25. Anna
ANNA
Is there such a thing as dick withdrawal?
It sounds better than stalker withdrawal, because I know I’m suffering from at least one of them.
He’s visited me every night these past two weeks, and we’ve carried on with our little rendezvous.
Talking and fucking and thriving in the dark.
It’s escapism in its purest form, closing off the outside world and living amongst the shadows.
Even in the light of day, I find myself replaying our conversations in my head and smiling.
The things he’s asked have me remembering things I haven’t thought about in years, and he’s provided me with stories about himself in return.
Knowing what he looks like now, at least with the mask on, I still try to picture a preschool version of him running away in terror from the department store Easter Bunny his mom took him to.
Or how he managed to burn off one of his eyebrows while attending a severely discounted version of the Boy Scouts.
I told him about my summer trips with Nana to South Carolina and how stoners accidentally set off the fire sprinklers during my junior prom.
Given his history, my stalker doesn’t know much about movies and music released over the past few years, and I do my best to educate him, at least with the latter. For now. After tonight, I want to take him to the theater, sans mask.
And he’s giving me plenty of time to plan our date night, because he’s been MIA these past two days.
I know why, but it doesn’t make it any easier.
I’m not sure if it happened the night I confessed everything to him in my bedroom or subsequently—and very shortly—after, but I’ve developed more than a liking for my stalker.
Not hearing his voice, not feeling the warmth of his laugh against my ear, not having him on me and in me…
It’s become painful. Like an itch I can’t scratch. A craving I can’t satiate.
And it’s only been forty-eight hours.
Knowing what I’ll have to do tonight has me more than panicked, but knowing what else will happen is enough motivation to fight past my nerves.
Keeping my hair simple, I curl it into large mermaid waves and continue the siren theme with my eyeliner, lashes, and bold red lips. I want to look every bit the femme fatale that I am.
“Well, well, well. Look at Cinderella here. Or should I say Jessica Rabbit.” Darcy wolf-whistles as I step into the foyer and do a spin for her to show off my gown. “Damn, girl.”
If there’s one thing being with my ex taught me, it’s how to dress for a gala.
I may not be wearing Jessica’s signature red, but I’d like to think I look just as good.
Being larger chested, halter styles are a particular favorite of mine, and this little number is my favorite of them all.
Not only does it show off the girls quite spectacularly, but the black satin hugs my curves in all the right places before flowing out into a loose skirt that will make it easy to move around in.
This is only further benefited by the high slit that nearly reaches the top of my thigh.
I feel sexy as hell, and I know a certain someone most certainly will appreciate it.
To my surprise, I get a notification that my ride is here.
My ride?
I had every intention of driving to the event in my car, but I go over to the balcony to see a limousine parked out front.
What the hell are you up to, mystery man?
I get all the confirmation I need that there hasn’t been some mistake.
When the driver opens the back door of the limo for me, I’m greeted with rose petals scattered all along the seats and floor.
There’s still a bouquet on the service bar beside a chilled bottle of champagne, and tucked between the roses is a note simply reading, “ A petal for your petals. Don ’ t think I won ’ t be feasting on you in here later. ”
The mental image it provides has me clenching my thighs, praying that the drive to the gala is short.
The sooner “later” can come, the better for me and my vagina.