Chapter 9: October 26 - Your Halloween Stalker

Good evening beautiful,

You bought a velvet dress today, and sweetheart, I had a whole fucking letter in my head before you put that dress on, and now most of it can go to hell. The dress was a dark rust color, almost brown in the shadows, with this deep burnt-orange glow whenever you moved beneath the lights, and you stood in that fitting area looking at yourself in the mirror with so much doubt. The saleswoman told you it looked incredible. You said, "It's a bit much." She said, "That's why it works." I nearly proposed to the woman on your behalf, and I almost thanked her for me because clearly I'm losing my fucking mind.

You turned sideways, pinched the fabric at your waist and kept scanning your reflection until you found three more places to criticize. You were doing that thing again, taking something beautiful and something you wanted and searching it for reasons you hadn't earned it. I wanted to walk right up to you, put my hands over yours and tell you to stop fucking picking yourself apart. You bought it anyway, which earned you the good girl you probably just rolled your eyes at, so keep reading. You bought a velvet mask too, softer and darker than the lace one, with your mouth left uncovered. Then you tested a wine-colored lipstick on the back of your hand and smiled at yourself before you could stop it.

I want more of that.

You deserve another truth tonight, and this one will probably wipe the smile away for a while. The man from August didn't stand you up. You remember him. The date who kept touching your knee after you shifted away, the one who made you feel vaguely wrong without doing anything obvious enough for you to trust the feeling. You agreed to dinner again because you worried you were being unfair.

You sat at the restaurant for thirty-six minutes. He never came, because he was already dead. I killed him before your reservation. There. That's the truth. And before you decide this was me losing my shit because some asshole got a second date with you, it wasn't that simple.

I knew what he said about you after the first one.

I heard him telling another man that you were the kind of woman who said no because you wanted somebody to keep trying. He laughed about the way you moved his hand off your knee and said you were "playing shy." He talked about getting you drunk enough that you'd stop being difficult. Said he already knew you wouldn't make a scene because you were too polite for that.

Then he got more specific.

He'd already decided dinner wasn't really the point of the second date. He planned to keep ordering drinks, take you back to his place and push until you stopped fighting him about it. He actually used the words, "She'll give in once she's there."

I could've warned you. I could've let you decide what to do with it, but I didn't.

Maybe he would've chickened out. Maybe something would've interrupted him. Maybe you would've realized what he was before he ever managed to get you alone.

I wasn't willing to gamble you on maybe.

So I killed him.

You're going to be angry that I took that choice from you. You should be. I'm not going to call murder romantic just because I did it for you.

I don't regret that he's gone. That's the ugly truth. You keep waiting for some tragic little story that explains me, and there isn't one. Some parts of me are fucked up. I know it and I still sleep fine. You're the first person who's ever made me stop and think, fuck, maybe I should care what this does to her. That wouldn't normally matter to me, but it does when it comes to you.

Anyway, before I get any more disgustingly honest, let's go back to the dress.

In my mind I picture you wearing it, we're standing in front of a mirror again. You've got the velvet mask on, and the lipstick too. You're wearing the dress because you wanted to wear it, and this time when you look at yourself you don't immediately start fucking with the fabric or turning sideways to see whether another angle makes your waist look smaller.

You just look at yourself, and at me behind you… standing so close you can feel me there. I unzip the dress slowly while you watch it happen in the mirror. Every time you try to look away, I tell you to look at yourself again.

I'd take my time with the zipper and watch the impatience build. The zipper would finally reach the bottom, and I'd slide my hands around your waist while you watched us in the mirror. And when you tried to look away, I'd stop you.

I'd kiss your shoulder and tell you, "Look at yourself, sweetheart."

But I also want you to see what happens to me when I touch you.

I want you to see my hands shaking a little because I've imagined putting them on you so many fucking times that actually getting permission would probably wreck me worse than anything I've invented in these letters.

Then I would push the dress slowly from your shoulders and watch the fabric move down your body in the mirror while your expression changes because you know I'm looking too.

And sweetheart, I'd fucking look.

I'd make absolutely no effort to be polite about it.

I'd kiss the side of your neck while you watched, and then lower. Slow enough that you'd know I was doing it on purpose.

You'd probably call me an asshole. And I'd agree.

Then my hands would move again and your argument would get considerably less convincing. That's where the fantasy starts getting filthy, beautiful. Because I don't want you standing there quietly letting me admire you. I want you involved. I want you turning in my arms because you're tired of waiting. I want you grabbing my shirt and kissing me first. I want that wine-dark lipstick absolutely fucking ruined.

But then I would turn you back around so you could watch yourself as I trailed my hands slowly down the front of your body.

I'd start at your shoulders, dragging my palms over your skin while I watched your eyes follow every movement in the mirror, then let them travel lower until I was cupping your breasts through your bra. That's where I know you will try to look away, sweetheart. But I won't let you, I'd kiss beneath your ear and tell you, "Eyes up, and watch."

Then I'd squeeze you just to watch that smart mouth forget whatever insult you had lined up. My hands would then keep moving, down your ribs, across your stomach, and then lower. Slow enough that you'd know exactly where I was going long before I got there.

My fingers would slip inside that sexy black lace but I wouldn't be looking down, I'd be watching you and taking in every tiny sharp intake of breath and how your lips would part. And then I'd watch every tiny reaction as my fingers move against you. The tiny crease between your brows when pleasure caught you harder than you expected.

I'd watch your whole body soften against mine while you tried very hard to pretend I wasn't getting exactly the reaction I wanted. Until the pleasure became too much for you to hide from me.

Jesus Christ.

I want that image burned into my fucking head. I want you watching yourself get flushed and messy. I want you seeing your own mouth fall open instead of immediately finding something about your body to criticize. I want you watching pleasure take over until there isn't enough room left in that clever head for whatever nasty little comment you were planning to make about yourself.

And I'd keep talking because apparently I've accepted that I'm never going to shut the fuck up around you.

"That's it."

Your head would tip back against my shoulder.

"Look at you."

And when your breathing changed again, when your body started giving you away even harder, I'd hold you tighter against me and make sure you could still see yourself.

Because I don't want the fantasy where you disappear inside whatever I'm doing to you. I want you there for every second of it.

I want you to see what I've been seeing for months, sweetheart. Your shoulders, the softness you keep treating like something to hide, that mouth that has been a fucking problem since before these letters existed, and the woman who still thinks being wanted this intensely has to be a mistake. It isn't, sweetheart. I look at you and want you. It's really that fucking simple.

And when you fall apart, fuck, that sound would fucking own me. I'd want another, and another. I could go fucking insane for wanting to hear that sound again and again.

I'd also let you ruin me and probably encourage you, I'd let you mark me with that lipstick after you got your pleasure because the thought of seeing your lipstick smeared across my skin afterward makes this whole possession problem feel a little less one-sided. I'd have something visible proving you touched me and left your mark on the bastard who has spent so long claiming you in letters, and I like that far more than I should.

Wear the dress on Halloween if you want to, or wear something else if you genuinely change your mind. Just don't put it back because that shitty little voice in your head starts listing reasons you haven't earned the right to look fucking incredible in it.

If that voice starts telling you to take the dress back, tell it to shut the fuck up for me.

Your increasingly fucked up admirer.

P.S. I'm already imagining where else I would like to see that lipstick smeared.