Sunshine and The Stalker

“I want to keep you. Do you know what that means?” he questions earnestly and warily.

“You want to lock me in a dungeon and have your wicked way with me?” I sass.

Another chuckle vibrates through him, lightening the mood that seems to be clouding the kitchen. The coffee in my hands doesn’t calm me like it always does. I doubt anything can.

“I want to lock you away. I want to fuck my fat cock into your cunt and knock you up. I want to see you swell up with my babies. Not just one, Cerys. I want you to give me a family.” He laughs wryly. “Jesus,” he expresses, raking his fingers through his hair. “Never did I see myself here. Pleading with a girl to have my children, to offer me something I never thought I could give anyone.”

“I’m . . . I’m sorry.” I don’t know why I’m apologizing, but it feels like the right thing to do.

“No,” James grits out. “Never apologize for the way you make me feel.”

He reaches for my face, cupping my cheek in his large hand, and pulls me to him. Our lips meet in a heated kiss. I moan, parting my lips for his tongue to enter. To explore and delve into my heat. My warmth.

His low growl is enough evidence that I please him. I offer him something no woman he’s ever been with has ever given, and that in turn gives me confidence. I’ve always been afraid. A little nerdy girl with weird clothes.

The artsy one.

The girl they made fun of.

Many times, I’ve run home after school in tears because I was the weirdo all the kids picked on. Called names. But now, now I’m here with the most amazing man, and he cares for me. He wants to claim me and make me his.

When he finally pulls away, his eyes implore me wordlessly to say yes. He’s begging. This time, I’m the one in control. But as the moment passes, I realize I was always in control.

James never took, he never forced, and the way he bombarded into my life wasn’t done violently. He did it lovingly even if he’ll never admit it. He is a romantic. I see it in the way he now asks me for permission.

I nod.

“Are you going to make love to me now?” I question, earning me a sexy chuckle.

“Little girl, I’m going to make love to you. I’m going to eat your sweet little pussy, then I’m going to claim that tight asshole until you’re chanting my name like a prayer,” he promises, causing me to blush at his filthy words.

“I’m not religious at all,” I bite back as his hands find my hips.

“Today, all day, you’ll find God again, and his name is James.”

With that, he lifts me off the stool and walks me back to my bedroom.

Epilogue

James

Six months later . . .

“You’re a stalker, Darden,” I grunt as I tap away on my laptop without looking up.

Her laughter fills my soul. “You’re my muse. What can I say?” she teases. “I didn’t think you noticed me staring at you anyway. You’re quite distracted over there.”

I snap my gaze to her and revel in how beautiful she is on the balcony of our rented flat in Venice. She belongs here. A part of the picturesque world around us. Today, she’s wearing a pair of overalls and a yellow tank top. Her red-and-black streaked hair is piled messily on top of her head. Orange paint is smeared across her cheek, but it suits her. “I miss nothing,” I remind her. “Show me what you’re working on.”

She grins at me. Wide and full of perfect teeth. Lips painted matte red, and my cock twitches knowing how many times she’s stained it with that exact shade. “You. Always you. You’re quite popular over here in this city.”

I arch a brow at her and snap my laptop closed. The contracts on the new hotel have been finalized, and I have bids from builders that need going through, but none of that matters right now. Right now, all that matters is my girl. “I’m only popular with you. Nobody else cares about my broody ass.”

“Then how come I sell out every time I put paintings of you in the shop down the street, hmmm? I think other people are fond of your gloom and doom too. Not just me.” She turns her painting to where I can see. Mr. Ricci was correct. The sunsets here will make you weep. But seeing how she views me in front of one is breathtaking. I get glimpses of the man that hides inside through her art—only the man she gets to see. And apparently a few locals who buy her art, it would seem.

“You trick them,” I grumble. “You make me look like that.” Something worth seeing. I wave at the picture where I’m smirking. I’m not wearing a suit but jeans only. My bare feet are kicked up on the railed balcony, and my laptop is in my lap. I look relaxed and happy and free. “Does my hair really look like shit?”