Page 52 of Veil of Obsession

She may have run, but I caught her this time. Confirming my suspicion from the charity ball night.

Princess is my stalker. That pretty little curvy girl is obsessed with me. She stalked me, killed for me.

Fuck! Why is that such a fucking turn-on? Am I that desperate for attention? My pulse is still thick with adrenaline; I’m still worked up from the way she trembled against me, the way her lips parted when she felt my piercing press against her.

She wants me. And I want to make her suffer for it.

The elevator dings, doors opening to my penthouse. I step inside, toeing off my shoes, rolling my shoulders as I move through the space. It’s dark, but I don’t bother flipping the lights on.

I know someone’s watching. I can feel it. The slow, prickling sensation of being seen. Princess was too fucking smart to not get caught this long…so how did I figure it out tonight?

She got sloppy. She got bold. Because she wanted to get caught.

I take my time moving through the apartment, dragging my fingers over the kitchen counter, tilting my head slightly as I scan the space. If she’s installed cameras, they won’t be obvious—but she’s watching.

And if she wants a show? I’ll fucking give her one.

I step into my bedroom, shrugging off my coat and letting it fall to the floor. Slow. Deliberate. I don’t rush. I want her to watch. The buttons of my dress shirt come undone one by one, the fabric parting to reveal ink and muscle, my tattoos shifting over my skin as I roll my shoulders, stretching out like a predator getting comfortable in his territory.

Is this what you wanted, Princess?

I smirk to myself as I let the shirt slide down my arms, exposing more ink, more skin, my body carved from something hard and unyielding. I glance at the mirror that’s bolted to my bedroom ceiling, then the mirror across from my bed, knowing it would give her the perfect angle if she really has cameras in here.

And I’m betting she does.

My belt unhooks next, the leather slipping free, the soft sound slicing through the quiet. I let it drop, my fingers working open my zipper, my slacks sliding down my thighs.

I’m already hard. I have been since I had her pressed against the wall. Since I felt the way her body fit against mine, the way she ached for me without saying a single fucking word.

She can pretend she doesn’t want me. She can run all she wants. But I know the truth.

And soon? She will too.

I palm myself over my briefs, exhaling slowly, feeling the weight of my own need pressing into my hand. My cock aches, the metal of my piercing catching against the fabric, teasing, tormenting. I push my briefs down, my cock springing free—thick, heavy, the glint of my piercing catching the low light. Then I stroke myself once, slowly, running my fingers over the barbell that sits at the tip, teasing myself like I wish she fucking would.

Would she hesitate the first time she sees it? Would she touch it carefully, or would she sink to her knees and take what she’s been stalking for so fucking long?

I groan, gripping myself tighter and working my fist down my shaft, my breath coming harder, my muscles tightening. Leaning back against the headboard, I spread my legs, letting her see everything.

“This is what you wanted, isn’t it, Princess?”

My hand moves faster, my breath hissing through my teeth, the metal teasing, the friction perfect. My head tilts back slightly, my abs flexing, my tattoos shifting as my muscles tighten. The coil in my gut winds, my thighs tensing.

Fuck.

I groan, my hips jerking into my hand, my pace becoming ruthless, strokes long and rough, my body craving what it really wants: her. My breath shudders, my entire body coiling tight, my chest rising and falling, sweat slicking my skin as I chase the high, chase the inevitable.

And then…

I snap. A guttural groan tears from my throat, my jaw clenched as pleasure crashes over me. My hand grips my cock tight as I cum, thick ropes spilling across my stomach, my body wracked with pleasure.

“Princess.” Her name slips out, rough and low. A whisper of possession, of demand, of a promise.

I exhale sharply, my body still buzzing, my head lolling back against the headboard. For a moment, all I hear is my own breathing. The silence of my penthouse. The weight of what I just fucking did.

And if she’s watching? If she’s really watching?

I hope she fucking knows…