Christmas Obsession

by Darcy Rose

  Contents

  Christmas Obsession

  1. Faith

  2. Vincent

  3. Faith

  4. Vincent

  5. Faith

  6. Vincent

  7. Faith

  8. Vincent

  9. Faith

  10. Vincent

  Epilogue

  Coming Soon

  About the Author

  Christmas Obsession

  For months Vincent has watched his innocent, young, next-door neighbor.

  He knows it’s wrong, but he can’t get enough.

  She’s his obsession. Shy, sweet, and incredibly naive. A true temptation.

  As a hitman for the mob, his job is something he doesn’t ever want to touch her, so he keeps his distance, forcing himself to ignore the primal need to take her.

  All that changes on Christmas Eve when he comes face to face with Faith.

  Unable to forget her sweet scent and soft smile, he knows he can’t stay away any longer.

  He’s going to get the ultimate Christmas gift this year… his obsession.

  1

  Faith

  I’m at my desk, staring out the window of my second-story townhouse. It’s Christmas Eve, and the trees outside are covered with white snow. The sky is full of clouds, and though it’s barely into the evening, the streetlights have come on. Golden circles of light fall on the glimmering snow, and I see the lights on at almost every house in view—all except Vincent’s.

  Vincent. Just the thought of him sends a shiver down my spine. Our neighbor, Vincent, is an enigma. A handsome, broody, and unfortunately way too old for me enigma. Simply thinking about him feels wrong and forbidden, so I try not to.

  Instead, I’m fantasizing about the day I get out of here, the day I can finally get away. I tap my finger gently against my lips as I daydream about a strong stranger, some man carrying me over the threshold of a new home. A new life, a new future…

  I imagine my lover as tall, with close-cropped dark hair. His veins throbbing through his forearms as he touches me, the sharp angle of his jaw as he presses his forehead to mine, the feeling of his fingers pressing into the grooves of my spine.

  I wrap a tendril of my brown hair around a finger as my fantasy turns a little darker. Ignoring the novel still open on my desk, waiting to be read, I close my eyes and focus on my daydream. My stranger starts to look more and more familiar, as I realize who I really wish was touching me…

  “FAITH!” my mother’s shrill voice rings up the stairwell, making me jump half a foot in the air. My heart rate triples, and I shove the dirty thoughts out of my head.

  As if she could read my mind. I know she can’t, but sometimes she gives me a look so judgmental and condescending that I fear she might hear my innermost thoughts. Which are, to be fair, pretty resentful. We don’t exactly get along.

  “What is it, Mom?” I call back, turning in my seat but not getting up.

  The seam of my jeans is pressing just slightly against my now swollen clit. I cross one leg over the other, trying to ignore the throbbing as my mom appears in the doorway to my bedroom.

  Her hair is in curlers, and she has an almost frantic look on her face. She’s pouting slightly, and suddenly, I am reminded of her beauty pageant days. Sometimes, she still has the beauty queen affectations, namely, the megawatt smile on command and perfect graceful wave. It used to embarrass me so much when she would pick me up from middle school and wave at me from the car like she was on a parade float or something.

  She tried to get me to do beauty pageants when I was a kid. After I burst into tears onstage three pageants in a row, she gave it up. Even as a child, I preferred to stay home, held up in my room, with my nose stuck in a book. It has always been our biggest point of contention.

  “I invited Vincent over for Christmas cookies,” Mom says, sashaying slightly into my room. She’s still wearing her big fluffy leopard-print robe, with the sash tied tight around her middle.

  “What?” I retort, my jaw dropping open. “Why would you do that?”

  Vincent moved in three months ago, and my mom immediately tried to sink her shellacked claws into him. He drives a Porsche 911, and I swear I could see dollar signs in my mom’s eyes.

  I can’t blame her, though. Vincent is mesmerizing. Tall, with broad shoulders and dark eyes. His stare is intense, even from afar. Some mornings, when I leave for community college, I feel his eyes on me, tracking me like a hunter tracks his prey. And I like it. Even though I’ve never been with a man before, all I can think about is what it would be like to touch him. To feel his mouth on mine, to have him hold me with his bulky arms…

  Yeah, yeah, I had a silly teenage crush on him. It is stupid. There is no chance he’d ever notice me. Who’s interested in a nineteen-year-old girl who still lives with her overbearing mother? After all, Vincent is an adult; he appears to be in his late thirties at least.

  He probably wants to date adult women who already have their life together, not the college student who fantasizes about him instead of doing her homework. Now I would have to watch my mom try and seduce him in my own home. My stomach is in knots, but I bite my tongue, keeping my opinion to myself.

  My mom rolls her eyes—hard.

  “You think I’m gonna blow the chance to marry a guy with a Porsche?” Her tone is sharp, and I feel a pang in my gut. It’s five-thirty, and my mom never bakes. I already know what’s coming next, but I ask her anyway.

  “When did you make cookies, Mom?”

  She pauses, pursing her lips at me. She crosses her arms and glares. Even with her blonde hair in curlers, she looks good for her age. Between three divorces, raising me, and kicking a nicotine addiction–twice, she always made time for her skincare routine.

  “Don’t talk to me like that. You know what we do, Faith. I’m not even dressed yet!”

  I sigh deeply, holding back the urge to roll my eyes. She always does this. Invites someone over, without warning me, and then forces me to cook an impressive meal in less than an hour.

  God, I can’t wait to move out.

  I close the novel and rub my temple with one hand as I rise from the chair. I cross my room and push past my mother, who is still standing in the doorway.

  “Thank you, Faithie. I know I can always depend on you.”

  “Shouldn’t it be the other way around?” I mutter as I walk down the hall.

  “What was that?” my mother calls after me, but I descend the stairs without answering.

  Our home is modest and completely decked out in Christmas decorations. Mom dropped out of interior design school when she got pregnant with me, but she took pride in keeping a clean, showroom-worthy home.

  We have a huge Christmas tree, covered in baubles and beads and tinsel, but everything is soulless. It’s as if someone took a Pinterest post and brought it to real life. There are no happy memories, no soul to this home. All the tinsel in the world couldn’t make up for a wino mom who only wants to marry rich—for the fourth time.

  I tie my hair back in a ponytail as I enter the kitchen. I’ve been growing it out for a few years now, and the light-brown locks are nearly to my waist. I grab the butter, eggs, baking soda, flour, and sugar and arrange them all on the kitchen counter before washing my hands.

  Even though I’m pissed that Mom is making me do this on such short notice, I do love to bake. When I was younger, my grandma taught me her secret sugar cookie recipe, and I no longer have to look at a written recipe to make it. This recipe is in my muscle memory, and I lose myself in the meditation of baking cookies.

  I hum to myself as I cream the butter and sugar together. Christmas is my favorite time of year. I love the snow, the decorations, the feelings of love and goodwill that surrou
nd me. It’s easy to lose myself in Christmas, to devote myself to feeling jolly and finding the perfect presents for my loved ones.

  Before I know it, the cookie dough is ready. I roll the dough out on the counter and lean down to get the cookie cutters out when suddenly, I feel as if I’m being watched.

  I turn around, noticing the window that faces Vincent’s home. His blinds are shut, and why would he even be looking at me? Watching me through the window…such a stupid thought. He doesn’t even know I exist.

  I shake the thought out of my head and resume baking. Before long, the tree and star-shaped cookies are in the oven. I set a timer on my phone and look down at myself. My green Christmas sweater, patterned with little prancing reindeers, and black sweatpants are covered in flour.

  Of course, they are.

  Quickly, I pull the sweater off and over my head. I walk down the hallway in just my sweatpants and sports bra, taking a moment to hang the green sweater over the coat rack. I’ll grab it and toss it in the laundry before Vincent arrives. I take the stairs two at a time, heading into my room to change into clean clothes.

  I shimmy into a clean pair of black leggings. I could put on jeans, but some part of me wants Vincent to stare. To see how tight these pants are against my ass.

  Maybe it’ll get him away from my mother…

  In only a bra and leggings, I look at myself in the mirror. I try to imagine myself from Vincent’s point of view. Blue eyes, small breasts, long legs. But with my long hair and a trim figure, he probably sees me as a little girl instead of a woman.

  Suddenly, I have an idea. Before I can stop myself, I lift my practical sports bra over my head and run to my dresser. I reach way, way back into my underwear drawer and feel around for the soft fabric. I feel the cool air on my breasts as I grab it and pull it out: the lacy black push-up bra that I bought on an impulse on my eighteenth birthday. I don’t know why I did; it isn’t like I have anyone to wear it for.

  At least, not until now.

  I slip on the bra and marvel at myself in the mirror for another moment. This bra makes me look like I actually have something to show off up here, and I feel sexy. I run a hand over each breast, admiring the small curve of cleavage. I wonder if Vincent will notice or even care.

  The timer on my phone begins to beep. Crap, the cookies are ready! I pull on a red sweater patterned with tiny elves and give myself one last glance in the mirror, letting my hair out of its ponytail. As I exit my bedroom and speed-walk down the hall, trying to get to the kitchen before Vincent arrives, my mom squeals from the living room.

  “Honey! Vincent’s on his way over. I just saw him through the window,” she calls as I jog down the stairs and quickly head into the kitchen.

  My mother is wearing a fitted satin dress in emerald green, and though she’s showing far too much cleavage for my taste, the dress suits her. She has on a velvet Santa hat and bright red lipstick, with false eyelashes an inch and a half long. If it weren’t for the ugly snarl on her face when she sees my outfit, she would almost look beautiful.

  “You couldn’t dress up a little?” she hisses, grabbing my forearm.

  “Let go, Mom!” I say, pulling away. She pinches the fabric of my sweater between two fingers and grimaces.

  “Polyester. I raised you better than polyester Christmas sweaters. Where did you even find this?” She’s speaking to me as if the sweater is an affront to her entire way of life. Which is typical for her.

  “Mom, the cookies are going to burn,” I growl right as Vincent knocks at the door.

  She whips around, letting out an excited squeal. As if she were a little girl seeing Santa. I roll my eyes and rush to the oven, where I pull the cookies out just in time. Removing them from the pan, I see that they’re a little golden on the bottom, but I got to them just in time. Even a minute more, and they would have been ruined.

  I let out a breath as I set up the cooling racks on our kitchen island. I can hear my mother opening the front door and putting on the sickly sweet voice she only uses when she’s trying to sleep with someone. Unfortunately, I know it well.

  “Viiiiinceeeeeent!” she drawls, dragging out each vowel impossibly long. “You’re just in time. I just finished making my mother’s famous Christmas cookies. You’ve got to come and try them.”

  Anger and jealousy rise in my chest. Not that I expect anything better from my mother, but it still pisses me off. She makes me bake cookies with no notice at all and then passes the work off as her own, all so she can get laid.

  My hands are shaking with rage as I arrange the cookies on the cooling racks. I can’t hear what Vincent says in response, but my anger turns to panic as I realize he’s coming inside. My heart races behind my lace bra, and I freeze in place, staring wide-eyed as my mother and my secret crush enter the kitchen.

  2

  Vincent

  Walking into the kitchen, I allow myself a glance at my obsession. I catch her eyeing me curiously; something about the look in her eyes is strong but wary. The years with her selfish mother have not broken her spirit, but her soul is battered. She is innocent but wise, and she occupies my every thought.

  I wish I could make her understand how special, how strong and brave she is. I wish I could do so much for her, have her by my side and give her anything she could ever want or need, but I can’t. I can’t have her.

  I had to suppress a scoff when I enter the house to Margaret’s boasting about her Christmas cookies as I hung my leather jacket on a coat rack. Instead of seeking out the girl I am really here for, I concentrated on holding back from calling Margaret out on her lies—that woman doesn’t know how to bake a frozen pizza, let alone make cookies from scratch—and followed her into the kitchen.

  Even if I hadn’t already seen Faith making those cookies, I would’ve known Margaret is a liar. No one with hair that perfectly coiffed “just finished” making Christmas cookies. Margaret’s desperation is nearly palpable, and perhaps in a past life, I would’ve humored her. Taken her to bed, then unceremoniously disappeared.

  Ghosted, as my boss would say. But not anymore. I see through her lies, and it takes every ounce of control in my body to not scowl at her advances. But I play nice because this is my one chance.

  The truth of the matter is that I’m not here for her. I’m here for Faith. Ever since I moved into the house next door, I’ve been watching her. It began with curiosity and ended in knowing every part of her life. I’m obsessed with knowing every little detail about her.

  She attends the community college just down the road. She leaves for class at nine every morning and returns at five. Her favorite color is blue; she likes to read romance books and eat cookie dough ice cream. She listens to 70s rock albums in her car, on CD because she drives a fifteen-year-old sedan.

  Meanwhile, her mother, Margaret, drives a Lexus and spends all her money on booze and clothes. She has enough money to send Faith to a nice college but chooses to waste her money on material, selfish things. It disgusts me. I want nothing more than to whisk Faith away from this small life and give her everything she deserves.

  The more I learn about Faith, the more I know I have to protect her. Watch her, take care of her in any way I can. She is so small and fragile, she needs someone to look out for her, and her mother is doing a shit job.

  Tonight is my only chance to see her up close. Then I’ll go back to watching from afar. Back to yearning for the one woman, I can never have.

  I live a life that she can never be a part of. Hitmen don’t get to fall in love—especially not ones who work for the mafia. If I let her into my life, she would become collateral, a target, a weakness my enemies would use against me. If I drag her into my darkness, soil her lightness somehow, I would never forgive myself.

  Besides, she would probably never go for me anyway. I am much older than her. I’m weathered, body and soul. She is young, full of light, and utterly innocent. We’re the complete opposite, and there is no way she could ever see me for anything other tha
n her neighbor.

  I snap back to the moment, my eyes locking on Faith, standing there with a swipe of flour on her cheek. Her eyes are wide as if we’ve caught her in an indecent act.

  Oh, if only…

  “I just had to ask Faith to get the cookies out of the oven for me. She’s such a great helper, aren’t you, Faith?”

  Margaret’s tone is dripping with sugar. To me, it sounds like nails on a chalkboard. She never uses this tone for her daughter, only condescending whispers and harsh snarls.

  I know because I haven’t only watched them from my window. One day, while Faith and Margaret were out, I snuck into their house to plant two cameras in Faith’s room. One points at her bed. One overlooks the rest of her room. Every night since then, I’ve watched her.

  Yes, I’m a fucking stalker. Yes, it’s wrong and perverted. It’s completely immoral and devious, but I don’t care. I’m going to hell anyway, might as well make it count.

  Most of the time, she just reads, does homework, or sleeps. I watch the live feed obsessively, poring over her every movement. But I also watch when she touches herself. Those are my favorite parts.

  She doesn’t have any toys, no vibrators or massagers. She even masturbates innocently, with two fingers furiously rubbing at her swollen clit until she’s gasping for air. It’s almost primal. I shouldn’t watch, but nothing else satisfies me. I must see her—all of her. She is my one and only obsession.

  I set the cameras to record every time I leave the house, so I can come home and catch up with everything Faith has done that day. She spends most of her time at home in her room, but the windows in my home allow me to see into their living room and kitchen as well. That’s how I’d seen Faith making these cookies before I came over.