My Husband, My Stalker

By: Jessa Kane


His back muscles tense, his hand pausing on the doorknob. “Yes?”

This is crazy. I can’t really be considering asking this near-stranger to stay the night. We just met. I’m not mentally healthy enough to do casual or serious. But I’m already walking toward him as if in a trance, already sliding my palms up the range of muscles on his back, absorbing his shudder. How can this feel so inevitable? Almost…foretold? “Stay.”

He braces a palm on the door, and once again, I marvel at the size and capability of his hands. The way one of his knuckles is crooked and scarred. But I’m distracted from my thoughts when he says, “Stay and have coffee? Or stay and take you to bed, Jolie?”

“I don’t know,” I say to his back. “I just know it makes me feel safer to have you here.”

“There’s irony for you,” he mutters.

I frown. “What do you mean?”

His fingers curl into a fist on the door. “Nothing.”

Long moments pass and all I can hear is the sound of his breathing, my racing pulse.

“I’ve never spent the night with a man before. Am I doing this all wrong?”

“God, no, honey.” He drops his hand from the door and turns, expression sincere and strained all at once. “You are fucking perfect.”

The look in his blue eyes knocks me back a step. He’s…aroused. Very much so. The crotch of his jeans protrudes at an angle, his jaw slackening while he looks me over, head to toe, a low sound coming from his throat. He’s so huge. The muscles of his forearms are in tight ropes, his pupils expanding to encompass the blue. Starved. For me.

When my back meets the wall, I realize I’ve been putting distance between us.

“I’m already scaring you,” Christopher says raggedly.

Is he?

I’m wet. Growing so damp, so rapidly, my thighs are trembling. My skin is crying out to experience those large hands. Have them rake my flesh. I’m drawn to him like nothing else. And yes, the attraction is so immense it startles me, but I think I’ll collapse if he leaves.

Christopher shakes his head, reaches for the doorknob again, signaling his exit. “This is moving too fast. It’s my fault. I—”

Quickly, I unbutton my cardigan, from my neck to my waist, shedding it.

The belt is undone next, dropped heavily with a metal sound to the tile below.

When there’s nothing left but my dress, I curl my fingers in the hem and wait only a moment before stripping it over my head. And then I’m standing in front of this magnetic man, my neighbor, in a matching bra and panties set. White with a red rose pattern. All of the lights are on. There’s nothing and nowhere to hide. It’s also the reason I see every emotion cross his face. Awe, hunger, surrender, lust. Lust like a battering ram.

He takes one step and flattens me against the wall of my entryway, his mouth coming down on mine with a groan. His fingers slide into my hair and cradle my nape, our hips meeting, thighs pressing. He kisses me with lips only, pulling at my top one, bottom one, slanting his mouth on top of mine until I mewl, arch my back, and he finally slips his tongue inside, stroking it against mine, his breath catching. I’ve felt nothing but fear for so long that I race toward my own need, flinging myself into it like a cliff diver into a blue lagoon. It feels so good to be alive, to have this man’s touch, and I’m suddenly greedy, desperate for more.

I scale his sturdy body, slinging my legs around his hips, the kiss taking hold. Going deeper. With more urgency. He slides a hand down the back of my panties and kneads my butt, pressing my upper half to the wall, his lips racing down to my neck, my throat.

“I can’t believe this is happening,” he rasps in between kisses, those eyes intense, exploring. “I’ve needed you. I’ve needed you.”

“I’ve needed you, too.” My fingers work to unbutton his shirt. “Take me to bed.”

No sooner are those four words out of my mouth than I’m ripped off the wall, carried down the back hallway at a fast clip. He false starts toward the guest room, but I point to the right door and he changes directions, entering my bedroom. All the lights are on. Every single one. And I’m grateful for that when I finally get Christopher’s shirt open and it parts to reveal tattooed muscle. Weathered brawn. Slab upon slab of inked steel.

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