Page 3 of Hunted Obsession
Turning, I look over my shoulder at her. She’s standing in the hallway, her head inclined slightly, a pouty look on her lips, her eyes round and focused on mine. She doesn’t speak, her gaze searching mine as she waits for me to come to her.
“I’ll be in the office first thing. We’ll get everyone together to discuss this,” I grind out.
“I’ll make the calls.”
Ending the call, I shove my phone back in my pocket. I no longer have the urge to continue the night with Emmie. But after fucking her mouth the way I did, I can’t just walk away from her, either, or she’ll be bitchy about it. And I’m not in the mood to be bitched out in any capacity.
“Was that work?” she asks.
I hum, turning to face her completely. I don’t confirm or deny that it was work. It’s not her business. Being with her doesn’t have anything to do with my job, and it doesn’t need to. This is so far separated from my job it’s not even funny.
The fact that she even was part of the deal with the nightclub was far too fucking close for comfort. I have no desire to mix the two.
“It’s nothing,” I say.
She pokes her bottom lip out, attempting to look disappointed. I’m sure she is to a point, but I also don’t think she gives much of a fuck, either. This is nothing but a manipulation tactic. I think most of her disappointment is about the fact that my attention isn’t on her for the moment.
“Well, come to bed, baby,” she purrs. “You can work later.”
Shoving my hand in my pocket, I grip my phone, then release it and make my way toward her. As much as I want to tell her that I’m leaving, that I’m not in the place to finish the night out, I decide that instead of trying to find an excuse to leave or tell her anything, I’m going to have to see the night through.
I’m going to do what I always do.
I’m going to shove everything down, lock it into a compartment, and then pretend I’m fine.
That is what I do.
Turning toward the hall, I follow behind Emmie, who is stripping off a piece of clothing and throwing it on the floor as she moves into the room. By the time I reach the bedroom, she’s completely naked and in the center of the bed. Her knees sink into the pink bedding beneath her, and all I can see is her smooth back facing me.
Taking my clothes off completely, I close my eyes as I wrap my hand around my cock and gently stroke myself. When I open my eyes, I stare at the curve of her back before closing them again.
But the moment my eyes close, all I can do is imagine another’s back. A different ass. Another woman. I should not be thinking ofher. That ship sailed a long time ago.
But I don’t think I will ever forget her, or the way she looked, and especially not the way she felt. It’s been a decade, but I don’t know if I’ll ever get this woman out of my mind.
She’s seared into my brain, or maybe she’s like a parasite that has invaded me and is feeding off of me.
Either way, Lucille Sanders is part of my DNA.
She always will be.
LUCILLE
Emmie Grant.
Twenty-four years old.
She’s younger than me by two years.Bitch.
It didn’t take me long to figure out her name. All I had to do was follow her around for a day and find out where she worked. An art gallery. But now that I have it, I have to search for anything and everything that I can about her.
It’s not a want.
The desired information is a need.
I simply need to know everything I possibly can about her. There is no way I can even sleep without figuring out every minute detail about her. I want to know what she eats, where and how she exercises. I need to know who does her hair, where she gets her nails manicured—everything.
Emmie Grant was born and raised in Nights. She went to the same high school as me, too. Except, I don’t remember her or anyone with that name. She would have been a freshman when I was a junior. How could I have gone to school with her for two years and not remember at least her name?