Chapter 4

Chapter Four

Granger

I’m hidden in the trees across the street from Royal Oak Academy where Peyton works and I can taste blood in my mouth. After a weekend of hitting the punching bag, doing pull-ups and jumping rope until the sweat poured down my body, I should be too worn out to feel this much wrath. But I’m starting to realize there are no rules when it comes to my obsession with Peyton. It’s a living, breathing part of me and it demands to be obeyed.

Paul.

It only took me a few minutes of searching online to find the math teacher’s picture on the school website. Now I watch him through the window of his classroom, my fingertips ripping off a strip of bark and crushing it in my grip. Did he think he could just waltz up to my fairy and ask her on a date? Did this two-pump chump divorcee think he was worthy of her presence? Did he?

I’m here to set him straight.

And it’s obviously not enough to live with Peyton. To spend my nights sitting in the corner of her room, guarding her as she sleeps. Counting her breaths and straightening her blankets when she kicks them off. It seems I have to be with her during the day, too. I have to be there to make sure other men keep the hell away from what is mine. No one will have her but me. No one will come close.

I push off the tree and pace back and forth behind the tree, attempting to get myself under control. In the past, my profession has required me to intimidate people, to scare them, but I was always in control of the anger. I’m not in control anymore. Hunger and possessiveness for Peyton have taken over.

She’s close.

She’s close to letting me in.

Friday night in the kitchen, I swore she was about to acknowledge the wild chemistry that boils between us. I swore she was going to admit her feelings for me go beyond friendship, but she wasn’t ready yet. That’s okay. I can wait. There is never going to be another female for me. My fairy will take all the time she needs—but in the meantime, I have to keep the weasels away.

Faintly, I hear the bell ring across the street and that’s my cue.

I pull the baseball cap down low over my eyes, tuck my hair into the sides and jog across the street, skirting along the edge of the brick, ivy-covered building. Security is tight at the school, as I discovered on their website, so I came prepared. There is a blog section on the site and I scoured the pictures until I found what I needed, a picture of the janitor. After a quick trip to a shop that sells work gear, I’m wearing a boxy-gray uniform shirt tucked into black pants, identical to the ones worn by the janitor.

Now, I locate the broom I left propped against the side of the building earlier and circle around to the back door. Only about five minutes passes when a teacher exits and lights a cigarette, propping the door open with a shoe. When she sees me, I smile and breeze in through the entrance, mumbling something about forgetting my keys. And like most people, she doesn’t pay the janitor the slightest bit of attention.

Based on the online schedule, it’s lunchtime at the school, so the children are in the cafeteria. I stalk down the empty halls, broom in hand, turning left at the end of the corridor and entering the classroom where Paul teaches. He’s taking a sacked lunch from his backpack when I enter and I don’t give him a chance to register surprise. One second he’s jerking back from his desk, the next I have him pressed to the wall with the broom lodged against his windpipe.

“Hello, Paul,” I growl through my teeth, enjoying the way his eyes widen with terror. It’s familiar to me. I’ve been making men piss themselves ever since I realized I’m stronger than most of them. Less given to fear. I can keep a calm head in any situation—except for this one. Except when someone wants Peyton. My Peyton. “Listen very carefully and I might not ram this broom handle down your throat. Are you listening, Paul?”

Eyes bulging, he nods, the smell of his urine turning my stomach.

This coward actually thought he was good enough for her?

I press the broom handle tighter, eliciting a pathetic whimper from this grown man. “Don’t look at Peyton Pruitt. Don’t speak to her. If I even catch you looking like you might be thinking about her, I’ll come find you in the middle of the night, Paul. I’ll burn your house down while you’re still inside. Am I making myself clear? Forget she exists or I’ll make sure you don’t anymore.”

He nods as well as he can under the circumstances.

“You tell anyone about this, I won’t be happy, Paul.” I let him see the madness inside of me. Madness for her. “Do you want me to be unhappy?”

“No,” he gasps.

“No,” I agree, shaking my head. “You don’t.”

I let another few seconds pass, watching his skin turn chalky, before I step back and let him sink to the floor, covering his piss spot in shame. With my lip curled in disgust, I open the window closest to the road and climb out, not bothering to hurry toward where I’ve parked my Mustang half a mile away. There’s no one coming after me.

And I hang on to the broom and the uniform.

If I’m going to watch Peyton during the day, they’ll come in handy.

* * *

I jab the punching bag with my left fist, plowing my right into the leather quickly after, shaking the equipment’s chains where I’ve secured it to the rafters. A storage bay in the basement of the building is where I moved my workout area when she moved in and it’s where I’ve been forced to spend a lot of time. A single light bulb hangs from the ceiling. Sweat travels down my bare chest, soaking into my gray sweatpants. My knuckles are beginning to bleed, but I keep punching, my lips peeled back in a growl.

I should be upstairs with Peyton, but my need for her is growing more excruciating by the second. Every time she flips her hair or smiles at me, my cock stiffens, throbs. I’m at the very edge, always seconds from pushing her down on the couch and climbing on top of her, ripping her out of whatever clothes she’s wearing and finally, finally burying myself between her thighs.

The night we met, I made myself a vow. The next time I come, it will be with her. For her. So I haven’t jerked off once. God, no. She owns my sperm now. It’s hers. Every single fucking drop. There is nothing that can derail me from that promise, but it’s getting more and more painful, leading to me coming downstairs and working out until I’m ready to collapse.

When I hear a creak on the stairs, my head comes up, salty moisture dripping into my eyes. I swipe it away and steady the bag, my heart shooting up into my throat when I see Peyton’s delicate toes come into view, followed by her smooth, slender calves, knees, the lacy hem of her pajama shorts. My dick aches with anticipation, wanting her, needing to be around her, while my mind rebels, knowing it’s a bad idea. Knowing I’m so close to snapping when she needs more time.

“Hey,” she says lightly, hesitantly, walking into my den, complete with a bench press, pull up bar, weights and punching bag. “Are you coming back upstairs?” she asks, twirling a curl around her finger. “I was going to make popcorn.”

There is nothing I want more in the world than to sit beside her on the couch and watch a movie. Every time we do it, she sits a little closer, her wariness of being around me ebbing. It’s a double-edged sword, though, inviting me to take too much. To take it all. “I think I’ll hit the bag a while longer,” I rasp, my gaze tracing the low neckline of her tank top. “Go ahead without me.”

“Oh. Okay.” Her disappointment is obvious and it burns me alive. “Is it…me? I hope I’m not making you feel uncomfortable in your own home.”

“It’s our home, Peyton.” My throat feels raw, my cock is pounding and I want her so bad, I’m shaking. That’s probably why I let the next part slip out. “You make me uncomfortable, honey. Just not in the way you’re thinking.”

Her eyes widen. “How?”

Against my better judgment, I step out from behind the punching bag and let her see my erection. Without my shirt on, there’s nothing to hide the hard ridge that stretches the material. My hand goes to it without a direct command from my brain, stroking the length once and gripping. “Uncomfortable like this,” I grunt.

“Oh.” Her complexion deepens with color, her fingers twisting in the hem of her shorts. “I, um…I know men have to relieve themselves from time to time. Do you feel weird about…doing that to yourself when I’m home? I could take a walk—”

“No.” The idea of her going on a walk by herself at night makes my stomach churn. If she ever attempted it, I’d be following her in the shadows. “No, you don’t have to go anywhere. Ever. If I just hit the bag a while longer…”

What?

My erection will go away?

There’s no chance of that as long as she walks the earth.

What if this moment is an opportunity, though? Hopefully my lust-fogged brain isn’t causing me to make a mistake when I say, “You could watch me.”

Her perfect lips part on a gasp. “What do you mean?”

No turning back now. And I don’t want to. It feels too right talking to her about sex. Any form of intimacy with her is like breathing fresh air. “I mean, you’re nervous around men. This could be a way of facing your fears without being touched. If you watch me pleasure myself, maybe you’ll get more comfortable with the idea of touching.” I saw the heel of my palm up and down my length, causing it to swell drastically against the front of my sweatpants. “You’re scared because you were vulnerable that night, Peyton. So watch me at my most vulnerable. See how helpless I get at the end…when I’ll die if I don’t come.”

By the time I finish talking, her little nipples are pebbled against the front of her tank top and she’s squeezing her thighs together, the way she did the other night in the kitchen. Yeah, she’s horny. She just doesn’t know what to do about it yet.

Good thing I do.

I just need an opening. I need her trust.

Is this the way to get it?

“Come here, honey.” Her progress across the storage cage is slow and I meet her halfway, stopping just shy of touching her, my hand still busy on the bulge in my sweats. “You’ve never seen a man’s cock before.”

A statement, not a question. Nothing has ever been more obvious.

“No,” she whispers, looking down between us. “Do you really turn…helpless at the end?”

“Yes,” I say raggedly, turning our bodies without touching and walking her backward until she’s pressed to the wall of the cage. I prop my left forearm above her head, getting as close as possible without touching. My balls are heavy and throbbing in anticipation of finally getting relief and I’m powerless to do anything but shove down the waistband of my sweatpants and fist my dick. Holding the hard length of it up and showing it to her. “You can tell it hurts just by looking at it, can’t you, honey?”

Her nod is jerky, her breath starting to come faster. “Y-yes.”

I let my head fall back and start to jack myself. “Ohhhh fuck.” My jaw is slack, eyesight blurring. “It’s been so long. It’s sensitive.”

“It’s b-bigger than I thought,” she stammers.

Peyton commenting on my size causes semen to bead on the head of my arousal and she gasps, bringing more and more milk to the surface. The pressure in my balls only intensifies, though. “Yeah. It’s big, honey, but it would fit inside your pussy like a fucking dream.”

“Granger,” she rasps, her fingers reaching back to curl into the cage links, those gorgeous tits of hers heaving up and down. “You shouldn’t say things like that.” Her eyelashes flutter. “Sh-should you?”

I start to twist my strokes, my thumb swiping over the sensitized head and it’s so hot with her watching me, I let out a long groan. “I can beat off in front of you, but the line is drawn at talking about your pussy?”

“I…I don’t know.”

“Do you want to talk about it?” I lean in and let my mouth hover right above her ear, as close to touching as I can get. “Bet it’s so creamy and tight, baby. Bet you’re too shy to even touch it in the shower, aren’t you?”

Laboring to breathe, her head falls back against the cage. “Yes.”

“Goddamn. That’s okay, Peyton. I’ll do it for you.” I devour the sight of her tits from above. The perky swells in her neckline, the valley between the beautiful pair, the outline of her erect nipples. I make a hoarse noise and my hand moves faster. “Ah, Jesus. Your tits are going to make me come.”

She seems to marvel over that fact. “Really?”

“Fuck yes.” My orgasm is a runaway train at this point, eating up the tracks of my thoughts. Loosening my tongue. Making me forget to go slow, not scare her. “Pull your top down for me. Show me those hot, little virgin tits.”

“Granger—”

“Do it for me, baby. Please.” I drop my left forearm from the wall—and with the most intense climax of my life bearing down on me, I wrench down the straps of her tank top, clawing the garment down to her waist, barking a curse when the sweetest pair of breasts ever created come into view, all supple and puckered for me. Quivering with her attempts to fill her lungs. “Ah, shit. I’m there. I’m done.” My body moves on its own, flattening her to the cage wall, rattling it, my hand moving feverishly between our laps, jacking my cock. “There’s only you. Only you making me come. I’m your servant right now, Peyton. Can’t you feel that, baby? Huh, baby? Imagine me getting this fucking helpless when I’m about to blow in that sweet little cunt. I’d rail that goddamn thing just trying to fuck the pain away and you’d have the power to help me. Only you.”

I’m out of control. Of my actions, my words.

Some part of me knows it, but I can’t make myself stop.

The lust, the closeness of her has me spinning out.

Before I’m aware of my own actions, I’m yanking down the shorts of her pajamas and coming all over her pussy and thighs. My bellow echoes off the walls of the basement, almost drowning out her whimpers. But I hear them and they egg me on, my loins twisting, producing more, more, more spend to paint her in.

“Mine,” I grit out, burying my teeth in her shoulder, locking her against the cage and pressing my spurting dick up into the folds of her sex, stopping just short of entering her, but needing to get my come as close as possible to her womb. “All fucking mine and don’t ever question it.”

I lick over to her neck, move higher and grind my open mouth against her ear so she can hear my moans of her name. So she can hear me coming apart for her. Finally the last blistering drop leaves me and I go boneless, staggering into her—and reality roars back, turning the sweat on my skin to ice.

My actions over the course of the last few minutes replay themselves.

My roughness, the crude language, the way I manhandled her.

Disrobed her. Jesus, her pajama shorts are around her knees, tank top bunched at her waist. She’s covered in come. And she’s trembling.

My God, what have I done?

“Peyton,” I say, sounding strangled.

I give her one inch of space and that’s all she needs to wiggle out from beneath me and pull up her shorts, crossing her arms over her bare breasts and running for the staircase.

“Peyton!” She doesn’t stop and I’m too immobilized by shame and horror to chase after her in time. A moment later, I hear our apartment door slam. With my heart pounding in my ears, I sprint after her, entering the two-bedroom and throwing myself to a kneeling position in front of her door. “Honey, I’m sorry. I got carried away. I’m a fucking animal. Please open up and let me in.” I twist strands of hair in my hands, all-out madness threatening to take hold. What if she’s crying in there? Crying because of me. “I can’t stand this. I can’t stand you being upset.”

“I’m fine, Granger,” she calls through the door, sounding more dazed than anything. “I just need some space for a while. Okay?”

Space.

That’s the one thing I can’t give her.

Maybe I don’t have to, though. I’ll just give her the illusion of it.

God, I messed up. I was supposed to make her comfortable with the male body and instead I took it too far. Probably horrified her. Having her want to stay away from me is no less than I deserve. But that’s not all I deserve.

With a suitable punishment in mind, I grab my car keys and burn rubber to where I’m going. If I don’t have enough willpower to be what she needs, I’ll simply have to take away my will.