Total pages in book: 168
Estimated words: 159420 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 797(@200wpm)___ 638(@250wpm)___ 531(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 159420 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 797(@200wpm)___ 638(@250wpm)___ 531(@300wpm)
He’s resourceful, my stalker.
Also hungry.
I can feel it. Or maybe it’s me who’s hungry because I can’t wait any longer. So standing at the window and looking outside as if locking my eyes with his, I reach up and undo my hair. I remove the pins and let the mass of my blond curls loose down my back. Then I reach back and unzip my dress. One by one, I slide the tiny straps down my arms before pushing the red dress I wore down my body. I will admit that while I went on a date with another man, I wore this dress for him. Short and tight, my dress showed off every little curve in my body. From my perky breasts to my rounded ass. He likes to watch, doesn’t he, so I made it easy for him. I made it easy for him to see the shape of my body. I also wore my underwear for him, black and lacy. I hope he appreciates how sheer the fabric is and how if he wanted to, he could see my pink and hard nipples through it.
Once I’ve shed my clothes, I turn around and sashay my way over to the bed. Again, in the clear view of the window. I climb on and lie down, my head on my soft pillow and my nearly naked body sliding onto the covers. I start by running my fingers lightly over my collarbone, brushing my throat lightly. Before I move down and caress the valley between my breasts. I moan at the sensation, my nipples puckering up even more, my tits feeling all heavy and swollen. I always wanted bigger tits, but the way he makes me feel, how much he turns me on, causing them to swell up and ride high with lust, I don’t care about the size of my breasts anymore. All I care about is playing with them, flicking my nipples and plumping my achy tits.
All the while squeezing my thighs and writhing my hips.
When I’ve tortured myself enough, I leave one hand playing at my tits and creep the other down, grazing my trembling and sweaty belly, and slip it inside my panties. Gosh, I can smell myself, my pussy, the lust leaking out of it. I touch the spot, my swollen, aching clit, that came alive as soon as I woke up in the living room and felt him watching me, and I moan. I do it so loudly that for a second I think my sleeping friend will hear me out in the living room. The entire street will hear me.
He will hear me.
And if he does, will he come closer? Will he abandon his shadows and come to me? Stand on the other side of my window and press his hand to the glass so he can see better. Maybe even open the window and climb inside. Oh my God, if he climbed inside and stood beside the bed, I’d come all over my moving hand. And if he bent over me, reached his hand out and touched me, I know I’d moan so loud the whole city would hear me.
I know that.
But I also know that will never happen. That’s the appeal of all of this. He’ll never get closer or climb through that window. He’ll never touch me because that isn’t what this is about. He only wants to watch, and I only want to feel alive for a few moments. I only want to feel like something in my life is safe, is still mine and doesn’t belong to my father.
So I let myself imagine. I let myself create a fantasy in which he does touch me. He replaces my fingers with his, calloused and big. Thick and long. So thick and long that if he slides his digit in, he’ll stretch me out. He’ll stretch my hole out and it’ll hurt so good. He may even bust through that barrier, my virginity, with just his finger and make me bleed and come, all in one breath. And when I’m all soft and sleepy after my orgasm, he’ll bend over my body and tell me how much he hated seeing me with another man. He’ll tell me he was this close to beating the shit out of him and taking me away.
Because I’m his and he’s mine. This is when I come, when he calls me his in my dreams. My Phantom.
CHAPTER TWO
One day ago
GIVEN THE FAMILY I come from with its bloody and violent history, it’s a surprise that this week marks my first encounter with cops. Or that this is only the third time I’ve seen the inside of a police station. It looks exactly like they show you on TV—with a desk in the front that serves both as a reception and for booking arrests; rows of desks beyond it; a hallway beyond that where they have private offices, their interrogation rooms, and presumably holding cells—except much scarier and colder because it’s real.