My audible book didnotprepare 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.
The timer beeps. She runs a hand through my hair before pushing me away. I stare at the way her hips sway asshe heads to the oven. I shove my fist in my mouth when she bends over and opens the door. Heat billows out, and I’m sweating as I watch her.
Her movements are efficient as she plates the food. She carries mine to me with a smile.
“Here you go, sweetie.”
I open my mouth, ready to snap that I’m not her sweetie, but she bats her long lashes before spinning, moving toward the cabinet. “I bought some of that white wine you like.”
Her scent mixes with dinner, short-circuiting the neurons in my brain.
That’s the only explanation for this.
She pours a glass, still chattering on. I grab my fork, the aroma of perfectly cooked steak, rosemary potatoes, and steamed veggies calling to me like a siren’s song. I groan as I put a bite in my mouth and chew.
“That’s the sound I like to hear.” She winks—winks—and gives me a salacious smile.
And now I’m imagining her pink lipstick staining my aching cock.
