Shadows of Desire
by justyourhorny_princess--- The first time I noticed him, it wasn’t even really *him*—just the way the air shifted when he was near. A warmth, a weight, like someone had pressed their palm against the small of my back witho
about 18 hours ago
•long read•intense intensity---
The first time I noticed him, it wasn’t even really *him*—just the way the air shifted when he was near. A warmth, a weight, like someone had pressed their palm against the small of my back without touching me. I was scrolling through my phone at the coffee shop, swiping left on another sad, shirtless gym rat with a bio that read *"6’3” because that matters,"* when the hairs on my neck stood up. I turned my head just enough to catch the edge of a broad shoulder disappearing around the corner, the faintest hint of cologne—something dark and spiced, like burnt sugar and sin—lingering behind.
I should’ve known then. Should’ve *felt* it. But I was too busy rolling my eyes at the next profile, some guy holding a fish he’d clearly Googled how to grip, when my thumb slipped.
*Swipe right.*
My phone buzzed immediately.
**"Imani."**
Not a question. Not a *"Hey, beautiful."* Just my name, like he’d been waiting for me to fuck up so he could step in. I nearly dropped my latte.
**"Who is this?"**
**"The man who’s been watching you ignore every other man in this city."**
I bit my lip, glancing around. The shop was half-empty, but my skin prickled like he was right behind me, breathing down my neck. **"Stalker much?"**
**"Observant."** The bubbles popped up instantly. **"There’s a difference. Stalkers hide in bushes. I sit where I can see the way your lips part when you’re thinking about something dirty."**
My thighs clenched. I deleted the app right then.
---
He didn’t let that stop him.
Three days later, I found a note tucked into my purse after work—neat, precise handwriting on thick cream paper, the kind of stationery that cost more than my rent.
*"Wear the red dress. 8 PM. I’ll pick you up."*
No signature. No number. Just the quiet certainty that I’d obey.
I should’ve burned it. Should’ve called the cops. Should’ve done *anything* but what I actually did, which was stand in front of my mirror at 7:45, adjusting the straps of the only red dress I owned—a slinky, backless thing that clung to my hips and made my ass look like a prayer.
The car waiting outside wasn’t what I expected. No blacked-out windows, no creepy van. Just a sleek, dark blue Audi, engine purring like a threat, and *him* leaning against the driver’s side door, arms crossed. The streetlight caught the sharp angle of his jaw, the way his biceps stretched the sleeves of his button-down. He wasn’t even looking at me—just straight ahead, like he *knew* I’d come out eventually.
"Took you long enough," he said when I finally stepped onto the curb, voice rough and warm, like whiskey over ice.
I flipped my locs over my shoulder. "I was considering standing you up."
His smile was slow, dangerous. "Liar."
He opened the door for me. Of course he did. The kind of man who’d stalk a woman for weeks was also the kind who’d make sure she got in the car safely, who’d reach across the center console to brush a crumb from the corner of my mouth with his thumb before licking it clean himself. The kind of man who’d lean in just close enough to murmur, *"You’ve got sugar right here,"* and let his breath ghost over my lips without kissing me.
I swallowed. "You’re *really* good at this."
His eyes flicked to mine, dark and knowing. "At what, baby?"
"Being terrifying."
He laughed, low and rich, and pulled out into traffic. "You ain’t seen nothing yet."
---
The restaurant was one of those places where the wine glasses cost more than my weekly grocery budget, where the waiters called you *"madam"* and the portions were so small you left still hungry. Shawn didn’t seem to notice. He watched me instead—how I twirled my fork in the pasta, how I licked sauce from my thumb, how I crossed and uncrossed my legs under the table.
"You’re staring," I said, sipping my third glass of something red and expensive.
"Yeah," he admitted, unapologetic. "And you’re *letting* me."
I smirked. "Maybe I like the attention."
His fingers tightened around his glass. "Careful, Imani. Teasing a man like me is like poking a lion."
"I’ll take my chances."
He leaned forward, elbows on the table, biceps flexing. "You’ve been taking them since the moment you swiped right."
The food forgot how to digest. My pulse forgot how to be subtle. I set my glass down with a *clink*. "What do you want from me, Shawn?"
His gaze dropped to my mouth. "Everything."
---
That night, I touched myself thinking of him.
My bedroom window faced the alley, the blinds half-open because I was reckless like that. I stripped slow, letting the streetlight paint my skin gold as I peeled off my dress, my bra, my panties. My fingers were slick by the time I spread my thighs, imagining it was *his* hands on me, *his* mouth between my legs, *his* voice growling *"Good girl"* as I came.
I didn’t see him in the shadows. But I *felt* him.
The next morning, another note was waiting on my pillow.
*"Next time, leave the blinds up. I want to see that pretty pussy when you play with it."*
I should’ve been scared. Should’ve called the cops. Should’ve done *anything* but what I actually did, which was press my thighs together and whimper.
---
Weeks passed like that. Notes left in my bag, my car, my *hand* when he’d brush past me in the hallway at work. Little things—*"Wear your hair down today,"* or *"I liked the way you bit your lip in that meeting. Do it again."*—that made my skin burn. He’d show up unannounced, leaning against my cubicle with that smirk, asking if I wanted lunch. He’d walk me to my car, his hand hovering just above my lower back, close enough to feel the heat but never quite touching.
Until the day he *did*.
I was late leaving the office, the parking garage empty except for the echo of my heels. I fumbled with my keys, jumping when a hand clamped over my mouth, an arm like steel banding around my waist.
"Shh," Shawn murmured against my ear, his breath hot. "Wouldn’t want anyone to hear you scream, would we?"
My heart hammered, but my body *melted*. He walked me backward until my spine hit the cold concrete wall, his thigh pressing between mine, his other hand sliding up to grip my throat—just enough to remind me who was in control.
"You’ve been *begging* for this, haven’t you?" he growled, his lips brushing the shell of my ear. "All those little outfits. All those *looks*. You want me to show you what happens to bad girls who don’t listen?"
I whimpered against his palm. He chuckled, dark and satisfied, and finally—*finally*—let his hand drop.
"Turn around."
I did.
His eyes raked over me, hungry and possessive. "Take off the shirt."
My fingers trembled as I pulled the crop top over my head, leaving me in nothing but the tiny skirt and my lace bra. His gaze locked onto my nipples, already hard, already *aching*.
"Beautiful," he murmured, stepping closer. His hands found my waist, then slid up to cup my breasts, thumbs flicking over the stiff peaks through the fabric. "But you knew that, didn’t you? Knew exactly what you were doing when you put this on." He pinched, just hard enough to make me gasp. "Knew I’d have to *punish* you for it."
I arched into his touch, my back pressing against the wall. "Please—"
"Please *what*?" He twisted my nipple, his voice a velvet whip. "Use your words, baby. Tell me what you need."
"I need *you*," I breathed.
His mouth crashed onto mine, hot and demanding, his tongue sweeping in to claim me. I moaned into the kiss, my hands flying to his shoulders, nails digging in as he ground his hips against me, the thick ridge of his cock pressing into my stomach.
"Fuck," he groaned, breaking away to trail his lips down my throat. "I’ve been *dying* to taste you." His teeth grazed my collarbone. "To *fuck* you." His hands dropped to my ass, squeezing hard enough to bruise. "To make this pretty pussy mine."
I whimpered as he spun me around, pressing my front against the wall. His fingers hooked into the waistband of my skirt, yanking it up just enough to bare my ass to the cool air.
"Look at you," he murmured, palming my cheeks, spreading them. "So fucking perfect." His thumb brushed over my entrance, teasing. "Already wet for me, Imani? Already *ready*?"
"Yes," I panted, pushing back against his hand.
He chuckled, dark and approving. "Good girl."
Then his mouth was on me.
I cried out as his tongue dragged through my folds, slow and thorough, like he was memorizing the taste. He gripped my hips, holding me still as he devoured me, licking and sucking until my legs shook. When he pulled back, it was only to growl, *"Get on your knees,"* and I obeyed without hesitation, sinking to the concrete as he unzipped his pants.
His cock was *thick*, veined and heavy, the tip already glistening. I licked my lips, and his hand tangled in my hair, guiding me forward.
"Open," he commanded.
I did.
The first taste of him was salt and heat, the weight of him filling my mouth as he groaned, *"Fuck, just like that."* His grip tightened, controlling the pace, fucking my throat in shallow thrusts that had my pussy dripping.
"Enough," he grunted, pulling out with a wet *pop*. He hauled me up, spinning me around and bending me over the hood of my car. The metal was cold against my bare stomach, but his body was fire as he pressed against me, his cock sliding through my folds.
"You’re *mine*, Imani," he growled, notching himself at my entrance. "Say it."
"*Yours*," I gasped as he pushed in, stretching me, filling me inch by inch until I was full, *so* full.
"Again."
"*Yours*," I sobbed, my nails scraping against the car as he bottomed out.
"Damn right," he snarled, pulling back and slamming home. "This pussy? *Mine.*" *Thrust.* "This ass?" *Slap.* "*Mine.*" *Thrust.* "This *mouth*?" His hand fisted in my hair, yanking my head back as he pounded into me. "*Fucking mine.*"
I came with a scream, my walls clenching around him, milking him as he groaned, his rhythm stuttering.
"Good *girl*," he praised, his voice rough. "Take my cock like that. *Milk* me, baby."
His release hit me like a wave, hot and deep, filling me as he buried himself to the hilt and growled my name like a prayer.
---
After, he carried me to his car, my skirt still hitched up, his cum dripping down my thighs. He buckled me in like I was something precious, his fingers lingering on the bite mark he’d left on my shoulder.
"You’re staying with me tonight," he said, not a question.
I should’ve argued. Should’ve told him to take me home, that this was too fast, too *much*.
Instead, I smiled and leaned over to kiss the corner of his mouth. "Only if you promise to fuck me again before breakfast."
His laugh was a dark, delighted sound. "Baby," he murmured, brushing his thumb over my bottom lip, "I plan on keeping you *forever*."
The first time I noticed him, it wasn’t even really *him*—just the way the air shifted when he was near. A warmth, a weight, like someone had pressed their palm against the small of my back without touching me. I was scrolling through my phone at the coffee shop, swiping left on another sad, shirtless gym rat with a bio that read *"6’3” because that matters,"* when the hairs on my neck stood up. I turned my head just enough to catch the edge of a broad shoulder disappearing around the corner, the faintest hint of cologne—something dark and spiced, like burnt sugar and sin—lingering behind.
I should’ve known then. Should’ve *felt* it. But I was too busy rolling my eyes at the next profile, some guy holding a fish he’d clearly Googled how to grip, when my thumb slipped.
*Swipe right.*
My phone buzzed immediately.
**"Imani."**
Not a question. Not a *"Hey, beautiful."* Just my name, like he’d been waiting for me to fuck up so he could step in. I nearly dropped my latte.
**"Who is this?"**
**"The man who’s been watching you ignore every other man in this city."**
I bit my lip, glancing around. The shop was half-empty, but my skin prickled like he was right behind me, breathing down my neck. **"Stalker much?"**
**"Observant."** The bubbles popped up instantly. **"There’s a difference. Stalkers hide in bushes. I sit where I can see the way your lips part when you’re thinking about something dirty."**
My thighs clenched. I deleted the app right then.
---
He didn’t let that stop him.
Three days later, I found a note tucked into my purse after work—neat, precise handwriting on thick cream paper, the kind of stationery that cost more than my rent.
*"Wear the red dress. 8 PM. I’ll pick you up."*
No signature. No number. Just the quiet certainty that I’d obey.
I should’ve burned it. Should’ve called the cops. Should’ve done *anything* but what I actually did, which was stand in front of my mirror at 7:45, adjusting the straps of the only red dress I owned—a slinky, backless thing that clung to my hips and made my ass look like a prayer.
The car waiting outside wasn’t what I expected. No blacked-out windows, no creepy van. Just a sleek, dark blue Audi, engine purring like a threat, and *him* leaning against the driver’s side door, arms crossed. The streetlight caught the sharp angle of his jaw, the way his biceps stretched the sleeves of his button-down. He wasn’t even looking at me—just straight ahead, like he *knew* I’d come out eventually.
"Took you long enough," he said when I finally stepped onto the curb, voice rough and warm, like whiskey over ice.
I flipped my locs over my shoulder. "I was considering standing you up."
His smile was slow, dangerous. "Liar."
He opened the door for me. Of course he did. The kind of man who’d stalk a woman for weeks was also the kind who’d make sure she got in the car safely, who’d reach across the center console to brush a crumb from the corner of my mouth with his thumb before licking it clean himself. The kind of man who’d lean in just close enough to murmur, *"You’ve got sugar right here,"* and let his breath ghost over my lips without kissing me.
I swallowed. "You’re *really* good at this."
His eyes flicked to mine, dark and knowing. "At what, baby?"
"Being terrifying."
He laughed, low and rich, and pulled out into traffic. "You ain’t seen nothing yet."
---
The restaurant was one of those places where the wine glasses cost more than my weekly grocery budget, where the waiters called you *"madam"* and the portions were so small you left still hungry. Shawn didn’t seem to notice. He watched me instead—how I twirled my fork in the pasta, how I licked sauce from my thumb, how I crossed and uncrossed my legs under the table.
"You’re staring," I said, sipping my third glass of something red and expensive.
"Yeah," he admitted, unapologetic. "And you’re *letting* me."
I smirked. "Maybe I like the attention."
His fingers tightened around his glass. "Careful, Imani. Teasing a man like me is like poking a lion."
"I’ll take my chances."
He leaned forward, elbows on the table, biceps flexing. "You’ve been taking them since the moment you swiped right."
The food forgot how to digest. My pulse forgot how to be subtle. I set my glass down with a *clink*. "What do you want from me, Shawn?"
His gaze dropped to my mouth. "Everything."
---
That night, I touched myself thinking of him.
My bedroom window faced the alley, the blinds half-open because I was reckless like that. I stripped slow, letting the streetlight paint my skin gold as I peeled off my dress, my bra, my panties. My fingers were slick by the time I spread my thighs, imagining it was *his* hands on me, *his* mouth between my legs, *his* voice growling *"Good girl"* as I came.
I didn’t see him in the shadows. But I *felt* him.
The next morning, another note was waiting on my pillow.
*"Next time, leave the blinds up. I want to see that pretty pussy when you play with it."*
I should’ve been scared. Should’ve called the cops. Should’ve done *anything* but what I actually did, which was press my thighs together and whimper.
---
Weeks passed like that. Notes left in my bag, my car, my *hand* when he’d brush past me in the hallway at work. Little things—*"Wear your hair down today,"* or *"I liked the way you bit your lip in that meeting. Do it again."*—that made my skin burn. He’d show up unannounced, leaning against my cubicle with that smirk, asking if I wanted lunch. He’d walk me to my car, his hand hovering just above my lower back, close enough to feel the heat but never quite touching.
Until the day he *did*.
I was late leaving the office, the parking garage empty except for the echo of my heels. I fumbled with my keys, jumping when a hand clamped over my mouth, an arm like steel banding around my waist.
"Shh," Shawn murmured against my ear, his breath hot. "Wouldn’t want anyone to hear you scream, would we?"
My heart hammered, but my body *melted*. He walked me backward until my spine hit the cold concrete wall, his thigh pressing between mine, his other hand sliding up to grip my throat—just enough to remind me who was in control.
"You’ve been *begging* for this, haven’t you?" he growled, his lips brushing the shell of my ear. "All those little outfits. All those *looks*. You want me to show you what happens to bad girls who don’t listen?"
I whimpered against his palm. He chuckled, dark and satisfied, and finally—*finally*—let his hand drop.
"Turn around."
I did.
His eyes raked over me, hungry and possessive. "Take off the shirt."
My fingers trembled as I pulled the crop top over my head, leaving me in nothing but the tiny skirt and my lace bra. His gaze locked onto my nipples, already hard, already *aching*.
"Beautiful," he murmured, stepping closer. His hands found my waist, then slid up to cup my breasts, thumbs flicking over the stiff peaks through the fabric. "But you knew that, didn’t you? Knew exactly what you were doing when you put this on." He pinched, just hard enough to make me gasp. "Knew I’d have to *punish* you for it."
I arched into his touch, my back pressing against the wall. "Please—"
"Please *what*?" He twisted my nipple, his voice a velvet whip. "Use your words, baby. Tell me what you need."
"I need *you*," I breathed.
His mouth crashed onto mine, hot and demanding, his tongue sweeping in to claim me. I moaned into the kiss, my hands flying to his shoulders, nails digging in as he ground his hips against me, the thick ridge of his cock pressing into my stomach.
"Fuck," he groaned, breaking away to trail his lips down my throat. "I’ve been *dying* to taste you." His teeth grazed my collarbone. "To *fuck* you." His hands dropped to my ass, squeezing hard enough to bruise. "To make this pretty pussy mine."
I whimpered as he spun me around, pressing my front against the wall. His fingers hooked into the waistband of my skirt, yanking it up just enough to bare my ass to the cool air.
"Look at you," he murmured, palming my cheeks, spreading them. "So fucking perfect." His thumb brushed over my entrance, teasing. "Already wet for me, Imani? Already *ready*?"
"Yes," I panted, pushing back against his hand.
He chuckled, dark and approving. "Good girl."
Then his mouth was on me.
I cried out as his tongue dragged through my folds, slow and thorough, like he was memorizing the taste. He gripped my hips, holding me still as he devoured me, licking and sucking until my legs shook. When he pulled back, it was only to growl, *"Get on your knees,"* and I obeyed without hesitation, sinking to the concrete as he unzipped his pants.
His cock was *thick*, veined and heavy, the tip already glistening. I licked my lips, and his hand tangled in my hair, guiding me forward.
"Open," he commanded.
I did.
The first taste of him was salt and heat, the weight of him filling my mouth as he groaned, *"Fuck, just like that."* His grip tightened, controlling the pace, fucking my throat in shallow thrusts that had my pussy dripping.
"Enough," he grunted, pulling out with a wet *pop*. He hauled me up, spinning me around and bending me over the hood of my car. The metal was cold against my bare stomach, but his body was fire as he pressed against me, his cock sliding through my folds.
"You’re *mine*, Imani," he growled, notching himself at my entrance. "Say it."
"*Yours*," I gasped as he pushed in, stretching me, filling me inch by inch until I was full, *so* full.
"Again."
"*Yours*," I sobbed, my nails scraping against the car as he bottomed out.
"Damn right," he snarled, pulling back and slamming home. "This pussy? *Mine.*" *Thrust.* "This ass?" *Slap.* "*Mine.*" *Thrust.* "This *mouth*?" His hand fisted in my hair, yanking my head back as he pounded into me. "*Fucking mine.*"
I came with a scream, my walls clenching around him, milking him as he groaned, his rhythm stuttering.
"Good *girl*," he praised, his voice rough. "Take my cock like that. *Milk* me, baby."
His release hit me like a wave, hot and deep, filling me as he buried himself to the hilt and growled my name like a prayer.
---
After, he carried me to his car, my skirt still hitched up, his cum dripping down my thighs. He buckled me in like I was something precious, his fingers lingering on the bite mark he’d left on my shoulder.
"You’re staying with me tonight," he said, not a question.
I should’ve argued. Should’ve told him to take me home, that this was too fast, too *much*.
Instead, I smiled and leaned over to kiss the corner of his mouth. "Only if you promise to fuck me again before breakfast."
His laugh was a dark, delighted sound. "Baby," he murmured, brushing his thumb over my bottom lip, "I plan on keeping you *forever*."