Chapter 13: October 30 - Your Halloween Stalker

Evening my beautiful fucking problem,

Tomorrow night I'm going to find you.

There. I've written it down now, so maybe my brain will stop repeating it every thirty fucking seconds.

Probably not.

I know you bought a ticket for the Halloween event tomorrow night and I'll be there. I'm not giving you some ridiculous set of instructions to follow and I'm not telling you where to look because I don't know where I'll find you yet. I only know that I will, and when I do, sweetheart, you won't have to stand there wondering whether the masked man in front of you is me. I'll make sure you know.

You had coffee with your friend this morning, and for the first time in a few days the two of you looked almost normal again. She was still watching you carefully at first, but after ten minutes you were both laughing over something on her phone and she'd stopped wearing that expression that says she's two seconds away from bundling you into her car and driving you across state lines.

She asked whether another letter came. You smiled into your coffee, and that was enough to make her suspicious.

When she asked why you were blushing, you told her there were parts of recent letters she absolutely did not want explained over breakfast. She stared at you for a second, looked at the coffee in her hand like she regretted having ears, then started laughing.

Sweetheart, I think that was the first time she has found any part of this funny.

She still thinks I'm dangerous. She would have to be fucking stupid not to, and unfortunately for me your friend isn't stupid. She knows what I've done, or enough of it anyway, and I don't expect her to suddenly decide the man stalking her best friend is secretly adorable because he turned off some Halloween lights and managed to keep his hands where he promised.

But something has changed.

I think she's finally starting to believe you when you tell her that whatever this has become, you're actually thinking about your choices instead of blindly being pulled along by mine. She still doesn't like those choices, which is probably going to remain a problem between us for a while, but when you made another vague comment about the letters now being considerably less innocent than the first few, she shook her head and told you she was going to pretend she hadn't heard it.

You laughed.

She laughed.

And nobody cried or threatened to call the detective, and I'll take the fucking improvement.

You mentioned the Halloween event because she already knows you love the damn thing and probably would have gone anyway, but you didn't tell her you're going there knowing I'll be looking for you. And when she asked if you wanted company you politely said no and reminded her that she never liked it.

I'm glad.

Not because I want you lying to her for me. You know by now I'd rather deal with her glaring at me for the rest of my natural life than watch you lose her because of this.

I'm glad because I want tomorrow night to belong to us before anybody else starts standing between us trying to work out what it means.

Fuck, sweetheart.

Us.

I keep wanting to write things like that now. I'm getting worse.

You tried the dress on again when you got home.

Only for a few minutes this time because you were careful with it, smoothing the fabric before you stepped into it. You fastened it, stood in front of the mirror and put the velvet mask on with it, and then you added the lipstick.

Jesus fucking Christ.

You looked at yourself and smiled.

Two days ago you were pinching at the waist of that dress and turning sideways because you were determined to find something wrong with the body inside it. Tonight you put it on, looked in the mirror and actually seemed to enjoy what you saw before you carefully took everything off again and hung the dress where nothing could touch it.

You didn't wear it long enough to do anything filthy and that's probably sensible.

I have considerably less interest in being sensible, and a lot more interest in making you filthy. And I have spent the entire fucking evening wondering what you're going to let me do when I finally get close enough.

Will you let me touch you? Actually touch you this time. Not your ankle through a blanket while you sleep. Not your hair because I promised that was all I'd take. I mean standing in front of you while you're awake and you know exactly who has his hands on you.

Will you let me put them on your waist? I've imagined that enough that I already know I'm going to have trouble behaving normally if you do.

Will you let me pull you close enough that I can feel you breathing?

Will you touch me back?

Fuck, sweetheart. I've spent months stealing closeness from you and then one night sitting beside your bed because you finally gave me a little piece willingly, and now all I can think about is what your hands are going to feel like when you're awake enough to decide where you want them.

My shirt. My shoulders. Around the back of my neck. Maybe lower if you decide you're done being polite.

And are you going to kiss me?

I've been obsessed with your mouth since I first saw you, sweetheart. Before the masks and before the dress and before I knew you were ever going to let me close enough, I was already wondering what it would feel like to kiss that mouth after you said something filthy.

Tomorrow I might actually find out. Do you understand how badly that is fucking with me?

Will you let me kiss you slowly the first time, or are you going to grab me and make every patient little fantasy I've had completely pointless?

Will you laugh against my mouth when I inevitably do something that earns an insult? I told you in the first letter that I'd wondered what your laugh would feel like that close, and I still want to know.

And that lipstick. Sweetheart, please ruin that fucking lipstick.

I want to see it smeared when you pull away from me. I want it on my mouth because you put it there, and if you decide to drag your lips across my jaw or my neck just to see what kind of mess you can make of the bastard who has been obsessing over you for months, I'm not stopping you. I want evidence you touched me back.

That thought has become a problem.

What happens after a kiss, though? That's where my head has completely gone to shit tonight. If we get a moment alone and you still want me, are you going to let my hands move lower? Will you let me find out whether you get that same little hitch in your breathing when I'm the one touching you instead of watching from six feet away?

Would you let me slip my hand beneath that dress? Would you let me touch your pussy after spending all these nights telling you how badly I've wanted to?

Would you spread your legs for me because you wanted my hand there, then look at me through that velvet mask while I tried to work out how the fuck I was supposed to survive finally getting something I've imagined this many times?

Fuck.

I know what I would want. I'd want to make you come before I worry about anything happening to me. I've spent too much time thinking about the way you tried to swallow your sounds that night, and I want to know what happens when you don't have to hide them because you know I'm there and I'm the reason you're making them.

Would you let me put my mouth on you? I've wondered what your pussy tastes like enough times that the question has stopped being remotely dignified. Would you let me eat that pussy and make you forget there are other people somewhere outside whatever little piece of darkness we managed to steal?

Would you put your hands on me and tell me when something feels good? Would you pull me closer instead of lying there trying to be quiet? Would you let yourself come against my mouth and then ask me to do it again because you've finally worked out that I want you fucking greedy?

That fantasy has been living in my head all day.

You demanding another orgasm instead of apologizing for the first one.

Christ.

I would lose my fucking mind over that.

And if your hands found my cock afterward? Yeah, beautiful, I've thought about that too. I've thought about what it would do to me to feel you touch me because you wanted to know exactly how hard you've made me, and I've wondered whether you'd enjoy finally getting your own hands on the bastard who admitted he wrapped your dirty underwear around his cock because thinking about you had already made behaving impossible.

Would you want to feel what you do to me? Would you want more than that? Would you let me fuck you tomorrow night if we found ourselves alone and we both wanted it badly enough?

Fuck, sweetheart.

Would you want my cock inside you while we were still wearing those masks, still not knowing my name, while the only thing you knew for certain was that the man touching you was the same fucked-up bastard who has written every one of these letters?

Would you want me to take my time because it was finally real, or would you already be too worked up for slow? Would you tell me harder? Would you wrap your legs around me because you wanted me closer?

Would you let me feel you come around my cock after I'd already made you come with my hands or my mouth, then laugh at the absolute state of me because apparently the woman who spent the first week pretending these letters weren't getting under her skin has decided to fucking kill me?

I could keep going, that should concern both of us.

But here is the part I need you to understand before tomorrow.

Those are only questions. They are filthy questions and I desperately want some very specific answers, but they're still questions.

I don't get to decide tonight that you'll kiss me tomorrow. I don't get to turn the fact that you let me sit beside your bed into permission to put my hands anywhere else. I don't get your pussy because you wore my ribbon or bought the dress or smiled after finding out what I did with your underwear.

If I find you tomorrow and all you want is to stand there looking at me for a while, then that is what happens.

If you want a kiss and nothing else, I'll take that kiss home and obsess over it until I become completely fucking unbearable.

If you want more?

Sweetheart, tell me.

You've already learned what happens when you give me a clear yes, I listen.

Even when every filthy part of me is screaming for another one.

Tomorrow night I'm going to be somewhere inside that Halloween event wearing the black mask I bought because of you, and at some point I'm going to find the woman who has occupied an absolutely unreasonable amount of my brain for months.

You'll know it's me.

Fuck, beautiful.

I don't think I'm sleeping tonight.

Yours, and one fucking day away from becoming your problem in person.

P.S. Put the lipstick in your bag tomorrow night. You're probably going to need to reapply it.