She’s horny.
She’s in this place and she needs relief.
That reality is like nails dragging down the chalkboard of my mind.
What do I plan to do when I find her?
I’m not entirely sure, but it’s going to cross a line. I can’t seem to stop myself. I can’t seem to think of anything but her hips pumping on the therapy table, those eager little whimpers she made in her throat while the table legs bumped on the floor. She was aroused beyond belief and yet she couldn’t reach completion. Why? The fact that she was left unsatisfied is a knife constantly twisting in my gut. I need to fix it. Need to fix it now.
My footsteps falter when I spy Margot.
She’s dancing in a group of other divers.
So beautiful that my lungs cease to function.
She’s in a dove-gray spaghetti-strap dress that barely brushes the tops of her thighs. And the way her hands are thrown up over her blonde head, her panties flash to the crowd every few seconds. Oh, and the men have fucking noticed. They’re circling the dance floor like sharks preying on a seal. She’s facing the other direction now, popping her hips right and left, and the hem of her dress flips up briefly, showing off two tight, tan ass cheeks, separated by the white strip of her thong.
A few of the spectators groan, adjusting themselves. Putting their heads together to confer over which one of them is going to approach her. She’s the shiniest apple of the bunch in this place. They all want her. And the words she’s mine burn in my throat. She’s been mine since the afternoon we met at her local pool and she gave me that shy smile. I’ve been lost since then. I’m an absolute sicko. A pervert. A stalker. But there’s no curing me. If someone cut my chest open and tried to remove the obsession, they could never get it all. It has spread to every corner of my body. It rules me. She does.
Even now, my cock is at full mast. My mouth is dry, pulse rapping against my ear drums, palms sweating. I’m caught between rage that she’s putting herself on display and the painful need to fuck her. To ride her. To watch her eyes go wide when she orgasms.
My opportunity to approach her presents itself. Just a sliver of time when the other divers have their backs turned. I have to move now, because the men have chosen the winner who will approach her and shoot their shot. Not even when hell freezes over.
With a growl lodged in my throat, I shove through the dancing crowd toward Margot. She sees me and blinks, her mouth dropping open. Then she gets pissed. Really pissed. Maybe she has every right to be. I don’t know. She’s old enough to go dancing if she chooses. She’s earned a little freedom. And I can’t let her have it. I can’t risk someone touching or taking what’s mine.
When I reach her, I don’t stop walking. I simply wrap an arm around her hips, lift her feet off the dance floor and keep going. At first, she’s stunned, but after about five steps, she begins to struggle against me, shoving my shoulders and twisting to get free.
“What are you doing? I’m dancing! I’m allowed to go out!”
“Not without telling anyone where you’ve gone,” I snap, giving in to the urge to smell her neck, my cock throbbing in response to her roses and honey scent. “What if something happened to you and we had no idea where to start looking?”
“Why bother telling you where I’m going when you’re watching my every move?”
I don’t expect her to make that whispered statement. She can’t know. She can’t know I’ve been tracking her location since we’ve been together as coach and pupil. Otherwise she would have told her parents. Been terrified to be alone with me. Right?
“What are you talking about?” I rasp, continuing deeper into the back of the club. Past the revelers to the darkest recesses of the room where I set her down against the wall, pinning her there with my body when she tries to get away. “Answer me,” I breathe against her ear, grasping her hips in my hands. Squeezing. Holding her in place. “Now, Margot.”
I listen to her take a trembling breath. “I…I’m not sure. I just feel you everywhere I go. You want me to be a gold medal diver and that means twenty-four-hour surveillance, apparently. My parents probably pay you extra to babysit me, because God forbid I think about anything but diving for five minutes.”
“Is that why you think I watch you? Because your parents ask me to?” A laugh barks out of me. She has no idea. No idea that I’m so beyond obsessed that I’ve carved her name into the walls of my living room with the tip of a steak knife. That I beat off to old voicemail messages she’s left me. That I tail her everywhere she goes, my heart trapped behind my Adam’s apple, my sanity balancing on a razor’s edge.