The Inspiration

Chapter 5: So What If I'm a Stalker


Why did it feel like I was walking towards destiny?

She just sat there.

On that small little couch in the middle of my gallery.

So bright.

So shiny.

So shimmery.

My body was telling me to take, to possess, to own, to claim her, to make her mine. And yet my mind was telling me a completely different story. My brain was telling me that there was something special about this woman. Her eyes so delicate and deep lured me and whispered secrets straight to my heart.

The Dude was shouting for release, painfully hard in my pants, and I ached to stick my hand in my pants and jerk off right then and there. There were three things better though than anything my hand could deliver.

All three of them this girl possessed.

I'll give you three guesses.

Give up?

Okay, I'll tell you.

Her hands. Her mouth. Her pussy.

In that ascending order of course.

But no. I couldn't just walk right up to her and deliver some cheesy line that I'd used on a million other shanky girls looking for a hard fuck and a chance to be famous.

I simply had nothing in my repertoire that would do this shiny example of women justice.

The Dude was leering at her through the zipper in my pants, pointing in her direction and begging for whatever I could deliver. Fuck, he even wanted to be within ten feet of her just to smell her and have a visual for the inevitable spank session later in the shower or in my bed.

I was torn between three options.

Option #1: Pull some jerky classic guy crap and have some cheesy pick up line roll off my tongue only to be either slapped or otherwise turned down completely.

Option #2: Shyly introduce myself and make small talk about some random shit and actually be a semi nice guy for once.

Option #3 (and perhaps the least … enjoyable option): Do absolutely nothing. Ignore the fire coursing through my veins and simply walk away in search of easier tail and some tissue time with the latest copy of Debbie Does Dallas running in the background on my television.


Those were hard options.

No, idiot. Your cock is hard. Me, The Dude. Come on, lame-o! I'm fucking suffering here, The Dude cried from my pants.

Why is life so difficult?

Oh yeah, I know. Because it's fucking life. Life isn't easy. It's not glorious. There are no winners, only losers. In the end we all die, whether we've lived well or not.

And all the while through my mental manipulating this … angel in front of me just kept being perfect in the face of my struggle with indecision.

She seemed so wonderful, so majestic, so simply beautiful that I couldn't look away from her. Everything about her lured me in. Her look, her smile, the faint smell of her even from a distance.

I wanted nothing more than to know her. To truly and simply know her. Down to the deepest parts of her soul. I wanted to know what made her tick and what made her wake up in the morning.

It's official, dipshit. You've lost your nuts and grown ovaries.

"Shut up," I hissed to myself.

I was simply paralyzed by indecision. On the border of action and inaction, movement and no movement.

Go forward and possibly fuck up what could be the best thing that's happened to me in awhile or keep to myself and maintain the status quo in both our lives.

Precious seconds ticked by while my body edged me forward but my mind held me back. I probably looked like a complete and utter fucktard just standing there, mouth open agape. I knew I should move, should do anything except what I was or wasn't doing, but I couldn't.

Frozen in my spot.

Thankfully that's what a lot of people did in an art museum so I bet I probably didn't look that stupid standing off to the side of the entrance in the small white-walled gallery.

I'm sure she could hear the thunderous beating of my heart in my chest.

I hadn't heard it that loud in quite some time.

Briefly I wondered exactly what that meant. If this was some sign. Some gift from the heavens. Some twist of fate or destiny or any of that other girly crap most people with a cock didn't put stock in.

Too bad I didn't believe in heaven.


Do something, you tool.

The girl continued as if I didn't even exist. Her head went back down and more hair fell across her face, shielding it from me like a veil. I had a brief flash in my head of the same girl with a white veil covering her face and I had to shake the image free. Such a random image to have flash across my mind so suddenly.

Her hand moved and I craned my neck to see what she was doing.

Through the curtain of her hair I glimpsed her bite her lip gently and I softly moaned to myself. Fuck, she was beautiful.

And I just … couldn't. I couldn't walk up to her and throw some crap line at her. I couldn't walk up and be nice. I couldn't fucking sully that beauty barely simmering below the surface of her, just waiting to get out.

Sure, I wanted nothing more than to bury my face between her breasts and explore every inch of her body with my hands and tongue, but somehow that all seemed so shady and sordid. This was a girl who deserved so much more.

She deserved to be worshiped for the goddess that she was.

So I took the coward's way out.

I chose option #3.

I walked away.

Well, technically I backed away, my soft steps barely registering in the quiet museum.

Jerry looked at me like I had three heads when I came out of the gallery. I remember him asking me something about if I was okay and perhaps I should get a drink or something. I think I placated him and said something about feeling a cold coming on or something.

He made small talk about his youngest daughter and how she was having her first kid, but it barely registered in my head. I "ooh"ed and "ahh"ed at appropriate moments and I think he thought I was actually participating in the conversation when in actuality my eyes were trained through the glass doors on Couch Girl.

Yeah, I'd named her already.

It's not like I knew her actual name.

No, I was too fucking chicken to actually talk to her and that's why I didn't know her name.

"You know, this is her third day in a row being here," Jerry said offhand and my head snapped towards him.

"What?" I asked in response.

"She's been here the last two days. Always does the same thing. Curls up on that couch in there and writes all day." Jerry scratched at his cheek and my stomach churned unexpectedly.

So she's a writer.

That's new.

"I'd put money on her being here tomorrow too. I think she likes your pictures, Edward," the guard remarked.

I nodded quietly and my wide open mouth shut with an audible clack of teeth on teeth.

It was possibly the hardest thing I'd ever done walking out of that museum knowing she was in there, in my gallery looking at my paintings and admiring my work.

In the span of possibly twenty minutes I'd cut my nuts off and become the world's largest drama queen and hyperbole user. Seriously.

Thankfully my nuts were back in working order by the time I climbed into the shower that night and soaped up my dick. Thirty minutes and several mind numbing wanks later, I was spent and tired but still aching for more.

My perverted mind came up with every imaginable position I could have the girl in. On her knees sucking me off. Bent over that expensive Swedish couch. Spread each on my bed. On her hands and knees on the same bed. Fuck, I even threw in tying her to the bed for good measure.

The next morning I woke up with painful morning wood and repeated the same process during my morning shower, this time picturing fucking her up against my apartment door and on top of my kitchen counter.

Needless to say my cock was pretty tender when I got out of the shower. I had to gently dry The Dude off so I didn't think of Couch Girl and get hard all over again. He was in no shape for any more use today. I'd probably came ten times in the last twelve hours and still wanted more.

Always more.

I was learning that about myself.

I always wanted more.

More fame.

More girls.

More this.

More that.

But suddenly and without warning, I only wanted one thing.

To know her.

To know her completely and without pretense. Without all the crap surrounding the cult of EC and not have to put on airs as some big (almost) famous painter.

But the question was this: was Edward Cullen as good as EC?

I'd always thought they were one on the same. Big and macho. Ready for anything.

And yet, I was questioning that.

My suave demeanor may have gotten me all the tail I wanted in the past, but was it good enough for her?

I knew absolutely nothing about her other than she was fucking gorgeous and that she was a writer.

Okay three things.

She was more than likely going to be right back where I'd found her the previous day, sitting in my gallery and doing whatever the hell writers do.

And like any other creepy stalker type I was lured back to the place I'd last seen her.

I lurked around the entrance to my gallery for most of the day, making small talk with Jerry while keeping an eye on Couch Girl. I'm pretty sure he picked up on me being distracted, but thankfully he didn't say anything or ask me why I was so not with it.

I jacked off in bed that night, my spunk flying all over the crumpled sheets before I could contain it with a tissue.

Back to the museum the next day. It was Jerry's day off so I had to make myself look busy. I chatted with the other guard but he wasn't nearly as conversational as Jerry. And besides, I think he thought I was there to pick up a small child to molest even though I clearly wasn't.

I had my sights set on an older, more shapely target.

And still though, I couldn't bring myself to actually grow enough balls to talk to her. You'd think the great dropper of panties Edward Cullen would be more of a man than I was at the moment, but sadly no. I'd reverted back to my shy high school tendencies.

I'd spent the four years of high school hiding in the art room most of the time. I'd had braces and a horrible cowlick I'd tried to tame each morning, failing miserably each time. Turns out all I needed to do was grow my hair down to my chin for that cowlick to subside. Who knew.

It wasn't until college that I adopted my usual come hither attitude, thanks to forcing myself to open up and finally talk to girls. Emmett had laughed his ass off at me when I'd asked him for pointers to pick up a chick, but he'd never had a problem so as much as I hated being berated for being so stupid I really did appreciate his pointers.

I thought I'd perfected my bad boy, panty dropping demeanor until now.

This one woman ruined it all for me.


Just stick a bra on me and call me Edwina.

I repeated my watching, wanking, watching, wanking routine for four days.

It was official.

I was a complete and utter loser for having no guts.

I'd gotten absolutely no work done on any painting and I was no closer to actually working up the balls to talk to Couch Girl. I'd imagined her in every possible sexual position I could think of, even going as far as to Google "Kama Sutra" to find more spank bank material. Tied up, tied down, naked, clothed, costumed, etc. I'd done it all. "She'd" done it all.

And my fucking brain was now screaming at me that I was a disgusting perv for practically stalking this girl and doing horrible, dirty things to her in my head. I was the lowest of the low. Occupying the fifth ring of Hell for what I was doing.

Each day moved me a little further away from her and made me a little less worthy of her.

I'd almost come to the conclusion that I wasn't ever going to actually talk to her.

Pathetic, right?

But Couch Girl had different ideas.

It was Thursday, four days before the gallery opening Emmett was constantly reminding me about, when things changed.

I was on my normal stalking mission outside the gallery when I had to take a piss. For some stupid reason there was a line for the men's bathroom and it took me longer than usual to get back. Jerry was doing his rounds and I glanced in the gallery to see Couch Girl to find the spot she'd been occupying the past seven days empty.

Panic surged in my chest and my heart started beating faster.

What if she'd caught me and left?

What if she never came back?

What if …

A thousand what ifs bolted through my head and I seriously thought I was about to hyperventilate from a panic attack. I needed air and I needed it quickly.

I turned suddenly to get the fuck out of dodge and ran square into a much smaller warm body.

Breasts pressed against my stomach and a face pressed into my sternum.

The Dude instantly got hard.

Fucking Dude. Always popping up at the worst moment.

I opened my eyes that had instinctually closed upon the initial impact and found I was looking down at the same glossy brown hair I'd practically memorized every detail of for the past five days.

Oh fuck me slowly and gently.

You know how I said I didn't believe in fate? Well suddenly I did and suddenly I realized it was playing a cruel, if somewhat hilarious joke on me.

It was Couch Girl in the flesh.

In my arms.

Breasts pressed into my body and skin so close to my own.

The Dude cried out louder than ever before.

Claim! Take! Fuck! Own! Possess!

He wanted me to do something quickly.

"Oh! I'm so sorry! Shit, I'm so clumsy sometimes," Couch Girl said with her head down. I looked down to the ground and she'd dropped a notebook she'd been holding.

I went to crouch down and get it for her, but apparently she had the same idea and did the same. Our heads collided and for a brief second our noses grazed against each other.

A shiver ran through me, but not because I was cold. It was a completely foreign sensation and one I'd never experienced. I had absolutely no idea what it meant.

I straightened back up and stuck out the notebook to her.

"Here's your notebook," I mumbled.

A blush bloomed across her cheeks, the slight pink tone standing out against her alabaster skin. My mind worked overtime to think how I'd mix the paints to concoct a similar color to put on canvas.

The corner of her mouth turned up and she looked up at me through her dark eyelashes.

"Thanks, Stalker Boy," she said and her eyes widened immeasurably.

The blush that was slight before got even redder this time spreading down her neck and creeping towards the neckline of her navy shirt.

Obviously she hadn't intended to say the last part given that she looked absolutely horrified.

She looked away from me and shook her head a few times.

"Shit shit shit," she mumbled almost too low for me to hear.

I couldn't help the small laugh that escaped me. She shoved the notebook in her incredibly oversized bag and quickly covered her face with her hands. I slapped my hand across my face to stifle the laughter and she peeked at me through her fingers.

When I felt I could control myself, I took my hand away from my mouth and put it awkwardly in my pants pickets, trying to hide the huge hard on I was currently sporting. Fucking loose pants. I had to be all arty and shit and get the loose ones.

"So do you work here or something?" she quietly asked.

She'd pulled her fingers down and those big brown doe eyes were staring at me inquisitively. And she was biting her lip again. Dammit. I mentally pleaded with her to stop doing that or else I couldn't be responsible for my next actions. More than likely I'd throw her down on the nearest horizontal surface and hump her leg like a dog in heat.

"Um, no," I mumbled, confused why she'd ask such a question.

"It's just … I see you here all the time and you're always around and you seem to like this area and I mean I see you all the time and you know," she rambled and her blush started to fade a little bit on her neck, leaving behind slightly red blotched skin.

"Oh, uh well …" I muttered. Did I dare tell her I was practically stalking her every move in my gallery? Yeah, probably not. "Well, I really like art."

Good one, moron. You're in a fucking art museum. Just call you Captain Obvious.

"Me too," she smiled softly and her eyes lit up a bit.

"So you come here often?" I asked, trying to fill the conversation and keep her smiling and talking.

A lock of her hair fell forward and every cell in me ached to reach out and sweep it back for her, but somehow I managed to hold back. Considering she'd just moments earlier had her face about six inches from my dick, my control was surprisingly good.

"Yeah, a friend recommended this place and he's usually right about stuff so I decided to see what I could find," she said with a gentle lilt to her voice.

She didn't have that typical hard Chicago edge to her voice and it made me wonder where she was originally from. There was no way she was originally from the area. Yet another mystery of Couch Girl.

"Sounds like you have a smart friend," I chuckled.

She laughed with me and it was a sound that made my heart beat a little faster.

"He likes to think he's pretty smart. Always reminding me of that fact," she said and she smiled a little smile that made me think there was more to what she was saying.

I wanted to learn what it was.

There was a pause then and even though my usual line was on the tip of my tongue still, it somehow didn't spew forth. Thankfully. Despite the initial unusual way we'd met, things between Couch Girl and me were going fairly well.

Which reminded me of one fact.

"So do you have a name or are you as mysterious as that smile of yours?" I asked her.

The blush again crept across her cheeks and I mentally high fived myself for a job well done. I'd successfully managed to sound suave while still sounding innocent.

"Bella," she said sweetly and tucked the stray lock of hair behind her ear.

Even her name was beautiful. Appropriate given the Italian translation of the word. I'd managed to pick up enough of the language along the way during my studies of art history to not be a complete blundering idiot with the language.

"Bella," I said, rolling her name around my mouth and off my tongue. I'll admit, it sounded great echoing through my head. And it sure as hell was doing something to my dick.

"And does Stalker Boy have a name or should I keep embarrassing myself by referring to you as Stalker Boy?" she asked in return, her eyes lighting up.

"No embarrassment needed," I chuckled.

"Good cause I was hoping I could limit my embarrassing moments to only two today. Though I can't promise I won't embarrass myself more. I have a strong tendency to fall over flat surfaces sometimes so don't be surprised if I just face-plant out of the blue."

She smiled and her teeth were white and straight, reminding me of how great her mouth was and how many times I'd pictured it wrapped around my cock.

I'm begging you! The Dude said.

I beat him back into submission and did my best to ignore his fitful pleas for relief.

"So your name?" she reminded me.

Something deep in the back of my head warned me to not show off my name. To not show off that she'd been sitting in my gallery for the past however many days. On the other hand I didn't use my full name so it was possible she wouldn't put two and two together, but that voice in my head also told me not to take a chance with her.

"Edward," I said swiftly, foregoing my last name.

She hadn't used hers, so I guess I didn't have to use mine either.

I could remotely justify it that way. Tit for tat, I guess.

Mmmmm tits.

She smiled sweetly again at me and I returned it with my own smile, though not yet pulling out the big guns panty dropper smile.

Like I said, I wanted to do something different.

She nodded her head toward my gallery and said, "Have you seen this guy's stuff? I really like it. I've been sitting in here a lot lately."

A lot was an understatement. She practically lived in there. I was surprised I didn't find a cot for her to sleep on in there if the museum had let her set one up.

"Uh, yeah I think so. It's pretty good stuff," I answered.

Okay, so that wasn't technically a lie. I'd seen my own stuff but I also didn't want to say right away that it had been me that had painted everything she'd been so intently studying the past few days.

No use putting the horse before the cart.

Once again my head warned me to go slowly and carefully. Watch what I said and not act like a complete ass just looking for a quick lay.

She motioned toward the doors and stepped around me to go back inside the gallery, her scent hitting me in the process and making me hard all over again. Fucking cock was going to be the death of me.

"Not now," I hissed as quietly as I could and The Dude decided to ignore me.

I shuffled in behind her and watched as she settled back on what I now considered her couch, patting the spot beside her.

Where before my feet had refused to carry me to the couch to talk to her, this time they carried me forward to settle in beside her. It was a small couch and we were practically shoulder to shoulder, the warmth of our bodies probably felt by the both.

"So tell me why you like this guy's work," I said after a quiet moment of enjoying just sitting there.

She grinned and I felt my stomach leap for her.

I wanted to listen to her, I really did. But the problem was the moment she started talking and waving her hands around, I got lost in her voice. I watched her mouth move and sound come out, but none of the words registered in my head.

Every now and then I caught a quick "technique," "glimpse" or "depth," but most of it was just the sound of her voice.

The perv in me also liked that whenever she waved her hand her boobs jiggled.

That certainly didn't hurt.

I don't know how much time passed while I listened to her, and honestly it didn't really matter that much.


Because Couch Girl was talking tome and I hadn't made a complete ass of myself.

Hope dawned deep in my chest, making me think thoughts I hadn't dared to think before.

That voice deep in the back of my head praised me.

Good boy. Go slow, Edward. She's not someone you want to lose.

And the truth was … that voice was right.

I didn't want to lose her.