that make me want to bury my face—
Focus.
“You shouldn’t be here,” I blurt out.
She blinks, her smile fading.
Fuck. Why does that hurt me?
“I mean, I know this has to be disruptive to your life.” My hand moves to her long strands, curling around them. Why is her hair so soft? Why do I like it so much?
Her smile widens, eyes brightening. “Not disruptive at all.” She pats my cheek. “I love doing this.”
She wraps her arms around me, hugging me like she’s my wife welcoming me home.
I should hate this, but I don’t.
I’m still for a few seconds. But then her warm, vanilla sugar scent envelops me. I breathe it in, my arms wrapping around her.
She’s warm. Soft. And fits against me like she was made for—
My eyes fly open. A five-alarm fire horn blares inside my head.
I release her, my shoulders tense. “What’s for dinner?”
She grabs my hand, pulling me toward the chair. I swallow thickly. I’ll never look at that chair and not remember her hand stroking me—
Damn it. Stop thinking about her stroking you.
I discreetly adjust myself before I choose the chair beside it.
“It’s one of your favorite meals.” She leans over, eyes level with mine. But her boobs are trying to escape her pink jacket, and I can’t help but look.
And then she’s wrapping her arms around me, pulling my face into her chest. “I’ve missed you today.”
Her words should spark fear in me like no other. I should be sprinting away. Not staring at her cleavage.