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"How long?" I ask. I don't even have to turn around to know he's right behind me.
He doesn’t answer, so I ask my next question, the one that's really burning me. "Are you just some sort of twisted Charlotte Locke fan?" Tears prick my eyes at the thought. "Was any of it real?"
I thought our meeting was serendipity, fate, destiny. But it’s all been a lie.
He orchestrated all of this. I feel played, deceived. What an unwitting little fool I’ve been.
He grabs my shoulders then, turning me to face him.
His eyes are blazing with remorse and denial as he vehemently denies the accusation. "No! It's all real, Anne. Us, we're real. Nothing else matters. Yes, I know your dirty little secret. I know you're the pristine teacher by day but the naughty writer by night. I know how your fingers itch and burn and you can't settle until you get the stories out. And I know why they do that too. Because you weren't getting what you needed. But, honey, I'm here to feed that little thing between your legs so you'll never have to feel that way again."
Despite his admission, something about the wrongness of his words makes my thighs clench up. God, I still want him. My body is still throbbing for him.
He sees it too because he kisses me desperately. "I stole trinkets from you to feel close to you. I snuck in and read your diary because I wanted to know everything I could about you. I watched you every second of the day because I felt like I'd die if I couldn’t see you. I had to keep you safe."
He breathes all this against my lips before he finally pulls back and looks me straight in the eyes. "Yes, Anne, I know all your deepest secrets. So, let me tell you mine. I saw a girl sitting in the rain one day. She was so beautiful she took my breath away. I've watched her for two years, falling deeper in love with her every day. I never approached her because I knew I wasn't good enough for her. Until one day I couldn't take it anymore, and I had to try. I'm obsessed with her. And it's not because of her books or her looks or anything but her."
He grips the sides of my face. Tears are streaming down my cheeks, and he brushes them away.
"It's you, Anne. You," he rasps. "God, don't leave me, sweetheart. Not now that I've finally got you in my arms. I'll burn this city to the ground. I swear to God I will. I won't survive without you, honey."
He seems broken, his eyes wide at the thought of me leaving, and even though I know that according to society, what he did was wrong, if I'm honest with myself, I'm flattered. Flattered that he's cared about me enough to silently watch over me all this time.
My heart breaks at the thought of him pining all this time and thinking he wasn't good enough.
And I'm grateful. Grateful that he finally did show himself to me.
It suddenly doesn't matter to me. I'm going to embrace this man, this love, this connection between us. I felt it from the moment I met him. It's everything I've been writing about and more.
And I suddenly realize that I haven't had that constant compulsion to write since I've met him. He's right. It's because now that I've got him, he's calmed that storm inside me.
He knows me better than I know myself.
He took all my secrets, and he kept them and cherished them. He cherished me.
I stand on my tiptoes and press my lips to him, communicating to him in my kiss all that I feel for him.
He wraps his arms around me and pulls me tightly against him, deepening the kiss, kissing me with all the intensity of our secrets laid bare.
