Chapter 21 Theo
I can’t believe I convinced Lexie to still let me take her home after she stormed out of my office.
As I drive us back to her place, I keep stealing glances at her.
She’s silent, staring straight ahead. I don’t feel any remorse about how things went down in my office.
She was going through my things. Seeing that only confirmed what I already knew: I was right not to trust her.
I can’t ever let her out of my sight again.
But fuck, the way it felt sweeping her hair back, pressing her body up, watching her chest push high through her shirt. The restraint I needed not to flip her over so she was palms down on the desk, hike up her skirt, and fuck her from behind was more than I’ve ever known.
What the hell is wrong with me? She’s making me break all my commitments, making me do insane, stupid shit in my office. My work. My only sacred place. And within minutes, I wanted to dominate her.
I turn at the light, glance at her again, and she’s still in that same, angry, cross-armed position.
But she’s not scared. And I want her fucking scared.
Terrified. Shaking. I want her to feel all the fucking things she makes me feel.
I want her so tight, so restless, so soaking with a desperate desire that she’ll cry, fall to her knees, and beg me to stuff her mouth with my cock.
Tears will flood those huge, beautiful eyes.
She’ll lift her skirt, and show me that glistening cunt, and beg me to fill it.
After all these years, I want her to taste the poison of rejection, to have it consume her the way it consumes me.
I’ll turn her into a feral, primal, savage fiend of need, and she’ll know the only cure is me.
And I won’t fucking give it to her.
Finally, she’ll obsess over me the way she’s forced me to obsess over her.
When I pull up to her place, she steps out without a word, slams her door and marches to her apartment.
Fuck.
I peel down the street. If I were playing it safe, I’d park at least a half-mile away. But apparently, I’m not playing it safe, because I find the first parking spot only two blocks away, sprint down the street and up the few flights of stairs to my studio like I’m back in my college track days.
Cake fills my stomach from our tasting. I’m telling myself that’s why my gut is fiercely twisting, but I know it’s more. What just happened, what’s been happening… I can’t. I fucking can’t.
But it doesn’t mean I don’t want to.
I don’t even take off my jacket. I rush to the window, grab my telephoto lens, and hook the sheer curtain to the left a few inches.
I’m only checking that she made it inside. I might be fucking livid at her, at myself for letting what happened happen, but I still can’t stomach the thought of her hurt.
She’s still leaning against her door. It’s been at least a few minutes, and yet there she is, jacket on, purse still attached to her body, her head tilted to the ceiling and her eyes closed. God, I want to know what’s going on in her head.
I should text her.
Don’t fucking text her.
I should drop the camera. She made it inside. She’s clearly digging for something, but she’s not actively doing anything that warrants surveillance. She’s just… thinking. About me? About today?
Drop the camera. It’s wrong. Illegal. But something changed. Not only am I watching her because I’m worried that she’s sabotaging me, I’m watching because I like watching her.
Fuck.
I can’t do this. The way I had to peel myself from her, the way my body screams at me to stomp over there and sink my teeth into her bottom lip is a fierce, magnetic pull, and I’m close to breaking.
More time passes, and finally, she hangs up her coat, kicks off her shoes, but she forgoes her usual stretch. She disappears behind the wall. Will she change into the pink pajamas or the one with the cherries?
Oh. Tonight, it’s a tank and leggings. A tank? Its freezing outside, but with today’s events, plus the vast amount of sugar she’s digesting, she’s probably overheating.
I shrug off my jacket without taking my eyes from the lens as I attempt to get more comfortable.
I watch as she slumps onto her couch and pulls out her phone. Maybe she’ll text me.
Or wait… she sets the phone on the floor and tilts her head to the ceiling. I’m not close enough to read her expressions, and I want to know what she’s thinking.
I know what I’m thinking.
She closes her eyes and flings her arm over her head and freezes. Maybe she got a text from some dickhead. Maybe she’s thinking about work. Maybe…
I need to drop the camera. It’s late. She’s going to get up and follow her usual bedtime routine, and the blinds will be closed for the night. I’ve already clocked this. So, I should just put the camera down and…
The slightest swirling of her hips catches my gaze.
She drops her hand from her forehead and slides her palm across her chest, trailing fingertips above the tank.
Her other hand joins and Jesus Christ. My cock immediately hardens against my jeans and I adjust myself.
Over her tank, she cups her breasts and massages, her thumbs flicking back and forth, her eyes closed, her mouth parted, and drop the fucking camera.
One hand dips lower, under the band of her leggings and a whisper of a smooth pale, belly peeks out. If she lowers her pants, I have to drop the camera. Have to. This is not okay. I watch her to make sure she’s not fucking with me—not to see her get naked.
But she’s so fucking beautiful.
I can’t take my eyes off her. I’m too far away to see her freckles, but I want to know how low they trail, if they’re sprinkled across her belly, or if it pales…
Oh shit.
Her back arches. She tugs down her tank to free her tits, and I’m fucking done. I unzip my jeans and free my constricted cock. Christ they’re perfect… even this far away my mouth aches to pull them into my mouth. She’s squeezing herself, tugging on her nipples, grinding into the couch…
Drop the fucking camera.
This is wrong. I’ve done so much messed-up shit, I can’t invade her privacy through the lens like this.
But… she’s perfect. My heartbeat climbs, reaching my neck.
My cock screams for relief. I shove my hands inside my boxer briefs and fist my cock.
I swipe precum across the crown and stroke to the base, imagining what it’d be like if I sunk into her warm, waiting cunt.
She’s moving on the couch, bucking against her own hands, her arm gliding up and down, and I need to stop.
Right the fuck now. Stop. But I’m lost… hazed…
desperate to know what kind of sounds she’s making.
Her face is so concentrated, her beautiful mouth parted, and I stroke harder, faster.
My cock thickens as I watch the way she moves against herself, the way her head tilts up.
This is so wrong, so fucking wrong, but I can’t stop.
Is she thinking about me? Is she picturing what it’d be like if I bent her over that couch and stuffed my cock inside her?
I pump faster. I want to taste her, just fucking once.
Drop to my knees and fling her leg over my shoulder and bury my face in that pussy.
God, the way she’s moving… she’s getting close.
Her eyebrows furrow, her hands are moving quicker, frantic.
I keep fucking my palm, watching how hard she tugs her nipples.
I want to soothe them with my tongue and suck and pinch and I know, I know, I have to walk away, but I can’t and—
Bzzzz. “Fuck!” I lower the camera with the sounds of my phone vibrating against the table, drop my fist from my cock, and shut the curtain. A nauseating heat flushes my body.
I stuff myself back inside my pants, yank up my zipper, and look at the phone.
Seeing a message from Anna across the screen makes my stomach drop.
Anna: Call me. It’s urgent.
I slump against the couch, wipe my hands off on my jeans, and dial.