FOREVER HIM
An Obsessed Novella
Jeanne St. James
Genre: Contemporary Erotic Romance/Erotica
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This is
not just a love story, it’s an obsession…
I can’t keep my eyes off the tall, dark, and
confident man who stops in the coffee shop every morning. I want this stranger
more than I’ve ever wanted anyone before, even though I only know his first name.
As an author, my imagination is my ultimate writing tool, men like Kane my
muse. And the minute he leaves, I’m overcome with fantasies I can’t control and
my fingers fly across the keyboard … until one day, I almost snap. My
embarrassing outburst has me running out the door when he catches me and takes
me to his home.
Though it’s risky, I can’t resist him. And with
one kiss, he now owns me. This man will capture my sanity and trap it forever.
He’ll steal me one piece at a time until he possesses me completely. He’ll ruin
me for any other man. But I don’t want anyone else, for it’ll always be forever
him.
Note: All
books in the Obsessed series are stand-alone novellas. It is intended for
audiences over 18 years of age since it includes explicit sexual situations, including
BDSM.
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His name is
Kane.
I will love
him forever. He just doesn’t know it yet…
Chapter One
The only reason I know his name is because
every morning when he stops at the coffee shop for his large black coffee, the
barista calls out, “Kane with a K.”
Every. Single. Morning.
I assume
the barista does it on purpose. Possibly to coax a smile out of him. But it
never does.
His
expression never changes. It seems forever stuck in serious mode. He just grabs
his coffee, throws money into the tip jar, spins on his heels, and leaves.
Maybe
he’s an important man. A busy man. A man with a lot of responsibilities on his
broad shoulders. Maybe his mind is on what he needs to get done for the day.
But
he never deviates from his routine. Black coffee. No cream. No sugar. No
pastries.
Not
once since I’ve noticed him.
I
rarely pay attention to people coming and going from the shop since the
mornings are usually busy. I sit in my corner with my laptop open, my brain
spinning with ideas. Or not.
Sometimes
I have severe writer’s block. Those are the times my brain seems dark and
empty. Nobody’s home.
I had
it the first morning I noticed him. During those times, I stare off blindly while
reaching deep into my head. Searching for… something. Anything. Begging for
just a couple words to spur my creativity.
The
front door with its delicate dinging bell usually never pulls my attention.
Until that day.
The
day I happened to be staring at the door mindlessly, not paying attention to
the influx of customers.
Until
him.
He’s
tall. And broad. Not fat, no. Heavy muscles bunch under the dress shirt he
wears as he pushes the door open and steps inside.
His
dark hair is super short on the sides, just a tiny bit longer on the top. A
no-nonsense haircut. Like him… No nonsense.
His
perfectly ironed, deep purple dress shirt is tucked neatly into his black
slacks. His black leather belt is held together by a simple gold-tone buckle.
His
eyebrows appear dark and heavy above eyes that make me blink. They are so light
but I can't tell if they are gray or blue. No matter what, they’re a shocking
contrast to his skin color.
The
only visible accessory he wears is a watch on his wrist. Even from where I sit,
I can see it’s quality. One I could never afford, and I probably wouldn’t know
the brand. But it screams expensive.
His
legs are long and unmistakably solid, giving him a confident stride as he
beelines to the counter.
Why
does he stop here for black coffee? I’m sure he can afford a coffee maker. It
isn’t difficult to make. Some grounds, a filter, and some water. Push the
button, wait, and voilà…
Ah, maybe he doesn’t like to wait. But is it
actually quicker to stop here every morning?
Maybe he doesn’t like to clean up. Though,
after studying him, my gut instinct says he can afford someone to take care of
dirty dishes. Perhaps he even has a significant other who would be willing to
do it. A wife. A husband.
A lover…
It doesn’t matter why he stops each morning because
once I notice him, I can’t take my eyes off him. I can’t concentrate.
I watch his lips move as he places his
order. I wait for the corners of his lips to turn up as he talks to the
barista. They don’t. No eye crinkle, no smile, not even a nod of his head to
acknowledge that he’s speaking to a fellow human.
Nothing.
He
never takes out a cell phone once while waiting for his coffee. I have never
even seen him with one in his hand.
He
would be the kind of person to think it rude to be on your phone instead of
giving your full attention to the person serving you. Even if that attention is
cold, lifeless.
He’s
consistent, and he always comes alone.
One
day I switch from my regular table in the corner to a table where I can see his
left hand. His ring finger appears bare. Though, that doesn’t guarantee he
isn’t married. Or in a committed relationship. A lot of men don’t wear bands.
I
watch him every day. I learn the way he moves, that he’s right-handed, that he
takes fifteen strides to the coffee counter. That he always checks the lid on
his coffee to make sure it’s secure before pivoting to leave.
I turn
into Pavlov’s dog. When the bell rings at 8:02 every morning, I have to glance
up. I can’t fight it even if I want to.
After
I watch him walk out the door, I spin fantasies about him. How he will look
naked. How his face will twist when he comes. How his fingers will feel deep in
my pussy, stroking my insides, making me wet.
How
serious his kiss will be when he crushes me against him.
I
can’t escape my thoughts. My desires. My panty-soaking fantasies.
I
think about changing coffee shops because I‘m becoming obsessed.
I
want to touch him. I want to see him smile. I want to make him laugh.
I
imagine that something is missing from his life. Like me. I can solve all his
problems. I can smooth his brow when it furrows after being overwhelmed at
work. I can kiss away the tension. I can whisper soothing words in his ear to
distract him from all the important tasks he’s responsible for.
The only good thing about my obsession is it
helps me write. Once the bell rings as the door closes behind him, my fingers
tear across the keyboard. I no longer suffer from writer’s block. Fantasy after
fantasy pops in my head, and I squeeze my thighs together until I ache as the
words spill out onto the screen.
He is my muse.
My inspiration.
His
skin is dark, but I can’t imagine him lounging by a pool. He seems too
important for that. Or too impatient. He probably doesn’t have time for fun.
Life for him is about getting things done.
So,
it isn’t a tan. No, his skin tone appears natural. His heritage makes him dark.
Brooding. Intense. Something lurks in his lineage that is far from middle
America. Even if his driver’s license
classifies him as white, his family tree would say otherwise.
Kane with a K intrigues me.
I
never sleep in anymore, but I don’t have to set my alarm. My eyes pop open
every weekday at the same time, my head already filled with him. I make sure I
am at the coffee shop, in my usual spot with my laptop open, my chai tea fresh
and hot in front of me by 7:50. Just in case he’s early.
He
never is. He’s like clockwork. He has a routine, and sticks with it.
Every. Single. Morning.
I want to know what his last name is. What
he does for a living. What kind of car he drives. Does he walk to the coffee
shop? Does he live or work nearby?
When the tiny bell rings, I glance up. My
eyes flick to the time in the corner of my screen, 8:02. Then they land back on
him.
Today he wears a jacket over his light blue
dress shirt, one that emphasizes the color of his eyes. His dark blue patterned
tie is knotted perfectly, precise, tight to his collar. The cuffs of his shirt
are visible over his hands. The correct length for a well-dressed man. His gold
cufflinks flash as his arm swings in rhythm with his gait.
He’s so out of my league, he never, ever
glances my way. Not once.
I don’t understand how he can’t feel the
heat of my gaze, the filthy sexual nature of my thoughts.
How can he not feel me undressing him?
Every. Single. Morning.
He has to wait this morning. Two people are
ahead of him with much more complex orders than his usual large black coffee. The
staff is short-handed today. His sharp gaze sweeps the space behind the counter
before realizing the issue. He lifts his arm and checks his watch.
His toe taps. Most likely from impatience,
not nervousness. His body turns as he surveys the shop. For once, he's noticing
that there are other customers and things in the café other than just him, the
barista, and his large black coffee.
I
feel him, though he’s not even close, not even touching me.
I sense
the air shift with every breath he takes. I notice every blink. His long, dark
eyelashes open and close like two Chinese fans.
Then his gaze bounces to me.
Instead of continuing past, it stops.
It stays. He stares. Possibly because I’m staring back. Maybe because my mouth
gapes open and I’m breathing more shallow than normal.
I
shift awkwardly in the hard, wooden chair as heat rises into my cheeks, and I’m
mortified that I can’t tear my gaze away from his.
His eyes narrow and his brows furrow, making
his eyes appear darker than normal. They remind me of a stormy sea instead of
the tranquil Caribbean Ocean.
My heart beats furiously as his eyes roam
over my hair. I fight not to run a hand through it and hope it’s all in place… because
it usually isn’t. I curse under my breath when his gaze drops lower to my
mouth. I lick my lips before slamming my jaw shut, narrowly missing my tongue.
His inspection of me is slow, thorough. Down my neck and then lower.
I’m glad I tossed on a V-neck cashmere
sweater this morning and not an old sweatshirt. Never in my wildest fantasies
did I think he would notice me.
Never.
His eyes roam smoothly to my cleavage and
pause again. One second, two seconds, three seconds. Blood rushes to my head,
and I squirm. Heat pools at my core making me wiggle in my seat.
God, just his gaze makes me want to come. My
pussy throbs and I have an urge to touch myself.
All of those fantasies.
If he only knew.
He’d probably laugh and think I’m silly.
That he’s way out of my league. He would never be with someone like me.
But I want him to touch me. I want his
fingers to rake through my hair, rip my head back. I want to feel his lips, his
teeth, along the strong pulse in my neck. I want him to brush his thumbs over
my hardened nipples.
I find myself light-headed and realize I
stopped breathing. I’m waiting. Paused for him to make his move. To grab my
hand, pull me out the door, to his house, his car, his office, where he could
fuck me thoroughly and hard until he makes me explode into a million pieces.
I want to climb on his lap and spear myself
on his cock, riding him hard until I’m slick, sweating, and clinging to his
skin with my fingernails. I want to feel his teeth along the sensitive curves
of my breasts.
I want.
I want.
I want him to
touch me.
I need him to
touch me.
I need his
fingers, his hard cock, inside me.
And I’m as
impatient as him.
I need it
now.
I want him
now.
Now!
I
scream silently. A voice I don’t recognize as mine yells, “Touch me, damn it!
Touch me!”
Then
I realize all customers’ eyes are on me. Those words, that demand, were not
contained in my head.
No.
I shouted
it out loud. The rawness in my throat unequivocal proof.
My
chair squeals as I shove it back and it falls to a clatter behind me. I grab my
laptop, slamming the lid down. I tuck it under my arm and rush out of the
coffee shop.
I
leave my dignity behind, just like my chai latte.
My
cheeks remain hot, my heart pounds, my stomach rolls. I’m about to evacuate the contents of my stomach.
I
push through the front door and suck in fresh air, willing myself to breathe.
In through the nostrils, out through the mouth. Slow, steady. Keeping the
rhythm until my nausea subsides.
My
back faces the store front, and cars with occupants, who are clueless to my
recent life-changing outburst, whiz by. They
don’t know how crazy I sounded shouting to a man, a stranger, in the coffee
shop behind me.
But
I know.
And
he knows.
I
need to get away before the door opens, the bell rings, and he steps out onto
the sidewalk. One we would have to share.
Because
right now, the thought of sharing anything with him is too much.
I
force my feet to move, my legs to function. I move forward blindly. Step by
step.
Then
a car horn blares, scaring me out of my stupor. And my whole body becomes a
rag-doll.
JEANNE ST. JAMES is an erotic
romance author who loves an Alpha male (or two). She was only 13 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 here.
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