My Husband, My Stalker

By: Jessa Kane

I’m sobbing, but it’s more from emotion than pain.

I can feel myself being possessed by this man.

I don’t have an inch to breathe or worry or even think. There is just Christopher blocking out the world around me, filling the cracks in my soul and demanding more. More.

There are ripples of hurt in the vicinity of my womb, but they dull the more he kisses me, our lips growing hungrier, his hips beginning to flex, to push forward and back.

“Does it feel better now, Jolie?”


Visibly relieved, his left hand drags down the center of my body, between my breasts and stomach, circling around to take hold of my bottom. Clutching it roughly as he rocks deep. So deep that both of us moan, my heels burying in the flesh of his ass. “You feel it, don’t you? That we’re one now. It was meant to be like this.”

I can’t deny it.

It’s the coming together of two beings. A collision.

“Yes,” I gasp, my nails raking their way down his back involuntarily. “We’re one.”

His eyes flash, revealing the wildness he spoke of before.

And my own untapped wildness answers.

Something inside me is in charge now. Is it my heart? My soul? My lust? I don’t know, but we’re suddenly grappling with each other, Christopher’s mouth burying in my neck, sucking bruises onto me, my hands gripping his thick buttocks and yanking him deeper, the bed slamming against the wall with the force of his thrusts. I’m being fucked. Filthy and raw. And he was right. That’s all I can think. He was right about that massive part between his legs giving me pleasure, because I quickly become its servant, whining and straining to take more.

He gives it.

He shoves my legs open and ruts into me with smacking pumps of his hips.

“Mine.” He looks me in the eye. “Mine.”


His mouth sears me with a kiss. “I will be everything you need. This is where it begins, angel eyes. Listen to me. It begins here. If you ever feel lost, come right back here to the beginning and find me. I’ll always be right here.”

My orgasm is cresting and carrying his words away, but they make me glow on the inside all the same. His trunk of flesh saws wetly over my clit, again, again, the muscles in his broad shoulders flexing, tattoos rippling in the light. He winces in pain, his features screwing up tight. A man trying to hold on to his control—and that visible proof that I undo him causes the eruption of lust in my belly. It cascades down and snares my loins in a breathtaking seizure.

“Good girl.” He pants above me. “Come for your Daddy.”

I scream.

That word makes me scream.

Pleasure like I’ve never known wracks me. I bow up off the bed, but he pins me back down, bucking his flesh into my constricting heat, bellowing my name into my neck. “Jolie.” He grips the slamming headboard, powerful arm flexing. “Giving you my come. Ahhhh, honey. Got so much for you.”

True to his word, I’m filled to my limit with piping-hot spend, the excess rolling in beads down my buttocks and thighs, Christopher groaning loudly above me, his deep voice joined by the sound of slapping flesh. When he finally falls on top of me, his huge body depleted, not a single second passes before his arms wrap around me and I’m pulled into the warm cocoon of his embrace, his mouth moving in my hair, whispering my name in awe.

It’s the first night in a long time I don’t sleep with the lights on.

There’s no need.

I’m safe.



One Month Later

I underestimated how much of a struggle this would be.

Pretending the way I feel about Jolie is normal.

I’m getting ready for “work,” standing at the kitchen counter in a tie I once used to strangle a man to death, sipping coffee and trying like hell to remain still. To look like a regular husband. This is my morning process while she’s in the shower and getting dressed, humming so prettily to herself. I stand here and struggle against the blinding urge to storm into our bedroom, pin her down and fuck her again. Again. Again. Even though I already had her twice this morning. Once on her hands and knees in bed. Once on the edge of the bathroom sink.

My cock is strangled in my slacks, begging to be let out.

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