The Obsessed Novella Series

Chapter Two-1

CHAPTER TWO

Strong, long fingers firmly grip my upper arm, forcing me back onto the curb. My neck whips back and forth like a furiously shaken bobble head. A rush of adrenaline causes my stomach to flip, and my heart to skip a beat.

“Careful!” His voice sounds low, smooth, like warm honey. But it’s firm, like a man who takes charge.

I haven’t turned around yet.

Not yet.

I can’t face him. Though he invades my personal space. “Are you okay?”

I can feel him inspecting me to make sure I’m whole.

When I don’t respond, he continues, “Look. Can I buy you a coffee? I noticed you left yours behind.”

Another reminder of my major malfunction.

I can’t answer him, so I simply nod. I quickly gather my wits and tilt my head to the shop behind us and finally find my voice. “Not in there.”

I’m so humiliated, I doubt I’ll ever return to my favorite morning spot.

“No. Not in there,” he agrees, and then chuckles.

His laugh resonates low and deep like his voice and sends shivers down my spine. I don’t doubt his voice alone could melt me into a puddle at his feet. The amused sounds escaping him affect me more than I could ever realize.

And who knew he could even c***k a smile, let alone laugh.

Strangely, I haven’t faced him yet. I seem frozen in place. “Thank you for stopping me...” I hesitate, and he answers my unsaid inquiry.

“Kane.”

My whole being knows his name. I hear it every morning when the barista yells it out. I nod and slowly turn around, dislodging his grasp on my arm.

“Kane.” It rolls off my tongue as I repeat it. I realize I’ve never said his name out loud before. Even after all the weeks I’ve studied him while he waits for his black coffee. The name fits him.

He looks at me, a question in his eyes. But he doesn’t ask.

“Lila,” I offer. A delicate name for someone who’s not.

“Nice to meet you, Lila.”

My name on his lips sounds like he’s sucking on a caramel. Sweet, sticky. It makes my toes curl, and my fingers clench.

“So, coffee?”

“Yes.”

“I know the perfect spot.”

I do, too... His bed.

I shake my head, squeezing my eyes shut, trying to knock my debauched thoughts from my mind.

“Are you sure you’re all right?” This man who’s never shown a smidgeon of emotion in all the minutes I have watched him, suddenly shows concern for a stranger?

And it hits me then. Kane with a K is a stranger as well. I shouldn’t be going anywhere with him, should I?

He clears his throat as I stare up at him. “If you don’t want to go…”

Of course, I will go with him. Because there’s no other place I’d rather be than with Kane with a K.

If he ends up being some crazed serial killer, then hopefully I learn from my mistake. I snort out loud.

His eyebrows rise, and he stares deep into my soul.

“L-l-let’s go,” I finally stutter and then curse myself silently.

His brow smooths out and the creases at the corners of his amazing eyes crinkle. If I didn’t know better, I’d think it’s sort of a smile. Or a look of satisfaction.

He takes my elbow and walks me three cars down, pausing in front of a Mercedes sedan parked at the curb that’s all blacked out. The paint, the windows, the wheels. It’s bad a*s. And looks super expensive.

He pulls the key fob out of his pocket and opens the door for me like a perfect gentleman. I guess I shouldn’t expect anything less from him. I slide into the dark gray leather passenger seat and before I can say “boo,” he shuts the door. The silence in the car during the time it takes him to make his way around to the driver’s side makes me feel like I’m in some sort of luxurious, air-tight cocoon. I stop stroking the soft leather seat when he opens the driver’s door.

Hell, I can’t even afford a car. Ever since I quit my job to write full-time, I must make good use out of my two feet, and take advantage of public transportation.

But I’m happier, mostly. The downside is I’ve been lonely recently, since writing can be an isolated profession.

I sneak a glance at the man driving the car; he’s probably never lonely. Instead, he most likely enjoys his alone time.

I look out of the windshield to see the direction he’s heading through the city. As the street signs flash past, I realize he’s heading west. To a better part of town.

No surprise.

“So, who were you shouting to back there?”

He doesn’t know. Or maybe he’s being polite and pretending not to know. Either way…

“I’m a writer. My characters have conversations in my head all the time.”

He c***s an eyebrow but keeps his gaze on the road. It’s the morning rush hour, and the streets are busy.

“I usually keep it under control, though,” I assure him.

A smile creeps across his face. He gives me a quick sideways glance that says he doesn’t believe me.

So, he knows.

Heat crawls back into my face, and I try to change the subject. “Where are we going?”

“It won’t be long now.”

Not an answer, but I turn to gaze out of the passenger side window. The businesses have turned into residences. Some large and stately, some smaller and well-maintained. The streets are tree-lined and litter-free. More upscale than where my apartment is. Just a bit.

“Don’t you have to be somewhere?” I ask him. He's most likely never late to work.

“I do.”

“And where is that?” I study his profile.

Since the traffic is lighter here in the residential part of the city, he turns his head to look at me.

No. It’s not a look; it’s a raking of his eyes over my face. I keep my expression blank; I don’t want to let him know how he affects me.

But he does. My n*****s pebble under his gaze and I squeeze my thighs together as the ache between them builds.

I fear he can make me come with only a look.

He returns his attention forward, and within a few seconds, he’s pulling the large Mercedes into a driveway and then into a three-car garage. As the overhead garage door shuts behind us, I’m not sure what I should do. I’m now in a stranger’s car, in a stranger’s garage, at a stranger’s house. And no one… no one knows where am I.

Smart move, Lila. You may end up being eaten with fava beans, or your skin may be worn as a coat. But, hey, he’s hot, right?

“I… Uh...”

He doesn’t wait for me to stumble through my concern. Instead, he gets out of the car and comes around to my side, opening the door and offering me his hand.

See? He’s a complete gentleman. What serial killer has such good manners?

Fuck. Probably most of them.

My fingers squeeze tighter around the laptop I’m holding against me as I stare at his outstretched hand.

His fingers appear long, dark, and neatly manicured. Perfect to strangle me with. Why did I ever think it was a good idea to go with him to get coffee?

“Let me help you out, Lila. Take my hand.” A demand.

Well, when he puts it like that… Okay.

I release one cramped hand from my computer and let him take it to help me climb out of the car. As he closes the passenger side door behind me, I turn and see two more vehicles in the garage. One looks like an old muscle car from the sixties. And the other isn’t a car at all. The motorcycle, all blacked out like the Benz, looks fast and the emblem on the side belongs to BMW.

This man likes speed. Precision. Luxury.

Everything I’m not.

I’m a struggling author doing my best to make ends meet, having a hard time even paying my rent. I can’t afford manicures, expensive clothes, regular hair appointments… or even a 1988 Ford Escort.

But I am a determined woman. And I have always been willing to work hard.

As he escorts me through a door into what I can only assume is his house, I feel determined not to be a murder victim today.

The hand that envelopes mine is warm, smooth, and very large, dwarfing mine. Now that I’m next to him, I realize how tall he actually is. In contrast, I’m not very tall at all. Only three inches over five feet. He must be a foot taller than me. Maybe not a whole foot, but it’s close. Maybe six-one or six-two.

I glance down as we walk. His dress shoes shine, his pants are the perfect length. This man does not buy a suit from a rack. No, sir.

We travel down a long, tiled hallway and end up in a large, open kitchen. More tile, muted colors, perfectly clean.

And what do you know? A coffee maker sits on the counter in a corner under a cabinet. I get a sudden urge to run a finger over it to check for dust. I don’t because he releases me and puts a hand along the small of my back.

The sweater I’m wearing is thin, and I can feel the heat of his palm on my skin. I try not to shiver since my n*****s are hard enough as it is.

He guides me over to a stool at the center island and instructs me to “have a seat.”

I do, and watch him shed his suit jacket. It’s like watching p**n as he slips it over his broad shoulders and down his arms. I can’t pull my eyes away as he carefully folds it in half and lays it over a chair at the kitchen table.

“I guess you live here.”

He runs a hand over his discarded jacket before turning, a crooked smile on his face. “No, I have no idea who lives here. I figured we could just borrow their coffee maker.”

Oh, he has a sense of humor. I like it.

I like him.

From seeing him at the coffee shop, I never would have thought the guy had a personality at all. “You’re a pretty good burglar then, since you memorized their alarm code.”

“I don’t forget things.”

Strange comment. But, okay…

“Like you.”

My eyes lock on his. His amazing blue eyes are such an odd color for his skin tone. “What does that mean?”

He ignores my question and moves around the kitchen pulling a bag of coffee out of the freezer. While he sets up the coffee maker, his back is to me and he asks, “Are you hungry? Do you want something to eat with your coffee?”

“Do you cook?”

“Only enough not to starve. What would you like?”

I shake my head but realize he’s not looking at me. “Nothing. I’m not hungry, but thank you.”

He glances over his shoulder at me. “Are you sure?”

“Yes, thank you.” I’m not hungry, but I am curious. “Why do you stop at the shop every day if you have a coffee maker?”

He pushes the power button on the top-of-the-line appliance and turns to face me, leaning back against the counter. His eyes rake over me again, making me want to shudder under his gaze. “Because of you.”

I frown because I still don’t understand how him stopping for coffee every day has anything to do with me. “What about me?”

He pushes himself away from the counter and approaches. I’m watching him like he’s a lion stalking his prey. This time I can’t stop the shiver that trickles down my spine.

He leans forward, and I hold my breath thinking he will grab me, but instead he reaches around to grasp the back of the stool and spins it to face him. When he steps closer, my legs end up trapped between his.

He stares down at me with those eyes of his, and I can't release his gaze. I'm stuck. Frozen. Like a deer in headlights unable to avoid the oncoming car.

“Lila. I go in there every day to see you.”

He’s lying. He must be. Not once has he looked my way in all the days he’s come in since I’ve noticed him. He must be making this up as he goes.

“I don’t believe you,” I whisper.

My gaze locks on his beautifully shaped lips as he says, “It’s true.”

I run a tongue over my own lips because suddenly I’m parched. The movement doesn’t escape him, and he stares at my mouth.

“One day I was running late, and I figured I would just pop in there to grab my coffee, and I noticed you sitting in the corner, hiding behind your laptop. You had color in your cheeks, and your eyes had a soft, unfocused look. Your bottom lip was tucked between your teeth. You looked so sexy at that moment. I knew then I had to see you again.”