How long would it take to break her?
He pondered the question as he shadowed her down the street. The press of the crowd shielded him, but she’s like a beacon he can track with his eyes closed. Her dark hair pulled back in a low bun, the different shades of brown glinting in the sunlight. Her bronzed skin that looked so soft it begged to be touched. Her body a temple of curves that would mould to him.
She stopped to buy a paper at a corner stand, her fingers dancing over the roses sitting in bunches. It’s like he can feel that delicate caress on his skin, trailing like fire from his neck to his toes.
He saw the extra long caress of the cashier as they exchange money and he growled low. She was his and only he deserved to touch her.
The need for her consumed hm. One glance, one chance encounter at a coffee shop and he wanted her with a ferocity that scared him. That fueled the demon inside of him.
He remembered her smell, caramel and vanilla, as he bumped in to her that day. The smile on her face as she accepted his apology was sweetness, rousing both his cock and the heart he thought incapable of emotion. Her voice called to him and the need to know her possessed him.
He had to have her.
Following her had been too easy. When she was his, he’d teach her how to watch for predators. Like him. He snickered at his thought as he sidestepped a woman pushing a pram. He’d teach her a host of other things, too. How to pose and please him. How to come on command with his name on her lips.
God, to hear her say his name as she spasmed around him. He would know the sound just as he’d know her taste.
And he’d have her easy. He’d learned the right way to catch people. He knew how to get what he wanted and shape the product so it pleased. She was as good as his even now.
He watched as she sipped her s’more frappe, oblivious. Not much longer. He promised himself he’d have her, taste her, fuck her.