My Husband, My Stalker

By: Jessa Kane


With Christopher, lovemaking is always intense. An emotional, full contact sport. But last night, there was something different. A desperation that still clings to my skin, as if he left it behind by accident. As satisfying as it was, it…jarred something inside of me. A wakefulness.

Feeling as if I’m waking up from a trance, I soap my body and rinse, going through the motions, even though there is something hot prodding me in the gut.

For some reason, my mind drifts to two days ago. When he came home and seemed to read my mind, playing his role as if he’d been anticipating it. Like he knew what was going to happen the moment he walked through the door. Knew what I needed.

I think of how he avoids any conversation about his past. Heck, his present.

I don’t even know where his job is located.

My heart is beginning to beat faster. I replay the last month in my head. It has been blissfully happy. I’ve made progress personally, separate from Christopher, and he’s been there rooting for me, pushing me. At home, we’ve been locked in a constant state of lust, but our conversations are always about me. Or they’re funny and lighthearted.

Or they’re vague.

Like wisps of something deeper we never delve into.

Communicating without really getting into finer details.

This man I married is protective, funny, thoughtful, supportive, sweet.

He’s also primal, intense, mysterious and dominant.

There is a part of the picture of Christopher I’m not seeing, though, isn’t there?

Standing here in the shower, that seems so obvious, while before, I was distracted by a fog of desire and love and excitement. Part of me wants to step back into the fog and forget the pieces that are suddenly stark and coming together, but I can’t.

With a hard swallow, I climb out of the shower and go about my routine. I get dressed in a loose shift dress that brushes me mid-thigh and I blow dry my hair, applying a little makeup. When I walk into the kitchen, Christopher is standing at the counter dressed for work, a coffee mug to his lips. He turns to smile at me, just like he does every single morning, but this time I’m looking for something else—and I see it. Right after he spots me, just before he smiles, there’s a flash of something wild. Obsessive.

It sends a cascade of nerves down my spine, but…it also turns me on. Makes me short of breath, my thighs clenching together. If he backed me into the bedroom right now, I would go. He would make me moan and claw at his body and I could go about my day as if there isn’t anything wrong, but…I think there might be. And I can’t ignore that.

I’ve missed warning signs before and it got me kidnapped.

Terrorized for days.

I’m stronger and smarter now, though, aren’t I?

“Hey, angel eyes.” He says this so casually, as if he didn’t hold me like the world was ending in the wee hours of the morning. “Made your toast.”

Christopher turns and leans a hip on the counter, running his tongue along the seam of his lips, checking me out without shame. And God, the man is so gorgeous, he turns my mouth dry. His hair is slightly damp from his shower, full and dark, styled with fingers. Tattoos peek out at the edges of his white dress shirt. His smile is adoring and wolfish and male.

This man does not sell insurance.

That fact hits me in the face like a stack of overdue bills.

“Are there women in your office?”

I’m not sure why I ask this. Maybe because it’s a roundabout way into a conversation about his work life, which I’m sure…yes, I’m suddenly sure he’s lying about.

Oh God, my husband is lying to me. Why?

A chill crawls up my arms, making the hair stand on end.

Christopher rears back a little at the question, laughs. “Sure. Why are you asking?”

“You’re very attractive. Don’t they…show interest?”

His blue eyes sparkle with humor. “You can’t actually be jealous, Jolie.” When I say nothing, his humor winks out, replaces with visible panic. His coffee cup rattles when he sets it back down on the counter. “Did I do something to make you doubt me? Tell me what I did. I’ll never do it again.”

I shake my head, wanting to reassure him, despite my growing suspicions. “No, you didn’t do anything.”

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