Page 4 of Framed Obsession

Mental note: Make Dahlia pray for my cock, check.

The bulge in my pants is thickening with every second that passes, making the ache of wanting to be inside her painful, but tonight I’m refraining from my urges. I want to do unholy things to my girl, but that'll come with time. Although the game is the best part, isn't it? The hunt, the thrill of it all, is what makes it so exhilarating.

My body hovers above hers as my hand continues to trail down her frame, feeling every curve, retaining it to memory. She’s so fucking perfect. Perfect for me and only me. Her silk nightgown is the only thing separating our bodies from touching, and it's making me very impatient. I want to rip it off her, but even with her system in dormancy, I fear it may wake her. I would be anything but ravenous. Something about her makes me conflicted inside.

My hand reaches the end of her nightgown. My fingers line the seam for a moment, feeling the fabric on my fingertips as I rub the material between them. I begin to lift the thin fabric cautiously until her lower half is exposed. An aching breath escapes the depths of my lungs as I glare at her. Vulnerable. Clueless. Unaware.

I give her shoulder a gentle push, her body shifting limply onto her back. I study her from top to bottom. What a fucking sight. The room is lit faintly by the street lamp shining outside her bedroom window, highlighting every curve perfectly as if it molded her itself.

I turn, reaching for a bag I had placed on the mattress beside her. Unzipping the fabric, I grab my camera, flipping the switch on. I push myself up onto my knees, getting a better view. A small flash illuminates the room for a momentarily before I quickly place the small machine back into my bag.

I'll be using that ‌later.

It’s taking every fiber in my being to not touch her. Not to shred this fucking fabric between us and consume every inch of her. Watching her limp body beg me to take advantage of her has my dick rock hard.

Fuck it. I lower myself, pressing my body onto hers. Rubbing my large bulge against her center, yearning for a little friction. The confinement of my jeans gives me more pressure. I imagine it’s her tight walls, gripping my length. I rub against her more, dry-humping her beautiful body.

My heavy breaths escape me, spilling onto her fair skin like heated kisses. I don't refrain from staring at her beautiful, slumbering face. I imagine fucking her awake. Her fear consuming her, but deep within, she is loving it.

I feel my release creep up and I spill into the crevices of my briefs, seeping through till there's a dark spot near the pocket of my jeans. I groan, feeling every drop release, emptying me out. Next time, it’ll be inside her.

I adjust myself as I lift off ‌her. I wince as the tip of my cock feels chafed from the grinding. I won't regret that later. I make my way into her kitchen. Taking a glass from the cupboard, I pour water into it, watching as it rises to the rim.

My Little Flower will be thirsty tomorrow from all the toxins. Making sure she stays hydrated is important. I’m not a monster, I'm just an asshole. She will thank me.

After placing the clear glass on the nightstand, I lower my head until my lips lay near her ear.

“See you soon, Little Flower.” I whisper, my voice low, leaving an open-mouthed kiss before slipping away.

Chapter 4

The Flower

Mind Games - Sickick

The morning sun from my window hits my eyes just right, and I groan. My head is pounding. I only had a few drinks last night. All I want to do is rot in bed, but I can't. Z and I own a dance studio where we hold classes three times a week apart from our day job. Today is one of those days, and I am now rethinking every decision I've ever made.

We primarily teach hip hop and heels, but we do like to add in a mixture of all different types. Dancing has always been a love of mine. It's been an outlet for me. Therapeutic, helping to release emotions, and a workout? It’s the best. I'm just lucky I found someone who loves it as much as I do.

Z and I opened our studio a few years back, and our classes are always fully booked. It's insane how quickly we grew, with just the two of us promoting ourselves. We hadn’t realized just how much this side of the city needed a dance studio. Sundays are our full class days. We hold two: one at noon and one in the evening. Can you guess what day today is?

My eyes widen and I look over to see 10 a.m. displayed on my phone screen. “Shit!”

I have to be at the studio in an hour! Did I sleep through my alarm? This isn’t like me. I can’t even recall the last time I slept through an alarm. I swear I’m never drinking again.

I quickly sit up, and the room starts spinning. Little swirls of color frame the outside of my eyesight, making a sickness creep up my throat. There's water on my nightstand that I don’t remember putting there. Then again, I don't even remember how I got home.

My lips reach the rim of the glass, chugging the clear, room-temperature liquid. This tastes like the best fucking water I’ve ever had in my life. Great, that means I am also dehydrated.

What a way to start the day, Dahlia. Way to go.

As my body takes a moment to comprehend that I’m about to stand, I stumble, barely catching myself, and reach for the nightstand before I face-plant onto the floor. The last thing I need is to have a concussion before class. R.I.P. Dahlia—died from lightweight syndrome. The most pathetic headstone.

The reflection staring back at me looks daunting, like she's never seen the light of day before. Disheveled, to put it lightly—give me the ring, my precious—to put it harshly. The harsh light of the bathroom makes it all the worse. I rinse my face, hoping to wash away any evidence of my night of drinking. No luck. I need to hurry—I am running way late, and Z will have my head if I’m not there before class starts.

I rush to put on my sweats and a T-shirt. Then, I make my way to the kitchen to grab a snack before I head to the studio. Opening the refrigerator, I swear a tumbleweed roll by. Groaning, I close the fridge and look at the bowl of fruit on the kitchen island, contemplating if a small apple will be enough. A black envelope, neatly placed next to the bowl, catches my eye. A lone dahlia flower accompanies it.

What the?