Total pages in book: 109
Estimated words: 103878 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 519(@200wpm)___ 416(@250wpm)___ 346(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 103878 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 519(@200wpm)___ 416(@250wpm)___ 346(@300wpm)
I cleared that up right quick.
It’s just that… the thought of touching anyone else makes me physically ill. I don’t even let myself imagine being with her because it feels too wrong, too fucked up. She’s way too young for me, and when I met her…
But one look at her innocent, beautiful curves, and I lose my fucking mind. I didn’t mean to see her undress, but one night—fuck it—she ran into her room, late for a party, and tore off her clothes before she even shut the window. I wasn’t ready. I didn’t expect it. And the next thing I knew, she was damn near naked, her full breasts spilling out of her too-small bra, her knickers barely covering her curves.
And fuck, does she have curves… full-figured and absolutely fucking stunning.
Christ.
I had a camera set up by her house to make sure everything was safe and that no one would harm her, because it seemed the most efficient way to keep tabs on the lass. I didn’t mean to… see her… without clothes on.
I’ve kept everything involving Bianca to myself, and even I have to admit that at this point, my obsession has become… fuck it, I don’t know. Something… darker?
Yeah. Darker.
Got a fucking shrine now. At least that’s what I call it in my head.
A little napkin she wiped her lips with at the cafe where she works. Found it crumpled in the corner when I pretended to use the restroom and snagged it. Pressed it to my lips more often than I’d care to admit.
The library book she returned that I checked out immediately after and never returned.
A pale pink ribbon that fell from her hair.
A ballpoint pen I nicked from her bag that I keep on me. When I’m nervous or stressed or angry, I click it in my pocket, and it calms me down.
And pictures. So many fucking pictures. I got a little tired of seeing them just digitally and had some printed. At first, it felt risky, but now it just feels… natural.
I love them. I fucking love them.
Tonight, she has a date. A fucking date.
Little does she know she also has a chaperone.
I park outside the pizza parlor where her loser of a date takes her. I don’t like the fucking twat. Skinny, pimple-faced loser from drama club who thinks way too fucking much of himself. Obviously, as evidenced by his thinking he deserves to breathe the same fucking air she does.
But I can’t stop her. I know I can’t.
I can protect her though.
I put on a hat and sunglasses and dress in nondescript clothing. She’s sharp as fuck, and I don’t want her to start recognizing me. Getting too close might be… dangerous.
“Hey,” Bianca says, waving to the fucking twat who didn’t even have the decency to pick her up.
The guy smiles and waves at her, but I immediately clock him for what he is because he doesn’t even know how to not stare at her chest and arse and hide the fact that he’s asked her out because he wants to fuck her.
Of all the fucking…
I walk past them, grab a slice of pizza and a drink, then sit in the far corner where I can see them, but she has her back to me. It’s awkward as fuck. The date goes downhill fast.
From my corner table, I watch the bastard lean too close when Bianca talks, his eyes dropping to her mouth, her chest, anywhere but her fucking face. The lass is nervous, twisting her hair and playing with the little paper for her straw.
I’m going to kill him.
Not tonight. Not here. But I'm going to feckin' kill him.
The bastard's been on his phone three times since they sat down. He’s checking football scores or texting his mates while she sits there across from him, smiling like she's supposed to pretend she doesn't notice.
He doesn't deserve to breathe the same air as her.
She's nervous. I can tell by the way she keeps tucking her hair behind her ear, but she's trying… laughing at his jokes, even though I can see from here that they're not funny.
He doesn't even notice.
Doesn't notice the way she lights up when she talks. Doesn't notice how she leans forward when she's interested in something. Doesn't notice that he's sitting across from something precious and rare, and he's treating her like she's fucking wallpaper.
She deserves better than this.
Better than some arsehole who can't put his phone down for an hour. Better than a boy who doesn't see what's right in front of him. Better than someone who makes her feel like she's not enough.
If she were mine, I'd never look away. Not for a second. I'd memorize every expression, every laugh, every goddamn breath. She'd never have to wonder if I was interested, if I was listening, if I cared.