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Is he with a woman?
“No,” I whisper. My legs give out at that possibility and I sink down to the floor of the cabana, hugging my knees to my chest and rocking. I’m an idiot. I’m such an idiot. Why did I come on so strong yesterday? Of course he thinks I’m a gold digger. Of course he suspects there is something wrong with me—because there is. I need help. I’m not only infatuated with Byron DeWitt to the point that I stalk him like it’s my job. I’m also keeping a terrible secret from him.
He probably senses the black rot inside of me.
He’s too intelligent not to know I’m wrong in so many ways.
Wrong for him. Wrong period.
The urge to go inside his house right now is almost excruciating. He’s not swimming his laps this morning, so I didn’t get my fix. My chance to feel close with him. And I’m craving some kind of compensation. I need to touch something he owns. I need to smell him. Or I’m going to go crazy. Crazier, I should say. I’ve lost any sense of right and wrong over this man.
If he’s with a woman, I’ll kill her.
My skin prickles with ice, with alarm at my own silent vow.
I’m bad for him. He knows it, doesn’t he?
Since the night of the accident that took his sister’s life, I’ve changed my life, but I’m still a dark stain compared to the pure, white light of Byron. A virgin. He’s a virgin who has completely sworn off pleasure, like a modern-day monk and any time I’m in his presence, I can’t help trying to tempt him from that noble path.
So maybe I haven’t changed that much. Maybe I’m still the selfish party girl passed out in the back seat while her friend drove us home drunk from a party…and ran a red light. Maybe I’m still the girl who wakes up to the sound of metal bending and glass shattering. Screaming.
Oh God, I need to be around him. I need the warmth he instills in me.
Where is he?
I can’t go inside his house, as much as I want to. Even from here, I can see the various mounted cameras. If he watched the footage, he would probably see someone stealing over his gate into the cabana every morning. A figure moving in the deepest shadows. That would be bad enough. But to break into his house? My secret would be out and he would look at me with fear and disgust. There would be a restraining order. Maybe an arrest. I can’t do it. I can’t lose this small connection I have to the brilliant man who I fell in love with one morning on a hillside cemetery while he buried his sister.
I wasn’t supposed to be there, either. But I went to the somber service to pay my respects. I went to say a quiet apology for being involved. For not trying harder to stop my friend from driving. And there he was. A strong, stoic man in black with anguish in his eyes. Anguish and resilience and beauty that runs so deep, it can’t be touched.
Now I’m in so deep with this obsession, there’s no way out.
With a hard sniff, I force myself to stand on numb legs, reminding myself that I have a job. A Halloween party to plan. An office downtown where I go and act normal at my desk, rewarding each solid hour of work with a trip to the Firestarter website where I can see Byron’s face on the CEO page. Unsmiling, serious, cleanly shaven Byron.
A memory of his body against mine yesterday hits me, potent and raw. I stumble forward into the cabana wall, running my hands down the front of my dress, teasing my nipples into peaks. Moaning. God, he was so hard for me. Maybe he didn’t want to be aroused, maybe he sensed the madness lurking inside of me, but he was erect and it was glorious. I knew his sex was large, because I watch him, but feeling it against my pussy really brought the size of him into focus. One more minute of rubbing against him and I would have come, right there in his kitchen. In the sunlight. On the bulging fly of his trousers.
I pull down the silk cups of my bra and finger my nipples, pinching them, warm liquid trickling down between my thighs. “I’ve stayed celibate for you,” I whisper. “I’ll never, ever let another man touch me as long as I live.” And I mean every word of what I’m saying. I belong to Byron. Period. Whether he ever claims me or not. I do an hour of Kegels every night so I’ll give him maximum pleasure if he ever needs me.
Right now, I’m imagining him on top of me, having his first sexual encounter. Trying not to come after one pump, my hands on his generous ass, yanking him deeper. Making him moan and sweat and urging him to become more aggressive. Driving him to hurt me. Hurt me. Choke me and slam me into the headboard, if he needs it.
