Forever Him (An Obsessed Novella Book 1)

by Jeanne St. James

  And it hits me then. Kane with a K is a stranger as well. I shouldn’t be going anywhere with him, should I?

  He clears his throat as I stare up at him. “If you don’t want to go…”

  Of course, I will go with him. Because there’s no other place I’d rather be than with Kane with a K.

  If he ends up being some crazed serial killer, then hopefully I learn from my mistake. I snort out loud.

  His eyebrows rise, and he stares deep into my soul.

  “L-l-let’s go,” I finally stutter and then curse myself silently.

  His brow smooths out and the creases at the corners of his amazing eyes crinkle. If I didn’t know better, I’d think it’s sort of a smile. Or a look of satisfaction.

  He takes my elbow and walks me three cars down, pausing in front of a Mercedes sedan parked at the curb that’s all blacked out. The paint, the windows, the wheels. It’s bad ass. And looks super expensive.

  He pulls the key fob out of his pocket and opens the door for me like a perfect gentleman. I guess I shouldn’t expect anything less from him. I slide into the dark gray leather passenger seat and before I can say “boo,” he shuts the door. The silence in the car during the time it takes him to make his way around to the driver’s side makes me feel like I’m in some sort of luxurious, air-tight cocoon. I stop stroking the soft leather seat when he opens the driver’s door.

  Hell, I can’t even afford a car. Ever since I quit my job to write full-time, I must make good use out of my two feet, and take advantage of public transportation.

  But I’m happier, mostly. The downside is I’ve been lonely recently, since writing can be an isolated profession.

  I sneak a glance at the man driving the car; he’s probably never lonely. Instead, he most likely enjoys his alone time.

  I look out of the windshield to see the direction he’s heading through the city. As the street signs flash past, I realize he’s heading west. To a better part of town.

  No surprise.

  “So, who were you shouting to back there?”

  He doesn’t know. Or maybe he’s being polite and pretending not to know. Either way…

  “I’m a writer. My characters have conversations in my head all the time.”

  He cocks an eyebrow but keeps his gaze on the road. It’s the morning rush hour, and the streets are busy.

  “I usually keep it under control, though,” I assure him.

  A smile creeps across his face. He gives me a quick sideways glance that says he doesn’t believe me.

  So, he knows.

  Heat crawls back into my face, and I try to change the subject. “Where are we going?”

  “It won’t be long now.”

  Not an answer, but I turn to gaze out of the passenger side window. The businesses have turned into residences. Some large and stately, some smaller and well-maintained. The streets are tree-lined and litter-free. More upscale than where my apartment is. Just a bit.

  “Don’t you have to be somewhere?” I ask him. He's most likely never late to work.

  “I do.”

  “And where is that?” I study his profile.

  Since the traffic is lighter here in the residential part of the city, he turns his head to look at me.

  No. It’s not a look; it’s a raking of his eyes over my face. I keep my expression blank; I don’t want to let him know how he affects me.

  But he does. My nipples pebble under his gaze and I squeeze my thighs together as the ache between them builds.

  I fear he can make me come with only a look.

  He returns his attention forward, and within a few seconds, he’s pulling the large Mercedes into a driveway and then into a three-car garage. As the overhead garage door shuts behind us, I’m not sure what I should do. I’m now in a stranger’s car, in a stranger’s garage, at a stranger’s house. And no one… no one knows where am I.

  Smart move, Lila. You may end up being eaten with fava beans, or your skin may be worn as a coat. But, hey, he’s hot, right?

  “I… Uh...”

  He doesn’t wait for me to stumble through my concern. Instead, he gets out of the car and comes around to my side, opening the door and offering me his hand.

  See? He’s a complete gentleman. What serial killer has such good manners?

  Fuck. Probably most of them.

  My fingers squeeze tighter around the laptop I’m holding against me as I stare at his outstretched hand.

  His fingers appear long, dark, and neatly manicured. Perfect to strangle me with. Why did I ever think it was a good idea to go with him to get coffee?

  “Let me help you out, Lila. Take my hand.” A demand.

  Well, when he puts it like that… Okay.

  I release one cramped hand from my computer and let him take it to help me climb out of the car. As he closes the passenger side door behind me, I turn and see two more vehicles in the garage. One looks like an old muscle car from the sixties. And the other isn’t a car at all. The motorcycle, all blacked out like the Benz, looks fast and the emblem on the side belongs to BMW.

  This man likes speed. Precision. Luxury.

  Everything I’m not.

  I’m a struggling author doing my best to make ends meet, having a hard time even paying my rent. I can’t afford manicures, expensive clothes, regular hair appointments… or even a 1988 Ford Escort.

  But I am a determined woman. And I have always been willing to work hard.

  As he escorts me through a door into what I can only assume is his house, I feel determined not to be a murder victim today.

  The hand that envelopes mine is warm, smooth, and very large, dwarfing mine. Now that I’m next to him, I realize how tall he actually is. In contrast, I’m not very tall at all. Only three inches over five feet. He must be a foot taller than me. Maybe not a whole foot, but it’s close. Maybe six-one or six-two.

  I glance down as we walk. His dress shoes shine, his pants are the perfect length. This man does not buy a suit from a rack. No, sir.

  We travel down a long, tiled hallway and end up in a large, open kitchen. More tile, muted colors, perfectly clean.

  And what do you know? A coffee maker sits on the counter in a corner under a cabinet. I get a sudden urge to run a finger over it to check for dust. I don’t because he releases me and puts a hand along the small of my back.

  The sweater I’m wearing is thin, and I can feel the heat of his palm on my skin. I try not to shiver since my nipples are hard enough as it is.

  He guides me over to a stool at the center island and instructs me to “have a seat.”

  I do, and watch him shed his suit jacket. It’s like watching porn as he slips it over his broad shoulders and down his arms. I can’t pull my eyes away as he carefully folds it in half and lays it over a chair at the kitchen table.

  “I guess you live here.”

  He runs a hand over his discarded jacket before turning, a crooked smile on his face. “No, I have no idea who lives here. I figured we could just borrow their coffee maker.”

  Oh, he has a sense of humor. I like it.

  I like him.

  From seeing him at the coffee shop, I never would have thought the guy had a personality at all. “You’re a pretty good burglar then, since you memorized their alarm code.”

  “I don’t forget things.”

  Strange comment. But, okay…

  “Like you.”

  My eyes lock on his. His amazing blue eyes are such an odd color for his skin tone. “What does that mean?”

  He ignores my question and moves around the kitchen pulling a bag of coffee out of the freezer. While he sets up the coffee maker, his back is to me and he asks, “Are you hungry? Do you want something to eat with your coffee?”

  “Do you cook?”

  “Only enough not to starve. What would you like?”

  I shake my head but realize he’s not looking at me. “Nothing. I’m not hungry, but thank you.”

  He glances over his shoulder at me. �
�Are you sure?”

  “Yes, thank you.” I’m not hungry, but I am curious. “Why do you stop at the shop every day if you have a coffee maker?”

  He pushes the power button on the top-of-the-line appliance and turns to face me, leaning back against the counter. His eyes rake over me again, making me want to shudder under his gaze. “Because of you.”

  I frown because I still don’t understand how him stopping for coffee every day has anything to do with me. “What about me?”

  He pushes himself away from the counter and approaches. I’m watching him like he’s a lion stalking his prey. This time I can’t stop the shiver that trickles down my spine.

  He leans forward, and I hold my breath thinking he will grab me, but instead he reaches around to grasp the back of the stool and spins it to face him. When he steps closer, my legs end up trapped between his.

  He stares down at me with those eyes of his, and I can't release his gaze. I'm stuck. Frozen. Like a deer in headlights unable to avoid the oncoming car.

  “Lila. I go in there every day to see you.”

  He’s lying. He must be. Not once has he looked my way in all the days he’s come in since I’ve noticed him. He must be making this up as he goes.

  “I don’t believe you,” I whisper.

  My gaze locks on his beautifully shaped lips as he says, “It’s true.”

  I run a tongue over my own lips because suddenly I’m parched. The movement doesn’t escape him, and he stares at my mouth.

  “One day I was running late, and I figured I would just pop in there to grab my coffee, and I noticed you sitting in the corner, hiding behind your laptop. You had color in your cheeks, and your eyes had a soft, unfocused look. Your bottom lip was tucked between your teeth. You looked so sexy at that moment. I knew then I had to see you again.”

  When he speaks, his words sound beautiful, no matter what they are, no matter what the context. Just then I want to hear him say something offensive. A searing, obscene word. Like “fuck.” The word fuck coming off his tongue would probably sound like doves crying and angels singing.

  How bizarre. My line of thought is not a line at all, but a scribble. A messy doodle on a wrinkled piece of notebook paper.

  “I was waiting for you.”

  “Waiting for?” I ask, now even more confused.

  “You’ve been watching me for weeks,” Kane says as he moves behind me. Not touching. He’s simply there. A presence I can feel but not see. “Why?”

  “Why…” My words trail off. I don’t want to tell him why, I don’t want to seem like a depraved soul. An obsessed stalker.

  But he knows why. It hits me that this may be a game for him. He put himself in front of me daily until I noticed. Then once I did I fell right into his trap.

  Was his approach some weird foreplay?

  I shake my head slowly. My voice is low, breathless. “It was what you wanted, right? For me to notice you? If so, why didn’t you ever speak to me?” Because the man certainly can’t be shy, or an introvert like me.

  He finally touches me, a finger sweeps my long hair off my shoulder, away from the right side of my neck. The air feels cool against my exposed skin. His body heat licks along my back as he leans close. Closer. Then he presses his lips against the curve of my throat. It’s soft and delicate, like a butterfly landing on the center of a blooming flower.

  “I’ve been waiting awhile to do that.”

  I still don’t understand why he waited so long. Why not approach a woman you’re interested in? “You never looked at me once, but you’ve been waiting to kiss my neck?” I murmur, not hiding the disbelief in my question.

  “Yes,” he says against my skin. “Every day I could see your body react when I walked in. You softened, you looked at me with heat I couldn’t miss.”

  I shake my head only slightly, not trying to dislodge his lips which reminds me of silk brushing up and down my neck. Then the tip of his tongue draws a line along my spine.

  “So, it was foreplay.”

  “I wanted to make sure you were interested.”

  “And my outburst cemented that.”

  His hands land on my shoulders and he squeezes them gently as he places his mouth to my ear. “Yes. You demanded I touch you.”

  That I did.

  “Just how much do you want me to touch you?”

  “How badly? Or how much?” I ask.

  He releases my shoulders and moves around to stand in front of me, looking down once again. The man could intimidate without trying. “Both.”

  Heat creeps into my cheeks. Not from embarrassment this time. Instead, it’s my burning desire fueling the flames.

  I want him badly.

  I want him a lot.

  My body feels on fire.

  “Don’t make me guess, Lila. Tell me. Tell me what you want me to do with you. What you want me to do to you.”

  A simple answer would be “everything,” but I doubt he’ll accept that as an answer. He seems to be more detail-oriented than that.

  Start simple, stupid.

  “Kiss me.” I struggle to keep my voice from lifting at the end. I don’t want it to sound like a question, but more as if I know what I want.

  “Is that all?”

  I almost laugh at his question because we both know a kiss will not be enough. “No.”

  His smile widens, the corners of his eyes crinkle. He’s amused. “Coffee first?”

  “Oh, hell n—" Before I can finish, his mouth crushes mine, his lips moving, his tongue separating my lips, exploring my mouth with power and determination.

  His fingers dig into the back of my head as he presses us closer. With a tilt of his head, he seals our mouths tighter together. A groan builds at the back of my throat. My eyes squeeze shut because I can’t think of anything except what he’s doing.

  His kiss dominates me. Takes control of my body from head to toe. It makes the little hairs on the back of my neck stand on edge.

  With one kiss, he now owns me.

  He cups my face as he breaks the contact, moving only enough so I can speak. But still only a breath away.

  Just a breath. I don’t move. I can’t. I open my eyes and meet his. His blue eyes make me shiver because they are shadowed, unreadable. And completely disturbing.

  “Again,” I whisper.

  With a slight curl to his lips, he presses them against mine once more, this time more gently. Our tongues tangle, and I lay my hands on his chest. I place one directly over his heart so I can feel it beating under my palm. His races as fast as mine. Not a steady beat, but a pounding tattoo.

  As he moves down my jawline, I tilt my head to offer my neck. His tongue, warm and wet, slides down the side of my throat making me almost purr. My nipples have turned into painful peaks, and I want him to touch them, suck them.

  I don’t even know this guy’s last name.

  But as his hands shift down to my shoulders, I realize I couldn't care less. His legal name could be Kane with a K, and I wouldn’t give a flying fuck.

  “What else do you want, Lila?”

  Again with the questions. I don’t want to tell him. I want him to know my needs. He’s forcing me to think, to acknowledge that I want this stranger more than I’ve ever wanted anyone before.

  This connection, this draw, makes no sense. It’s heady, almost intoxicating.

  He smells good. Dark spices, tangy. Right then, I know I need to taste him. Does he taste like he smells? Like an exotic dish that tantalizes my senses?

  I inhale him deep into my lungs and say, “I want to take you into my mouth.”

  Without a word, he straightens and steps back from me. If I thought his eyes appeared dark before, they’re even darker now. Dangerous and stormy.

  He’s no longer looking like a satisfied kitten who drank a dish of milk. He’s back to that lion stalking his prey as he watches me carefully, cautiously.

  Most men I know would have had their pants down and their cocks out before the offer was ev
en finished. Not this man. He stands stock still and studies me, making me want to squirm.

  Then suddenly one corner of his mouth lifts, and he offers me his hand. “We’ll skip the coffee.”

  I ignore his hand and push myself off the stool and drop to my knees in front of him. Right on the kitchen floor. I reach for his belt buckle, and his hands fall to his sides as his stance widens. I glance up his body and see him watching me quietly. His expression unreadable.

  I will see what I can do to change that. My fingers are trembling so I fumble a bit until I can unhook the buckle and unfasten his slacks. I slowly slide his zipper down and stare at the juncture of his open pants with anticipation. It’s like Christmas morning.

  I’m ready to unwrap my gift.

  Since his stance is wide and his thighs are muscular and thick, his pants fall only past his hips. His boxer briefs are blue like his eyes and, from what I can see, he certainly is going to be giving me a very, very nice gift.

  I swallow hard and try to control my breathing as I run my fingers down the cotton covering his bulge. I want to see him. I want to hold him, but I’m enjoying the anticipation of the unknown.

  He doesn’t move or make a sound as I cup him within my palm and feel the weight and heat of his balls tucked within his briefs. I glance up again. Still no reaction. I slide my fingers in and along the elastic waistband and slowly reveal what I’ve been waiting for.

  My mouth waters at the sight of precum beading at the crown of his cock. I dart my tongue out to capture it. The salty goodness tastes like heaven, and my eyelids flutter shut. My pussy is wet and clenching, desperate to have his hard length, his thick girth within me.

  He tucks a finger under my chin and lifts my face to him. “Look at me while you take me into your mouth.”

  I do. My gaze never wavers as I wrap my lips around the head. The only sign on his face is a slight movement, a very tiny twitch near his right eye. Not the reaction I’m looking for. But I’ve only just begun.

  I wrap my fingers around the root of his cock and squeeze. I can’t continue to look at him. I need to concentrate on making him break.

  Deeper and deeper, I take as much of him as possible. My lips stretching, my tongue sliding, my mouth sucking. My eyes flick upward when I hear a noise. I didn’t imagine it, but he still isn’t showing me any reaction. He’s keeping himself together, his control solid.