Page 14

Connor

CCalling in sick to work wasn’t something I normally did.

Me and Joe usually had a morning coffee before we both went off to our workplaces, so texting him this morning saying I couldn’t do coffee and that I was calling in sick, probably had him raising a brow.

He’ll probably question me about it later, and I’d have to come up with something believable.

Food poisoning? Bad migraine? Right now, it didn’t matter.

What mattered was that Maxine wasn’t home today.

I had memorised her schedule, her every move, every habit.

Every single fucking detail, and on Mondays, she was in the office from 8am to 6pm.

Her ‘hell days’ I’d heard her call them that to the lady at the café, it made me chuckle.

This meant that Mondays, I had hours to explore her world.

Who new a pretty woman with captivating eyes and a mouth made for sucking cock could make Mondays so bearable.

I parked a few blocks away and approached the apartment building on foot.

Casual and unassuming, nobody gave me a second glance as I slipped inside, taking the elevator up to her floor and down the hall, until I stood in front of her door.

Just like last time the lock was easily manipulated, and I was inside within minutes, back inside Max’s world.

The smell of vanilla and coffee, once again invading my senses, with that extra hint of something uniquely her.

I inhaled slowly, not realising until it hit me how much I had missed her scent.

My eyes swept over the apartment, cataloging everything – the neat kitchen, the throw blanket draped over the couch, the large mug on the table with lipstick smudged along the rim.

Deep red.

The same shade she always had painted on that pretty little mouth of hers.

Of course I had been here before, planting the cameras to watch her, to see her.

But now, I was here to know her.

To find out what made her tick, what her interests were.

I needed to know everything about her.

I moved through the living room, careful, deliberate.

No unnecessary disturbances, she couldn’t know I had been here.

I glanced over at the small shelf beside the couch, noticing a stack of neatly piled books.

Some worn, some new, but all clearly loved.

I crouched down, running my finger along the spines, scanning the titles.

My gaze snagged on one that had little colourful strips poking out of the edges, clearly marking important pages within.

The Book Of Azrael.

By Amber V. Nicole

I pulled it free, flipping it open, a worn-in crease split in the middle.

The pages where the colourful strips lay were words marked with tiny highlights, underlining passages with little notes scribbled in the margins.

The same for each book in the series.

My eyes caught on a particular highlight in the book Dawn of The Cursed Queen.

‘She was mine and I’d do the unthinkable for her.’

The words were circled, a tiny heart drawn beside them.

My stomach clenched.

‘I’d fall to my godsdamn knees right now to have just a taste of you.’

She had underlined that one twice.

A slow grin tugged at my lips.

I leaned back on my heels, staring at the book like it had just cracked her open for me, laid her bare in a way she didn’t even realise.

She liked possessive, dangerous men.

She wanted to be adored and consumed, and the way she swooned over Samkiel – the way he claimed Dianna as his own? Jesus fucking Christ.

I clicked my phone open, pulling up amazon, ordering the entire series immediately.

If Maxine Pochon wanted a man like Samkiel, I would fucking become him, without you know… the ability to become an actual fucking God.

I set the book back on the shelf, carefully placing it exactly where I found it, my heart pounded against my ribs as I moved through her space, drinking in every single detail.

Her apartment was clean, minimal.

No unnecessary clutter, nothing out of place.

Except for me.

I ran my fingers along her kitchen counter, my breath slow and even.

My mind screamed at me to leave now while I still could, but my body had other plans.

I wanted more, needed more.

Her bathroom was small, cozy, clean.

A towel hung neatly over the rack, the scent of vanilla and something soft and feminine lingering in the air.

Then my gaze caught on the vanity, noticing the two identical lipstick tubes, both in that intoxicating colour.

Deep red, the shade of blood.

The shade I had seen stained on her coffee cups, the same shade that stained the lips she used to smile, tease, to laugh, to wrap around that bastards cock – I took a deep breath.

Not now.

Before I could stop myself, I picked one up, twisting the cap off, watching the deep crimson colour slide up with the turn of my fingers.

She painted her lips with this every day.

A slow, wicked thought curled through my mind, and before I could think better of it, I slipped one of the tubes into my pocket.

One for her.

One for me.

Something small, something she shouldn’t notice.

I exited the bathroom, my gaze instantly snapping toward her bedroom door.

I shouldn’t, I really shouldn’t go in there.

But I did, of course I fucking did.

I had absolutely no self control apparently, not when it came to Maxine anyway.

Her bed smelled like her, I laid back against the pillows, inhaling deeply, letting her scent wrap around me.

My fingers clenched at the sheets, fisting them like I had a fucking right to be here.

My cock was already aching, already painfully hard, but I needed more.

My eyes shot to her dresser, I stood, pacing over to the drawers, slowly gliding the top one open, revealing neatly folded lingerie.

Delicate lace, soft fabric.

Panties.

I plucked a pair from the stack – black, lace-trimmed, they were tiny, barely anything at all.

My breathing turned heavy as I lifted them to my face, inhaling her.

My cock throbbed against my jeans.

Fuck.

I laid back down against the bed, my fingers sliding down, pushing down my grey joggers just enough to free myself.

The thought of her being here, so fucking close, completely unaware that later on when she dives into her bed, I was here, stroking my cock on her sheets, buried in the scent of her, sent a violent thrill down my spine.

I closed my eyes, picturing her on her knees in front of me, those perfect lips stained the deep shade of red as she wrapped them around my cock, leaving the lipstick smeared across the head.

I imagined her riding me, nails digging into my chest, drawing little specks of blood, taking what she wanted, using me like nothing more than something to be conquered.

My hips bucked up into my fist, my grip tightening as the pressure built, spiralling higher and higher until I was right on the edge.

I imagined that basement, that chair, having her strap me down and ruin me.

I panted loudly as I fucked my hand harder, faster, and then I came, all over the panties in my hand.

A groan ripped from my throat, my body tensing, shaking, the release so fucking intense I nearly blacked out from it.

I sucked in a ragged breath, my heart slamming against my ribs as I stared at the ruined fabric in my hands.

A wicked, filthy satisfaction curled through my stomach.

She would never know.

I stuffed the panties into my pocket alongside the lipstick, a stolen piece of her to take home with me, and then I left, leaving another singular black rose behind on her step.

I told myself exiting the building that I would never invade her space again, that I couldn’t keep doing this.

My obsession was getting out of hand, dangerously out of hand.

But truth be told, if I was being completely honest with myself, this was only the beginning.

I hadn’t been able to get her out of my head since I had left her apartment, even more so than usual.

The feel of her sheets beneath me, the scent of her still lingering on my clothes.

The red lipstick in my pocket, alongside the panties I had stolen, still damp with my own release.

Maxine Pochon was well and truly in my veins now; she had become my own source of heroin.

And like an addict, I wanted more, so much more.

By the time the package arrived a day later, I had already memorised several of the annotations she had made in those books.

I memorised which lines made her swoon, I knew what levels of possessiveness turned her on, I knew that she ached for the kind of devotion that was both terrifying and intoxicating.

So, I read, and I devoured every word, flipping through the pages the way I imagined flipping through her thoughts.

I traced the memorised highlights, whispering them under my breath, imagining the way she must have lingered on these very words.

‘She was mine and I’d do the unthinkable for her.’

The unthinkable for her, that part stuck with her, and it stuck with me.

Because I would do the unthinkable for her.

Fuck, I thought about killing a guy just for putting his hands on her, thought about breaking into her apartment there and then to remove his hands for the way he trailed them over her body.

That’s why it was no longer enough to watch her from afar, I couldn’t let another man have the chance of touching what was mine.

I needed her to see me.

I didn’t want her to notice me right away – that would be too easy.

No, I wanted to seep into her world slowly, burrowing under her skin the way she had burrowed deep under mine.

I wanted her to think about the stranger who suddenly appeared in her life, the stranger that she could feel watching her.

So, I went to Melinda’s Café, after swinging by her apartment to leave another black rose on her doorstep.

She came here daily, always ordering the same thing, always sitting in the same seat, always focused on her phone, or her laptop, her mind somewhere else.

It was the perfect place to be subtle.

I sat myself down, placing the book in my hand, reading the lines over and over again that I knew she loved, and patiently waited.

The anticipation of waiting for her to walk through the door nearly killed me, and then, right on cue, she walked in.

Dressed in all black, curves wrapped tight in a pair of black jeans that made her ass looking phenomenal, and worn leather jacket.

Of course her lips were painted red – the same exact shade I had tucked away in my drawer.

I kept my eyes trained on the book, only daring glances when I knew she was too distracted to see me staring.

The first time, she didn’t notice me as her eyes swept the room.

The second time, she glanced at me briefly, but it didn’t linger.

But the third time, she hesitated, her eyes lingering on the book in recognition.

It was small, subtle, but I saw it.