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The craving to grip on the roots of her hair and pull is blinding. But then she’ll look at me and the spell will have been broken.
So I push her harder against my shoulder. Feel the sharpness of her teeth behind her closed lips. Hear her whimpering while I take and give her everything other than my cock deep in her pussy.
I edge her. I torment her.
I own her.
“I’m close.” Leighton manages to open her mouth. “Please. Please.”
“My sweet little whore. My desperate little thing.” I pull back to the sound of her cries and shove four fingers into her pussy. No more pretending she’s asleep. “You want to come?”
“Yes.” Her nails on my chest break the skin. “Please.”
I bring my hand back to her hip, slamming her sweet body against my cock. Again and again.
And again.
“Oh, fuck.” Her orgasm tears leak from her cheeks to my shoulder. “Fuck.”
Chasing my own orgasm, I guide Leighton’s hand to my cock. Her fingers wrap around my dick, her moans and cries reverberating on my skin.
The added friction, her tears, how her body still rocks from her climax. All of that does it for me. I shoot my cum on her hand, making a mess out of my pretty girl. I release her while she’s still milking my cock, gazing into her post-orgasmic sleepy eyes.
“Thank you.” Spit and tears stain her face. “More.”
“Greedy.” I let out a hushed chuckle, then kiss her nose. “Go back to sleep.”
She raises her eyebrows. I give her a no-nonsense look, to which she huffs, but closes her eyes regardless.
“Good girl,” I whisper, climbing out of bed.
I’m not cleaning her up, leaving her exactly the way she is. I want her to see the evidence of what I just did the first thing she wakes up. She’ll be sticky and horny and crying out for me.
Most importantly, it’ll serve as a reminder of who I am.
Not a psycho like she used to call me.
A man obsessed. A man haunted. A man who can’t get enough of her all the fucking time.
I sneak in another glimpse at her as she dozes off. While I’d love nothing more than to watch her sleep, there are things I have to take care of. I tuck myself in, heading to the closet to change into my running gear.
Outside, I break into a jog. I run around the miles and miles of sand around us, keeping my eyes open for any visitors.
I have my reasons to be concerned. I haven’t heard from Dr. Hatchett again. Haven’t seen anything strange in the Santa Barbara home over the last few days.
Much like me, Rylan has never been a quitter. She’s never been one to accept the fact that we have to put some healthy distance between us. When I encouraged her to attend college in Houston, Texas, she cried for a week.
But it was necessary, for both of us. I hoped that after she’d be back that first summer, her obsession would lessen. That there’d be a way for Leighton and me to be together.
Wrong.
I have to save Leighton. Have to figure out how to make this work.
Sweat pours into my eyes, and I wipe it off.
This is what happens when I step away from Leighton for too long. In this fragile adjustment period—for her, me, the both of us—an hour seems like a lifetime. The time apart invites insidious thoughts to my head.
I’m being paranoid. Protective. There’s a constant voice screaming at me to lock us both in here for life.
