He watched her walk up the path to her door. He checked his watch. She always got home at 6:30, no matter what. He liked that she had a routine; order in her schedule...the rest of her life was messy. She was behind on her rent. She had a decent job, preschool teacher, but that didn't pay much.
But damn if she didn't do it for him. He first noticed her while he was golfing. She lived across the street from the public course. He always teed off at 6:30; she always came home at 6:30. It hadn't even felt weird when he started. He could tell himself he was just golfing and she happened to live across the street. But then he started driving by her place on weekends. He easily identified the black Honda as hers, she stayed in most weekends, she liked to drink red wine, and he could have been mistaken, but he swore he smelled weed once or twice outside her window.
Just like that he was "stalking" her. He still didn't think it was official stalking. He was not the stalker type. He was good looking and he new it; maybe not Brad Pitt, but definitely as good as Ben Affleck. He was tall and strong looking, with dark brown hair. He wore it short and neat, hide the beginnings of gray. He was a 39 year old financial planner with an ex-wife and an aging dad. He was not the kind of guy to stalk girls; especially this girl. She looked nothing like the type of girl he dated. He preferred tall, super thin brunettes around his own age that worked in mindless professions like publicity or casting and looked like they could and would eventually turn into soccer moms. She was a 20-something preschool teacher with short, curly, black hair and skin the color of burnt sienna. She was tall and lean looking, by no means fat, but she only went jogging about once a week. Her hips looked soft and her B-cup breasts inviting. He had never touched hair like that before and he imagined rubbing it between his fingers.
He knew her name only because he had nonchalantly gone through her mailbox one night. She never took her mail in on time even though her box was not the kind that locked. Tiffany Andrews.
Tiffany had the ability to make him very angry. Like the time she had gone on a date down the street from her house. Not only was she on a date and that infuriated him, but she was dumb enough to let a stranger come so near to her home. Or the time she had worn the 3inch heels and shorts to meet up with her friend Ella, a bad influence he decided, and did not come home until 2am. What had almost set him over the edge was when she had come outside in her bikini top and jeans and a guy in a truck had whistled at her and she had SMILED and WAVED. He had to grip the steering wheel until his knuckles turned white. Even just thinking about these things mad his mouth set in a grim line and temperature boil.
He snapped out of his daze when he saw her come back out. She had changed out of her jeans and t-shirt into a pair of tight grey sweats and a white tank top. She held a bag of trash in her hands as she headed for the dumpster.
He didn't know what made this time different. Maybe it was because he spent that time reminiscing about how angry she made him. He didn't know, but he jumped up locked his Beamer and ran into her house. He was greeted by a black cat that purred and rubbed his leg as he hid behind the couch.
"Go Emmy," he commanded the cat, who in return left and went back to eating as she always did.
He heard Tiffany's footsteps. The slap of her flip-flops on the hard wood floor. She sat down with a sigh on her couch. He knew what he wanted to do with her. He wanted to teach her about making him angry. Punish every inch of her.
He heard her pick her feet up onto the couch and she turned her back to the T.V. He stood quietly and looked at her. She was nestled up on her couch, eyes closed and her knees pulled into her chest. The sweatpants couldn't keep up with the position and a peek of her ass and yellow thong showed. She wasn't wearing a bra, he could tell; under her practically see through the white top. Her hair was out and flowing around her beautiful face. She took a deep breath. Jesus, she didn't even feel him there: such an innocent.
He came around the couch quickly and pounced. She probably wanted to scream, but his hand was over her mouth before she knew it. Her eyes met his. Her doe eyes were open wide and filled with fear. He sat astride her pinning her wrists to one side with one of his large tan hands.
"Shhh. It's okay Tiffany."
She tried to talk to him, but all he heard were mumbles. Her eyes flew to the table where her cell sat and then to Emmy who sat up a little and then continued to eat. He saw the disappointment in her eyes. She probably thought deep down her cat would know if she were in danger. He smirked. Something about her naïveté drove him crazy and made him want to smack it out of her.
"Listen carefully, girl. You are going to do exactly as I say and you are not going to scream," she shook her head no, "Yes, yes you are. You know why? If you don't I'm going to hurt you and I'm going to hurt sweet Emmy over there."
Her eyes filled with fear when he mentioned her cat. He didn't know if it was because he had threatened it, or because he had called it by its name. Tiffany nodded her head. He slowly removed his hand. He heard her whimper a little.
"Oh, save your moans baby," he ran his hand over her breasts. He felt his cock get harder. He was actually touching her.
He stood up pulling her with him. He yanked her toward the bedroom door and shut it behind them. He didn't want that damn cat interrupting him.
He pushed her onto the bed. He noticed she had tears in her eyes. He didn't like to make her cry, but he had to teach her a lesson. He took his clothes off. He saw Tiffany taking in his muscular physique.
"What do you want?" Her voice was soft. He had overheard her on the phone a few times, but he had never heard her speak directly.
"Isn't it obvious?" He took two purposeful strides toward her and pushed her hands over her head. He used his tie to tie her hands together and then to the headboard. He felt her catch her breath.
"Tiffany, why do you do such dumb things?" He rubbed her hair and took a few strands between his fingers.
"What things?" She caught a sob as she spoke.
He gave her a knowing look, "You know as well as I do that you make stupid choices. The night you went to that bar alone. Or the time you wore the little white bikini top."
He felt his voice rising. Her eyes were better than he imagined. Full of fear and something else, lust?
