Sick Bastard (9 page)

The hand that was gripping my hair is now starting to wander down my neck to my shoulder. One calloused finger finds its way to the hem of my V-neck shirt and begins tracing the curves of my breasts along the fabric, setting my skin on fire. Lord, help me. I’m ready to fuck him right here.

I lose myself in his touch and let my body sag into his as he supports me. His smell, his lips touching mine, set me on a downward spiral. I can feel his rock hard dick pressed firmly against my stomach and I want to drop to my knees.

“Do you like when I touch you?” I can feel his lips form the words. Yes. I want his hands and mouth all over me, but I can’t form the words. I’m too caught up to speak.

With another hard slam, my back hits the shelf and it sways. A book clatters to the ground, landing by my foot and brings me back from my fantasy. I just let this man slam me into a fucking bookshelf,
twice
. “I asked you a question. Do you, London?”

“I like it, but I sure the fuck don’t like you.” Dante’s lip curls into a mean sneer.

“What I wouldn’t give to shove my dick down your throat to shut you the fuck up.” My body throbs with each word.

“Try it.” I challenge him.

The sick part of this whole situation is that I want it. I’m itching to smack him and let him fuck me hard right up against this shelf. This is so wrong. “Oh London, the things I want to do to you should be illegal.”

“The thing I want you to do to me is let me go, you fuck-wit.” I shove into him but it’s pointless. He’s all solid, unmovable muscle. The more I push the more his eyes darken. The more I fight the bigger his smile grows. His hand moves in a flash tangling in my hair again. Ripping my head back, he looks down at me with eyes that are wild and unfocused, and I love it. He looks wild for
me
.

“Do you really want me to let go, or do you want me to me to fuck you senseless? By the time I’m done, you’ll still be begging me for more, and I guarantee that you will beg.”

“Fuck you.”

His lips crash down on mine and he bites down on my bottom lip, hard. I try to pull away but it hurts to move.

My lip drags though his teeth when I move, then he starts to kiss me like he can’t control himself. It’s forceful and rough, making me think of all the ways he would fuck me, and what he could really do with his mouth. His hands are everywhere, and mine are running through his messy hair, making it worse.

He fucking thrills me as he licks me, tastes me, and touches me. My lips feel abused in the best possible way until he stops. Keeping his lips on mine, he whispers, “That’s one way to shut you the fuck up.”

“You sorry son of a bitch. Get off of me.” Taking a step back, his chest heaves and his step falters. Looking at his hands, I see them shaking at his sides. He’s terrifying, but here I am, trying to be a hard ass and wanting, needing more of him. I feel sick and wrong about it, but I want him so bad. I’ve got to get away right now. I’m shaking more than he is and I don’t want him to see it. “I have―I’ve got class.” I sputter, scrubbing at my face. Throwing a hand out, he smirks, “Then you better go, London.”

“You’re so right.” I tell him. His smirk turns into a full-blown smile. He seems perfectly fine now, but I feel fucked up and thrown off kilter. I’m so unbelievably wet for him. “Yeah, I have class and you’ve made me late.” I tell him. Like he really gives a shit.

Jesus Christ. Straightening his tie, he looks up and smirks again. “Then what are you waiting for? You don’t want to be late, beautiful.” Giving me one last appraising stare, he smiles, turns on his heels and leaves me leaning against the bookshelf for support. I’m left feeling used, abused, and wanting a whole lot more.

Dante

I'm stalking right now. On this lovely Friday, I’m creeping and watching―I’m waiting. I spent all goddamn night searching and researching
her
at my computer. I haven’t gotten shit done at work this week because I’ve spent time I didn’t have stalking and researching
her
.

I’m crazy, but I just don’t fucking care anymore. I want to fuck London right out of my head, and I intend to do just that.

I stalk the college’s campus like a serial killer. I’ve got a plan all worked out. Every head full of long, brown hair sets my heart racing. I’ve followed at least four different women, thinking they were London. I’m assuming they’re all filing police reports as I speak of a stalker, but none are my London. I’ve lost all my edge with this woman. Seeing her gets me all fucking worked up. It’s a strange thing for me. My composure is something I need. It’s something I value, but with her, I have none.

I’ve learned a lot more about her while on my hunt. The Internet is full of useful information once you really learn to use it properly. Fuck, the internet is the most amazing fucking thing I’ve ever seen, next to London, but it’s pretty high up there. The things you can find on it are staggering. I’m in the wrong fucking business. Maybe I’ll fire some people and just research my own shit when I need to, but I digress. Miss London DeLacourt is close to graduating, earning a diploma for her second business degree, focusing on the law aspect of business. She received her bachelors, her MBA, and now a Law degree. There's no surprise in her academic accomplishments. She's a smart girl, and she’d be really smart to stay away from me, but me being me, that shit won’t happen.

Today I learned a lot about this woman, but this past week has been a wealth of information. One solid week of insanity provided me with information about her daily patterns and interactions, but I was only trying to cure this unbearable need that I’m not sure what to do with. I had told myself I was just watching her out of curiosity, but who the hell am I kidding. This was never business once I saw her for the first time. It’s now completely personal. This is also a huge for me. I’m seeing that if I don’t keep my eyes on what needs to be done, she could become a threat to me and mine, something I didn’t believe until I dug more into her life. She has the skill and background to run her grandfather’s business with her hands tied behind her back. It’s a problem, but until that day comes that I see it, I’ll continue on with my obsession.

Monday I followed her to a bookstore. I watched her browse every shelf, but not one single section stood out. She browsed them all with a content smile on her face. She bought six books before leaving and I tailed her until she slipped inside her building. What did I learn about her on Monday? She enjoys literature.

Tuesday I watched her outside of her building. I stood on the other side of the road like a fucking moron. Leaning against a building, I kept vigil. I watched her stand on the sidewalk and talk to her doorman for twenty minutes. He showed her his phone and her eyes lit up with happiness when he showed her whatever it was he was showing off. She smiled and laughed with him, chatting like old friends until her car pulled up. What did I learn about her on Tuesday? She’s a people person.

Wednesday I followed her to a school, then the grocery store. I got nothing but a few moments of her getting in and out of her car, but it was enough. It was enough to feed my need to see her. What did I learn on Wednesday? I learned that
I
need to get a hobby and a life.

Thursday I watched Matt and London go to a yoga class together. Later that evening, I hid in a dark corner of a noisy restaurant, watching her and Matt from a distance as they talked and laughed together. They spent two carefree hours there before I followed them to a smaller bar, but I couldn’t stay. I was pulled away due to business. That night was another lesson for me in self-control as I watched every man in the place stare and send her drinks. But despite that, what did I learn on Thursday? London looks fucking hot in tight yoga pants, where Matt does not. Good God.

I’m well aware that this behavior isn’t normal, but I’ve never really functioned on a “normal” level. Normal is too mundane, too plain, and too boring for someone like myself. I function on a level of extremes, always going above and beyond what’s needed. The ultimate life lesson learned from this week? I need some serious fucking counseling.

~~~~~~

It’s Friday, and after my jaunt around the college campus, I’m now being dragged around the rest of the campus by Ms. Jones, which is another extreme gone too far just to see the woman who hates me. I had to have an excuse to wander around campus, and a large donation gave me just the excuse I needed. Ms. Jones strikes me as a lonely and desperate woman as I watch her shamelessly do shit like leaning over in front of me at every available opportunity, bending over for unimportant items. She even had a problem with the heat that required the opening of a few buttons on her blouse. Hell, she’s one step away from palming my dick through my pants, but I’ve got nothing for her. My interest is elsewhere.

I’ve made it through various departments; Science, English, Math, and all with a fucking smile on my face. I went through it all, just for one chance run-in, yet there’s nothing about this meeting that’s chance. It’s all been orchestrated on my part, doing what I have to do to get what I want. I’m not above extremely ridiculous tactics to get it, either.

We’re on to the library now and I’ll be damned, I can feel her here. My heart’s in my goddamn throat at the thought of seeing her. I feel like a prepubescent boy on his first date. I hate it.

My world stops when I round that corner. The only thing I can see is London. Her head is down and in a book, long silky hair falling all around her. Sitting in the dim light of the library, she looks like a fucking angel. It’s not right that she looks even more beautiful without a stitch of war paint on. She’s fucking breath stealing, body heating, and heart breaking. Nothing about this woman is right, but everything about her is perfect.

~~~~~~

I lost all control in there when she started spewing out those dirty fucking words I love to hate. Such beautiful lips attached to an angelic face shouldn’t say such nasty words, but it gets my dick so goddamn hard when I think of her saying them in my bed, just for me. I can’t help but push her for more. I seem to have a thing for shoving her against shit. It gets my dick closer to her. She loved it then and she loved it today. I call that shit a win for me.

I could smell it, feel it in the way she pushed back. She wanted it just as bad, if not more, than I did. I had to apply every calming technique I’ve ever learned to keep myself from pushing to far; biting my cheek, counting, flexing my fists, picturing something I hate, but I wanted her so bad that nothing seemed to be working. I pushed hard and I loved the flash of fear in her eyes. It makes me sick to push her this way, but I love that moment of uncertainty in her; The newness, the wrongness, and the wildness of how it makes her feel. She wants it, but I almost went too far. I’m trying to break her, not fucking ruin her, at least not yet, anyway.

London

Go to my last class? I’d never be able to manage class right now. I need a cold shower, a shot of something strong, and a new pair of panties. There’s no chance in hell I could sit through a class after all that.

It was wrong and filthy, and so fucking good. I was willing to take whatever he wanted to give me. I didn’t want him to stop and I hate myself for it. If I’m not careful, I’ll let him fuck me in the middle of Times Square.

After today, I realize that there’s nothing surprising about our run-ins. They’re planned and intentional, but the question is why? What the hell does he expect to accomplish by stalking me all over the city.

If he truly just wants to talk or see me, or whatever it is he wants, all he has to do is ask like any normal person would. I’m not unreasonable. Sure, he was a crazy asshole when we met, but it could’ve been a bad day, or days, for him. Everyone’s entitled to those every now and then. We tend to take them out on others and I get that. All he had to do was say that without making it such a big deal to apologize, even knowing he didn’t sincerely want to. I would have graciously accepted and moved right on along. All this nonsense and crazy is over the top and too goddamn much, but try telling my body that.

~~~~~~

Walking through the door, I find Matt at the table working on his computer. “What's wrong, doll face?” He asks, sounding worried. All the way home I played the encounter over and over in my head, only making it worse. It got hotter. It got crazier. Thinking of him slamming me against the shelf and taking absolute control of my body sends shivers everywhere. It’s getting harder to be a bitch when I want him to fuck me so bad. I’m afraid I may just hunt him down and do exactly what he wants―beg.

“He's fucking winning,” I whine at Matt, slumping into a chair at the table. I hate to whine, but that's how I feel right now.

His brows knit together in confusion. “What the hell are you talking about? Who won and what did … Ah!” He starts to put it all together and a slow smile creeps across his face.

“I knew that would happen. You’re a sucker for a sexy man in well tailored suit.”

“Expertly tailored,” I correct him. There’s nothing
well
about the man. Perfect, exquisite, impeccable, and immaculate are how I would describe him. But let’s not forget the most important descriptions; deranged, crazy, and not in control of himself. He’s all those, but definitely not
well
.

“Just fuck him already. What’s it gonna hurt?” I’m about to point out the millions of reasons why it would hurt when there’s a knock on the door. Did he stalk me home again? Shit. “I’ll get it. You look all flustered and shit,” he waves a hand at me and wrinkles up his nose, “let’s also add sad and pathetic.” That’s nice. I watch him disappear around the corner and slump further into my seat.

“Oh damn,” Matt drawls, hustling around the corner. A big vase of flowers are blocking out his face. My heart skips a beat on its trip to my feet because I know they’re from Dante. There are so many beautiful flowers overflowing a gorgeous crystal vase. They’re probably meant to thank me for letting him slam me against a shelf and feel me up ... again.
I’m such a slut!

“They’re beautiful,” Matt says as he sets them on the table. And they are. It’s a huge arrangement of orange lilies, and they’re the most stunning flowers I've ever seen.

“There's a card.” He taunts me, waving it in front of my face.

I snatch it away, “You’re a child.”

“And you’re a bitch. We’ve covered this, now open the damn card.” I'm a nervous wreck over a card. Taking a deep breath, I rip it open and read the five small words printed on it,

I don’t give up… Ever.

D

He doesn’t give up? Ever? That’s scary, but my subconscious screams, “Bitch, you don’t want him to. You want him to toss you around a bit and then fuck you.”

“Those kinda look like a ‘thanks for the fuck’ flowers.” Matt says knowingly.

“You’d know.” I fire back.

“Eh, not gonna argue that. I fuck them so good they want to send me flowers. It’s a gift, really.”

“Shut up.”

“Those really are pretty, though.” He says a little more seriously.

“Beautiful,” I counter.

“They had to cost a fortune. And didn’t you just see him no more then two hours ago?”

“Yeah, so?” I don’t see what that matters.

“Babe, it’s only been a few hours and he had flowers delivered to you. It’s rush hour in New York. He had flowers
delivered …
during
rush hour…
in
New York City
, and that florist is like forty minutes away on the other side of the city.” He points to the card.

“Damn.” I’m not sure what to say to that, let alone think. I let him grope me and he sends flowers? I wonder if I should be happy that I didn’t have to fuck him to get them or embarrassed at what I did do to get them.

“So what are you going to do?” That’s a good question.

“Send him a thank you card?”

“Where to? Do you know where he lives?” Matt asks all snarky.

“Send an email?”

“That’s impersonal, and not to mention, rude.” Matt purses his lips. Dante did send flowers that had to cost a small fortune. I guess I should tell him thank you.

‘Stupid, stupid girl,’
the sensible part of my brain screams. I wanna see him again, even though I know I shouldn’t. “I probably should say thank you,” I mutter, more to myself than to Matt. Sometimes stupid wins.

“In person,” Matt adds.

“In person?” I grumble.

“Yes. What’s it gonna hurt?” That’s a loaded question.

~~~~~~

Google has a few photos, all taken from a distance and he’s always alone. I find information about his job. Apparently he deals in Mergers & Acquisitions, and he looks to be extremely successful. I find an address to a building connected to his name, but that’s it on any type of personal information. I find it strange, but maybe I just need to be a better sleuth. I do know that he has no police record, no divorce decree, and he’s not on any social media sites. I’m not sure if that’s a positive or negative thing because really, doesn’t everyone deal with some form of social media today? I’ll just have to do some more digging later, but right now, I’ve got a thank you to deliver before I chicken out.

I drag Matt along for the ride since it’s his idea. We get into the waiting town car and head out before I can change my mind.

The car rolls to a stop in front of a tall building in the middle of the city. Peeking out the window, I let my gaze drift up the forty plus stories of the massive building looming over me like a dark cloud. It’s beautifully constructed with its tinted, mirrored glass shining in the late afternoon sun. I've walked past this place a time or two, and now I’ll never walk by this place the same way again. On a daily basis, it houses a crazy person. It’ll be forever changed to me.

“Let’s go.” I try to tug Matt out of the car, but he waves me off.

“No, I’ll wait here.” He’s gonna make me do this alone?

“This was your bright idea,” I point out.

“And I got you here. You go in there and tell him “Thank You,” and then come back down. I’ll be here.” He pats the seat next to him.

“Gee, thanks, asshole.”

“Have you seen the doorman? He’s a slice so I’ll be here.” He’s ditching me for dick.

“Yeah, yeah.”

The inside is just like the outside; big, imposing, and sleek. The interior is all glass, concrete, and stone as far as the eye can see. It’s massive. I couldn’t picture anything different for this guy.

The lobby is as impressive as the building, all very modern and sleek. I don’t stand around taking it all in long, though. I have something to do before I bitch out.

A long, dark, cherry wood and granite desk meet me in the middle of the space. I walk up to the first available person I see. “Good afternoon. I was wondering if a Mr. Marx works here and if so, could I possibly see him for a moment?” I slap on my most charming smile.

“Mr. Marx?” The man repeats, eyeing me.

“Yes, Mr. Dante Marx.” I confirm as uncertainty settles in my stomach. Maybe I’m not dressed appropriately enough to be here?

“Yes, of course. Do you have an appointment?” I knew that was coming.

“I don't. I was hoping to surprise him if he’s not busy. I know he loves surprises. Maybe you could call up?” I don’t know if he likes surprises. Part of me hopes that he doesn’t because it’ll be fun to see that handsome face shocked as hell.

I lay it on thick, giving him my biggest, sweetest smile. “I could probably do that.” I almost sag in relief.

“I'd really appreciate it.”

“What is your name?” The old clerk asks. I throw it out there before I change my mind.

“London DeLacourt.”

There’s no going back. Even if I run away now, he’ll know I came and come looking for me instead. At least this way, it’s on my terms. The clerk picks up the phone and calls up.

“Afternoon, Miss Betty. I have a Miss London DeLacourt here for Mr. Marx … Oh, yes, of course.” He waits for a few moments, then nods and hangs up the phone.

“He'll see you right away,” the kind old clerk tells me, handing over a key card. Turning it over, I stare at the plain white piece of plastic. “Go to the elevator bank and use number one. Swipe the card and you can head right up.”

“Thank you.”

Standing in front of the elevators, my heart starts to race and my palms sweat. Am I really going to do this? Now I’m stalking my stalker. God, we’re both disturbed. I may be here under the guise of thanking him for the flowers but in reality, I just want to see him again. Maybe I’m starting to understand his way of thinking, and that scares the shit out of me. ‘
I can do this
’ I chant. Swiping the key card, I press the call button and wait.

The elevator dings its arrival and the doors slide open. Stepping in, I look around the small box, taking it all in. It’s elegant and opulent. A small sign above the one and only number says,
PRIVATE / PENTHOUSE.
Of course he has a private elevator to the penthouse. I should expect nothing less from this man, so I lean back and wait.

Finally the doors slide open, into an open hallway. One side of the hall is nothing but glass and overlooks the city. The other side is polished concrete, and at the end of the hall is one door. Jesus Christ, what is this place? It's all very clean and sterile. My stomach does small twists and turns as my boots clomp ungracefully down the long hall. I sound like a troop of marching soldiers. How very ladylike, I think to myself.

I walk to the large door at the end of the hall. Standing in front of it, I wonder if I should knock. I decide knocking would be my best bet. It’s the polite thing to do, anyway. I knock quietly and listen, but I get nothing in return, so I decide I’ll just go in.

Pushing the large doors open to the wide reception area, I see it's massive and beautiful, just like the first floor area of the building, but this one has a large desk in the middle with a not so friendly looking woman behind it. I take a few steps into the space and start to feel queasy. The woman behind the desk looks up at me, her eyes boring holes into me and she looks like she’d rather slap me than help me.

“Hello. I'm here to see Mr. Marx.” I say to the less than friendly receptionist. The more I speak, the pissier she looks.

Sighing loudly, she says, “Yes, I know. Mr. Marx is a very busy man and he never takes
walk-ins
. He's not happy about rearranging his schedule, but he'll see you. I suggest you make it quick.” She snaps at me. Alright, so he works in a beautiful building and has a bitchy-ass receptionist. Two things I now know about him.

“Thank you, but―” I start to say when an older woman comes around the corner, waving a hand at me.

She must be about sixty with short white hair and petite wireframe glasses. She looks grandmotherly, with a sweet face and kind eyes. I instantly take a liking to her. Anything is better than the bitchy chick behind the desk. “Victoria, that's quite enough.” She scolds the younger woman. Victoria scowls at me, looking like I stole her Barbie. Someone needs some dick.

“He's expecting you and looking forward to your visit. Come this way.” The older woman places a hand on my back and escorts me through a set of doors at the end of the reception area. It opens to another small seating area with the same feel as the rest of the place.

“Just go right through that door. He’s waiting for you.” The woman smiles and waves her hands at the large, wooden double doors. Before I can thank her, she turns and leaves me there alone. Nooo! I can't go in there alone. Suddenly this doesn’t seem like such a good idea after all. Damn you, Matt.