And then Granger jerks to a halt, shuddering, his muscles in a tight clench, head thrown back as he calls my name, letting that hot liquid pulse into me. It’s unlike anything I could have imagined, opening my legs to allow a man’s seed to enter my body, knowing I’m responsible for making him hard, for creating the need for him to thrust and rut and sweat. I’m not just addicted. I’m the addiction, too. And I was right, there is no way to go back to a time before I knew what this man felt like inside of me. I’m almost fearful of how much I love it.
It’s not merely my libido that has reshaped itself.
There’s something in my chest. A righteous yearning when I look at him.
His eyes meet mine and something passes between us.
Wonder. Desire. A promise.
Obsession.
If I’m looking at him with a fraction of the intensity he’s looking at me, it’s a wonder the whole school doesn’t go up in flames. It’s that intensity in Granger’s eyes that reminds me of how he looked when he arrived. Hot. Determined. Starved.
But there is something that doesn’t make sense. With my pulse going back to normal, my thoughts settling, a bigger picture knits together.
My nerves begin to dance. Trying not to show it on my face, I take my ankles off his shoulders and scoot forward, hopping off the desk. Granger is standing so close that my breasts graze his bare chest and we both break off a sound, my womanhood constricting. If he pushed me back onto the desk and entered me again, I would wrap my legs around him and ride the ride again. My body, my insane attraction to him would give me no choice. But he seems too focused on my face to act, as if he’s intent on reading my thoughts.
“What’s wrong, Peyton?”
“Nothing,” I murmur, fixing my clothes, watching Granger slowly do the same. “How did you get here so fast?”
I ask the question carefully, but his hands pause in the act of buttoning his jeans. And that’s when my pulse kicks into high gear again. I can hear the oxygen moving in and out of my lungs, my fingertips tingling with alarm. Fight or flight.
He got here so fast because he was already at the school.
Following me. Watching me.
His eyes turn predatory, as if he knows the conclusion I’ve drawn.
My legs are burning with the need to run, but…oh God. I don’t know what I’m running from, do I?
Granger.
Or the fact that him watching me unaware makes me feel…treasured.
Coveted.
Hot.
So yes, when I turn and sprint for the door, there’s a possibility that I’m running away from what this man has awoken inside of me. Something dark that likes to be possessed. Likes to be on the receiving end of an infatuation.
I wheel around the corner into the school hallway and skid to a halt. There, on the floor in a heap, is a janitor uniform. And scenes from the last two days come back in a blinding rush. The janitor moving past my classroom door at odd times. The janitor watching me pull out of the parking lot from the shadow of the building, his baseball cap pulled down low over his eyes.
Granger has been dressing as the janitor.
Granger has been stalking me.
A scream builds in my throat, but I never get the chance to let it loose because I’m being thrown over Granger’s shoulder. He storms down the hallway, easily subduing my attempts to get loose, his mighty forearm clamping down on my legs to keep them from kicking.
“Let me go,” I breathe, twisting to try and free myself. “Let me go now!”
His laughter is deep and devoid of humor. Villainous. “Too late for that, Peyton,” he says; his voice is crafted of iron. “You said first and last. First and last,” he shouts, then takes a minute to rein in his volume, but not his madness. That has clearly been set loose. “You’ll keep that promise, even if I have to make you.”
Chapter Six
Granger
I pace back and forth in front of the bed.
My stomach is in fucking knots. A lot like the ones I used to tie Peyton to my headboard. This is bad. This wasn’t supposed to happen. I told myself as soon as we were in a real relationship, I would stop following her, watching her at work, during the night, following her everywhere she goes. But she found out about my extra-curricular activities before I could make myself stop and now I could lose her.
There’s a logical part of me that knows I never would have stopped, though. Twenty years into our marriage, I’d be stalking her. Until the end of my life, I’d be watching from the edges of her awareness, making sure no other man tries to claim what’s mine. Making sure she’s safe and happy. What else am I supposed to do when Peyton walking the earth is the equivalent of having my heart walking around outside my body?