Only Him (An Obsessed Novella)
By Jeanne St. James
Genre: Erotic Romance, Erotica, BDSM, Contemporary
Available NOW for 99¢ or FREE on Kindle Unlimited for a
limited time!
Amazon: http://amzn.to/2nFdu4e
This is not just a
love story, it’s an obsession…
Sydney:
Never in my life did I think my high school obsession would
move right next door. I’ve never wanted anyone but him. Reid Turner is my
ultimate fantasy. And I still want him. Badly. When he watches me through my
bedroom window taking matters into my own hands, things suddenly take a turn…
And now that I have him, I’m not letting him go.
Reid:
I never knew she existed and now I can’t get enough of her.
She consumes me. When this night ends, there may not be anything left of me, she
may own me completely. She my master and I her slave. In one way or another I
will atone for never noticing her all throughout high school. I will gladly
grovel at her feet to make up for what a fool I was.
Besides, who can turn down that luscious body of hers?
Curves in all the right places, a mouth that could make a grown man cry, super
responsive during sex, and none of my twisted desires so far have made her bat
an eye. And did I mention? She lives right next door. She may be the perfect
woman for me.
Note: All books in the
Obsessed series are standalone novellas. It is intended for audiences over 18
years of age since it includes explicit sexual situations, including BDSM.
Chapter
One - Sydney
Holy fuck.
I peer around the curtain at the
man carrying boxes from a rented box truck into the house next door.
My jaw shuts like a trap. What
kind of fucking karma is this?
My fingers tremble as they grip
the curtain. I must be dreaming. Never in my life did I think my high school
crush would move… Right. Next. Door.
Right fucking next door!
My stomach churns and my pussy
clenches.
I want to call someone. I want to
run through the house screaming.
Reid Fucking
Turner is moving next door!
Fucking pinch me.
I haven’t seen him in eons. Hell,
not since graduation. And that was so, so long ago.
But I know it’s him. There's no
doubt about it.
Every fiber of my being knows
because I spent too many of my teenage years stalking—err, watching—him. I
would recognize him anywhere.
His gait. His hair (though, it’s
cut much shorter now). His shoulders (much broader than high school—the boy has
matured into a man). Those thick thighs (they’ve always been muscular, due to
him being a jock).
It has to be him.
My heart stops as he glances
toward my window. I drop the curtain like it’s on fire and pin my back against
the wall. My heartbeat goes from zero to sixty in one second flat.
Holy crap, did he see me peeking?
The pulse in my neck throbs and it
may jump right out of my throat at any moment. I clutch my hand to my chest while
I try to slow my breathing.
Breathe in. Breathe out.
It’ll be okay.
The guy never knew I existed in
high school, so he probably wouldn’t recognize me now anyway.
I’ve changed. Matured.
My thin, flat-chested body has
definitely improved. My breasts might be bigger and heavier than I’d like and my
hips curvy enough I can no longer squeeze into skinny jeans, but I’ve had no
problem attracting men. No problem at all.
They seem to prefer something to grab
onto when they’re pounding into me, sweating all over me, grunting and
groaning, and unfortunately, most of the
time, leaving me unsatisfied and wanting.
And, most of the time, I can’t wait for them to fucking put their
clothes back on and leave.
Breakfast? No thanks. I’m on a
diet.
But back to the subject at hand.
Reid
Fucking Turner.
I peek out the front window again
and wonder why he’s moving his stuff by himself. I should head over and offer
to help, shouldn't I?
Then I see them. A whole slew of
buff, hot guys marching in and out of the house in a line like an army of ants.
Where does he find his friends? Studs
‘R’ Us?
Maybe they’re all gay porn stars. I
mean, our classmates did vote Reid
most likely to succeed in high school. Porn stars are considered successful,
right? They’re stars after all.
I swipe at the bit of saliva
gathering at the corner of my lip. Fuck.
Gay or not, that is one hell of a man buffet. But how disappointing would that
be? To find out my teenage crush turned out to dislike women?
Not only disappointing, but
devastating.
I glance up at the ceiling and ask
any deity listening, “Oh please, don’t let that be true.”
Reid has been my ultimate fantasy,
my constant masturbation material, since the ninth grade when I first laid eyes
on him.
Well, more like the day I bumped
into him. The first time it happened by accident. The other dozen or so times over
the course of our high school years were not so accidental. And one time I even
accidentally brushed against the
front of his jeans.
He felt warm and soft. But that
night, I fantasized about him being hot and hard. And all mine. That ended up
being a good night and I might have sprained a finger.
But no matter how many times I
threw myself in front of Reid Turner, he never seemed to notice me. I had no
cleavage, no shape. And I certainly wasn’t a cheerleader, or even on the
booster team or squad, or whatever the fuck it was called.
I was a nobody. Just another body moo-ving down a narrow, crowded hallway,
going in and out of classrooms like herded cattle.
I’m not saying I never garnered any interest. Just not from Reid Turner
and his ilk. Oh, I got kissed and fingered, and eventually my cherry popped,
but none of it was worth writing home about.
And every time I found myself in
some closet, the backseat of a car, the bedroom of some boy’s house whose
parents went out to dinner, I’d close my eyes and picture Reid.
That’s how I had my first orgasm (one
without doing it myself). If I’d squeeze my eyes shut really hard and pretend
the guy was Reid, then I’d… Yeah. And
the poor schmuck probably thought he had skills and most likely disappointed
the next girl he fumble-fucked. And if he did, not my problem.
However, that ended up screwing me,
too. Because no guy was ever good enough for me.
None of them were Reid Turner.
The fucker ruined me for any other
man. And he never once even touched me.
Not. Once.
Whether he knows it or not (I’m
pretty sure he doesn’t), the man owes me a mind-blowing orgasm.
I snort as I imagine stomping over
to his house to demand he make me climax. Wouldn’t he shit a brick.
Though… Maybe I should give that
some serious thought.
He may call the cops. Possibly apply
for a restraining order. Damn.
I tap my finger on my chin as I
contemplate all the ways I can approach him without getting myself arrested.
Then it hits me. He won't call the
police. It’s not because he’s a criminal and wants to avoid the men in blue.
No, it’s because he is the police. I forgot he’s a cop. Hot damn. How could I forget that juicy
piece of information?
I remember hearing about his
career choice when I was at our lame five-year class reunion. The one I attended
just to see him. Though, he never showed. And he never came to our tenth
either. It was at that joyous occasion when I found out he had married his main
squeeze in high school, Pamela Johnson. Head cheerleader, prom queen, voted
most popular. Yeah, yeah, yeah. Blech.
So, that meant he wasn’t gay. Or
did that bitch turn him?
My eyes rake over the man meat
carrying the heavy boxes and random pieces of furniture. No sign of her.
But that doesn’t mean they aren’t
still together. Though, that might fuck with my fantasies.
Damn it.
And of course, his life choices are
all about me. Right?
Right.
I pace my living room, wanting to
know everything about his life right now.
He leaves me no choice.
I’ll have to do some recon.
* * * *
I actually question my own life
choices when I sneak around the outside of his house after dark. What have I
been reduced to? I feel like I’m a high school stalker—err, student—all over
again.
All those times I attended his
wrestling matches, his baseball games, I’d sit in the bleachers and root him
on. Not that he ever noticed, even though I was his biggest supporter. The
ultimate fan.
But hell, at least he chose two
sports where he wore tight outfits. Both, that snug onesie thing he wore in
wrestling and those tight baseball stretchy pants. His round, muscular ass
looked spectacular in both. But that unitard… No, I remember being scolded at
one match by someone sitting nearby. It wasn’t called a unitard, they called it
a singlet. Didn’t matter though, at least in that outfit he didn’t wear a cup.
I think all the females, including the mothers, noticed the healthy-sized Kielbasa
link in his singlet. You couldn’t
miss it. In fact, I wouldn’t doubt a few of our classmates’ mothers hit on him.
And possibly even scored. What teenage boy didn’t want to fuck a MILF?
Anyway, now fifteen years later
(give or take a year), I’m skulking around my neighbor’s house like a freaking
peeping Tom.
All because Reid Fucking Turner moved next door.
This isn’t high school anymore,
though. No. At thirty-one years old, I’m now dead serious about getting a piece
of Reid. Especially since he owes me.
When I step on a stick, it cracks
loudly under my foot and my heart, once again, goes into warp speed. I slam
myself against the side of his house.
Holy fuck, if any of my other
neighbors see me…
Screw them. This is all about me.
And Reid, of course.
I blow out a breath when I realize
I might be a good candidate for the loony bin. I shake my head to clear it. I’m
a freaking adult. What the hell am I doing?
How can the sight of this man
reduce me to this crazy-assed behavior?
Fuck.
I drag myself back into the house,
my head hanging in disgrace. I should be ashamed of myself. Maybe I should go
over, knock on the door, and apologize for my bad behavior. Welcome him to the
neighborhood. Invite him over for some sweaty sex.
I lock my front door and sit in my
dark living room totally sickened by my actions.
Then I run upstairs.
Author Bio:
JEANNE
ST. JAMES is a Best-Selling erotic romance author who loves an Alpha male (or
two). She was only thirteen when she started writing since it gave her an escape
from teenage angst! Her first paid published piece was an erotic story in
Playgirl magazine. Her first erotic romance novel, Banged Up, was published in
2009. She is happily owned by farting French bulldogs. She writes M/F, M/M, and
M/M/F ménages.
She has
a few new releases coming up in 2017. So keep an eye on her website at www.jeannestjames.com or sign up for her newsletter: http://www.jeannestjames.com/newslettersignup
Author Links:
Website: http://www.jeannestjames.com
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Twitter: https://twitter.com/JeanneStJames
Amazon Author Page: http://tinyurl.com/JeanneStJames
Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/JeanneStJames
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