It seemed to work.
I blended in as far as I knew.
I figured I would know if I didn't.
The one thing you never really considered about stalking someone was the amount of time you spent alone with nothing but your own thoughts. I guess maybe if you were the creepy sort of stalker, you may have been able to have your mind occupied by your obsessions, picturing yourself with your stalkee.
The idea of being with Michael made me want to vomit.
Since I wasn't the creepy 'we're meant to be' sort of stalker, I found other ways to occupy my time.
I re-learned French.
I binged true crime podcasts.
And I whittled away at my hundred-title-long classics reading list in audiobook format.
I got a lot of shit done while getting my stalk on. It was more productive than I would likely be if I went home instead.
Even if I had needed to freeze over the last winter and sweat over the last summer since my car was not the sort that would allow me to sit in idle for any length of time.
Small sacrifices in the grand scheme of things.
Some things were worth suffering for.
I was deep into a set of Kegels. Which was probably too much information, but it was the truth, and sexual health was a woefully undiscussed topic anyway so, yeah, I was getting my Kegels on when it happened.
There was a knock on the passenger window.
The adrenaline surge from the surprise mixed with the Kegel damn near gave me an orgasm. And wouldn't have that been a great story to have.
Oh, yeah, I was doing my stalker thing when suddenly the cops finally found me, and knocked on the window while I was doing intimate exercises, and then I was crashing through an orgasm when they dragged me out to arrest me.
My glance went first to my rearview, sure I would see a telltale police car--white with red and blue markings, driver seat empty because he was about to take away my freedom.
But it was the same Land Rover that had been parked there when I pulled in, empty because the occupant had been inside working.
My head whipped over to glance out the passenger window.
Not finding the police.
Or even Michael.
Nope.
This was a face I didn't even recognize.
A face worth feargasming for. Or, really, any orgasming for.
Even bent over to look in my window, I could tell he was tall. And the lean kind of strong I always found more attractive than guys with bulging muscles that made me think they would struggle to clean certain parts of their bodies properly.
His dark hair was cut neatly into a style that wasn't really a style at all. Which was somewhat refreshing since I had stood behind some guy at Starbucks that morning who had his hair styled like a freaking Viking.
If you spent more time on your hair than I did, my level of attraction toward you went down several steep degrees.
There was a small bit of scruff on his face, but nothing cultivated, or even careless. It was as though he went two days past his shave. The kind of facial hair that left a burn when they went down on you.
Jesus.
Not that I was envisioning a stranger going down on me.
Alright, fine. I was. A little.
But he had heavy-lidded whiskey-brown eyes surrounded by lush black lashes, the kind of eyes that always made me melt just a little. Pair that with his straight, aristocratic nose and his broad forehead that gave the impression he scowled a lot? Oh, hell yeah. He was a hottie. I mean, who didn't love a scowling man?
Another knock, this time with a brow raise. Almost a... bored brow raise? If brow raises could be bored. And in this case, I was saying they could be.
Sure, he might have been insanely good looking, but that didn't mean my brain melted the same way my lady bits were starting to.
You didn't acknowledge strange men who were trying to corner you when they knew you were kind of trapped.
Then again, I was the one in the car. And short of unlocking the door, I could always get away.
Feeling a little bold--and maybe having a strong urge to see if he had a voice to match the face, or if he was going to sound all nasally or squeaky--I rolled down my window about an inch. Just enough for some audial porn if it worked out in my favor.
"What are you doing here?"
"If that is a pick-up line, it is the... twelfth worst I have ever heard," I told him, though nothing about the words had sounded interested to me. If anything, they seemed almost bossy, authoritative.
Maybe Michael hired new security guards in his office building. And somehow forgot to tell them to put the usual uniform on. Though, given how anal Michael was, I had a feeling that wasn't the case.