Obsessed

Read Obsessed Online

Authors: Devon Scott

Also by Devon Scott

Unfaithful

Obsessed

DEVON SCOTT

KENSINGTON PUBLISHING CORP.

www.kensingtonbooks.com

All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.

Table of Contents

Also by Devon Scott
Title Page
Dedication
Acknowledgments
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Chapter 71
Chapter 72
Chapter 73
Chapter 74
Chapter 75
Chapter 76
Chapter 77
Chapter 78
Chapter 79
Chapter 80
Chapter 81
Epilogue
A READING GROUP GUIDE
Discussion Questions
UNFAITHFUL
Copyright Page

For my father

Acknowledgments

Relationships fascinate me. It’s the drama, especially what goes on behind closed doors, that I like to explore. I hope you will enjoy the ride I take you on while giving you something to consider.

I would like to thank the many book club members and readers who have reached out to me regarding my debut novel,
Unfaithful
. Thank you for your support and feedback. I very much appreciate it.

To Shantel: Thank you for your love, support, and assistance in the writing of this book. You continue to inspire me, and I am blessed to have you in my life.

Until next time . . .

Prologue

The man leans in toward the gleaming widescreen display. His eyes burn and head throbs. Fingers to his temples, he attempts to quell the pain. He reaches for the Tylenol, pops the childproof top, and sprays his palm with pills, spilling a few onto the floor. Ignoring those, he swallows eight, chasing them with bottled water before returning his attention to the screen before him.

The image should soothe. But it does not.

He sits in his office, surrounded by expensive equipment, an array of whirling hard drives, silicon, and brushed aluminum. The only light emanates from three high-definition monitors connected to an encrypted network of desktops and servers, and more importantly, to the world beyond via highspeed broadband.

Fingers on the chattering keyboard as he types, enlarging the view.

A nude woman, splayed before the camera. Hands on the bed, pushing her hips upward. Her sex in plain view, ripened, and moist, he can tell even from here. The man leans closer until his eyelashes touch the warm LCD, the pounding in his head a staccato rhyme.

What a piece.

Legs the color of mocha chocolate.

Smooth, like only he can imagine.

Full breasts, dark, erect inviting nipples.

A smile that dazzles with its brilliance.

That’s what gets him the most.

Her smile. The way she plays to the camera. Teases it with her seductive ways.

Fucking
bitch
. Kennedy. The wife. Just speaking her name makes him seethe with anger.

Click. Next photo.

Same gorgeous woman. This time with a companion.

Thin framed, killer bod. Butterscotch complexion.
He feels himself stiffen. Weave halfway down her back. Remembering the way he used to pull it as he thrust behind her.

Next photo.

Bodies pressed against each other as their lips make contact. Eyes shut and expression say it all—
this
is rapture. He’s dizzy with fury. It’s like bile that drips painfully within his chest, destroying everything in its acidic path.

He’s sitting in one of those expensive leather chairs executives own. He leans back now, hide creaking as he releases himself from the confines of his jeans and boxers. Sitting back down, he experiences a sliver of freedom. The roar in his head has yet to subside. It’s like a raging river that rushes along, the whoosh from waters sluicing against rocky outcrops. His member hardens, eyes scanning the pixels as if he can hear their breathing. Their heartbeats.

Click.

Butterscotch atop sexy Mocha.
Her legs are almost closed. But not quite. He can see her labia peeking out from between her legs, and he can’t help but stare breathlessly. He begins to stroke himself, fighting the rush in his head that threatens to blind him. Skin dry, almost chafed, he pumps himself slowly, feeling the blood engorging, like a balloon inflating.

Click.

Mocha and Butterscotch’s stares are captured by the camera. Their dual smiles radiating outward, sickening him with their fucking glee. He spits in his hand, then clasps it around his dick, stroking purposefully. The rage is a river. He can feel it taking over. Building . . . expanding, a turbulent vortex. The thump in his head is like house music. Only one thing can stop it.

Click.

Dude
comes into view. Fucking Michael. The husband.

Atop Butterscotch, sinewy brown back muscles shine. Dude reaches for her ankles. The tat on her ankle, the spot of red ink visible between fingers—the spider, clearly seen.

Black widow.

Ass to the camera, the man can’t tell if he’s inside of her yet. Mocha kissing Butterscotch’s nipples while rubbing her own clit. Next shot leaves no doubt.

The pain is blinding.
Dude’s
buried to the hilt. He’s entombed. Their eyes are locked, and her expression says it all—
this
is rapture.

The rage wells up at the couple whose sexual zeal is on display before him. This man and woman, whom he has never met, but promises to get to know like that back of his fucking hand.

Michael and Kennedy. Husband and wife.

The perfect couple. Not a care in the world. At least not yet.

They think they can swoop in and fuck with someone’s life? Pluck the very thing that is most precious from his fingertips?

No. He will
not
let that happen.

The migraine pulses at his temples and his engorged member. He increases his stroking and his pumping, fingers working the mouse as he flicks back and forth between photos, feeling the pressure build.

Legs the color of mocha chocolate.

Smooth, like only he can imagine.

Full breasts, dark, erect inviting nipples.

Dude’s cock deep within black widow.

Entombed, rapturously.

He explodes, a blend of pain and pleasure rippling outward.

Warm semen on cool dry skin.

In an instant the rush subsides. The rage ebbs.

The pounding is still there, but it’s sinking like wet quicksand. His breathing slows, and soon all he can hear is the silence of his house.

Sap dripping between fingers, the man experiences intense sadness.

Then a stab of extreme pain.

Michael and Kennedy robbed him of his most precious jewel.