Page 5 of The Hitman’s Obsession

I should be horrified. Any normal girl would be. But I’m not exactly…normal.

The thought of him watching me touching myself while reading one of my many erotic novels deepens my blush, but in a good way.

Something electric sizzles through me. My toes and fingertips tingle.

I was just reading a scene like this. What are the chances? My favorite trope: a woman caught in a vulnerable position by a dangerous older man. He has his way with her because he knows the woman secretly wants it. She’s not as innocent as she looks.

I must have touched myself thousands of times to scenes like that. But fiction is fiction, and reality is reality. Never in my wildest dreams did I think something like that could actually happen to me.

But here he is. A real man in my bedroom standing over me.

He hasn’t moved. He hasn’t touched me. And yet this is the hottest thing that’s ever happened to me.

Way hotter than any of the lame guys who ever tried to get into my pants. The few from school I went on dates with, maybe kissed a few times before being utterly disappointed. The one boyfriend I had for a few weeks before I got bored. He was nice, but he was just…boring.

I can’t even remember his name now.

For a while, I thought my naughty book habit had ruined romance for me. Ruined the desire for real sex. I mean, if my friends ever saw my reading history, their jaws would hit the floor.

But now, as I look at the monstrous, ruggedly handsome man standing in front of me with his bulging chest and knife-like cheekbones, I realize the truth.

I’m not ruined; I’m just specific.

“Who are you?” I ask.

The man’s lips part. He pauses. “Roman.”

“Roman what?” I reply.

“Graves.”

Despite the severity of the situation, I actually laugh. Seriously? The gigantic, terrifying, brutally sexy man who just broke into my bedroom is named Roman Graves? My Kindle’s algorithm couldn’t have invented a better man for me.

My thighs are scorching. I just had a really great orgasm, but I’m already getting horny again. And by the look on his face now and the obvious bulge in his jeans, so is he.

But he doesn’t move. He stands as stiff as a statue, his hands clenching open and closed at his sides. I feel my heart pulsing in my ears.

He’s holding himself back. But why?

He had no problem climbing up the fire escape and breaking into the window of my bedroom, but now he doesn’t want to touch me?

It almost pisses me off.

The muscles on either side of his chiseled jaw clench tighter and tighter. My nipples are hard. I know he’s noticed. If he was watching from outside, he must have seen me dancing in front of the mirror too…

…and lying in bed with my legs spread, playing with my pussy.

Maybe he wants you so badly he’s fighting not to touch you.

God, that would be so hot. I really am a freak, aren’t I? I take a step closer, and his jaw tenses even more. His hands ball into fists.

“Were you watching me?” I probe.

He glances sideways out the window, pauses, then looks back at me. “Yes.”

I’m blushing so hard now. Pins and needles sting my cheeks, and my inner thighs tingle. My pussy is still throbbing with that post-orgasmic rush, but something else is happening now. Something that I’ve never felt in the presence of a man.

“How much did you see?” My panties are tiny, barely there. And my legs were spread wide as I played with myself.