GRAVE OBSESSION

  J.L. QUICK

  GRAVE OBSESSION COPYRIGHT

  © 2024 by J.L. Quick Books LLC

  All rights reserved. Printed in the United States of America. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without the written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Cover Design: Disturbed Valkyrie Designs

  Editing: Spice Me Up Editing (Katie)

  CONTENTS

  author’s note

  trigger warnings

  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

  Epilogue

  also by j.l. quick

  Follow Me

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  This novel is a contemporary dark romance. It contains scenes and descriptive adult content, recommended for adult (18+) readers.

  As a contemporary, dark romance work of fiction, this novel is not intended to be a portrayal of a healthy relationship.

  TRIGGER WARNINGS

  This novel may contain scenes and descriptive adult content that might be triggering for some readers.

  To the sweet and innocent ones…

  Do you prefer to be called ‘my good fucking girl’

  or ‘dirty little whore’ with your hand-necklaces?

  CHAPTER ONE

  GRAVE

  Kayce James.

  She’s mine.

  She just doesn’t know it yet.

  The garnet, rust, and mustard fallen leaves rustle around my sneakers with the unseasonably light, warm breeze as I wait for her. I sit in the same place I do every Thursday afternoon, a wooden park bench across the street from McArthur Hall, where she has Psychology 402 with Professor Stewart until 3:15 p.m.

  Pulling my phone from the front pocket of my jeans, I take a quick glance at the time—3:21 p.m.

  She’s late.

  Kayce is never late. She is overly punctual and always adheres to her routine. It has served her well, garnering her early admission to medical school at Dartmouth and the likelihood of securing her place as valedictorian in the spring.

  She’s as fucking smart as she is beautiful.

  I put my phone away as I stand and grab my bookbag, ready to scour McArthur Hall before searching for her at her dorm. As I step off the curb to cross the street, Professor Stewart walks through the opening door and holds it for Kayce to pass through.

  The sun accentuates the natural cinnamon highlights of her dark auburn hair as the breeze picks up and tousles her lightly curled locks across her face. She brushes them to the side, over her round, rosy cheeks and tucks them behind her ear.

  I can barely pull my gaze from the golden caramel of her hazel eyes. The shade of them is mesmerizing, but that isn’t their sole draw. Like always, I stare, hoping that just for a moment, she’ll look at me. That she’ll finally see me. But not once does she peer in my direction.

  Another set darts my way, they belong to Professor Stewart. Catching my stare, a look of fatherly concern flashes over his face. Throwing the bookbag in my hand over my shoulder, I wave at the other students walking through the door beside him.

  His features soften with every step I take toward their group. Continuing my ruse, I make mundane small talk with one of them to further blend in. I continue to walk with them, even though they are heading in the wrong direction—I don’t need to follow Kayce to know with near certainty where she is going.

  She’ll leisurely cross the quad toward Wheaton Hall if she follows her normal routine. Once there, she’ll make a quick trip inside to the coffee shop to grab an iced oat milk espresso and, more often than not, a small snack.

  Ditching the group of guys, I double back across campus toward the Latte Lounge. When I pass the open shop front, Kayce is standing at the counter making small talk with Becca, the regular weekday barista, as she waits for her order. Lingering near the entrance, I can’t help but chuckle to myself when Kayce mentions needing the double-shot to stay up to study tonight.

  That’s definitely not how she spends her evenings.

  Everyone on campus thinks she’s so sweet and innocent. If they knew the truth, they’d be as obsessed as I am. Her secret is safe with me, though—no one else deserves to know her the way that I do.

  Keeping my distance, I follow behind Kayce as she walks toward her dorm. She’s oblivious to my presence as she enjoys slow, savory sips of her iced coffee every few steps. When she reaches her destination, she swipes her keycard at the front of her dorm, Sullivan Hall. Kayce pulls open the main door of the building and pauses. Standing unwaveringly still, she glances over her shoulder.

  Do you know I’m here?

  Can you feel me?

  She shakes her head, visibly acknowledging what she thinks is a foolish feeling, not realizing it’s an intuition she should probably listen to.

  “See you soon, cinnamon,” I mutter to myself before heading to my apartment at the edge of campus.

  I sit at my desk, intending to study for my upcoming physics exam, but I find myself spending more time glancing at the clock instead of my textbook or notes. The minutes tick by like hours, waiting until it’s time.

  At 9:58 p.m., I pull the mask from my desk drawer and slide it over my face. Giving a quick glance in the mirror to ensure my face is covered, I click the link to join our private chat.

  CHAPTER TWO

  KAYCE

  Standing before the mirror, I finish deepening my smoky eye before adding my winged liner and a few extra swipes of lengthening mascara. My fingers run over the delicate lace of the black masquerade mask sitting beside my makeup bag while I give my mascara a second to dry and mull over my current life choices.

  This is not how I intended to pay for college.

  I unzip my oversized Oakridge University hoodie, slip my arms out of it, and let it fall to the floor near the laundry basket. Stepping back in front of the mirror, I slide the mask over my eyes as I stare at my reflection. The lacy, black push-up bra I’m wearing amplifies my already ample cleavage, while the high-waisted matching panties accentuate the waistline of the generous curves filling out my frame.

  Having saved them for last, I pull on the uncomfortable thigh-highs and slip on the even more uncomfortable black stilettos.

  Thankfully, I won’t have to stand in them long.

  After ensuring the door to my single is locked and dimming any unnecessary lights, I grab a few of the supplies needed for tonight’s date. I arrange each of the toys neatly on the plush, white duvet and position my laptop in its usual spot before climbing onto my twin mattress.

  Double-checking my camera placement, giving myself a final once over, and confirming everything is perfect, I take a deep breath. My fingers hover over the mouse as I slowly exhale, hoping the agency scheduled a tolerable client for tonight.

  While I am not one to yuck anyone’s yum, some of these men I meet online give me the ick. Like, it wouldn’t surprise me to see them on the news someday, ick.

  I force a smile before clicking the link to start tonight’s session. My gaze is immediately drawn to the soft, blueish-gray eyes staring back at me through the screen.

  Grave.

  I don’t need to glance at his perfectly coiffed jet-black hair or the skeleton mask that always covers the lower half of his face to know it’s him.

  I could find those eyes in a sea of faces.

  Grave, the screen-name I know him by, is my most frequent client. And my favorite. I find his face on the other side of the screen most nights I work, and I definitely don’t mind. Along with being my best client, he’s also the youngest—by several decades—most charming, and I actually enjoy his company.

  Probably more than I should.

  Without seeing his whole face, I can’t know for sure, but from his eyes, voice, and our conversations I assume that we are relatively close in age. Our age is where our similarities end, though. The two of us are so vastly different. Grave is everything I’m not—fit, non-conforming, and confident as hell. I still can’t fathom why a guy like him is paying so much for my company night after night. I imagine he must be able to pull any girl he wants.

  Yet, he spends his nights with me.

  “How was your day, cinnamon?” Grave’s rich, deep voice billows through my laptop speakers.

  “Good.” I feign a smile, trying hard not to let my actual emotions show. I’ve been an emotional wreck since I left Psych 402 this afternoon, and I’ve spent the evening trying to figure out how to deal with what happened. If I hadn’t needed the money from tonight’s session so badly, I probably would’ve canceled. “And you?”

  “Don’t lie to me, cinnamon,” he scolds as his eyes bore into my soul through the screens separating us. With a tone full of sincere concern, he continues, “That was the fakest smile I have ever seen spread across that gorgeous face of yours. I never want you to lie to me.”

  With any other client, I wouldn� ��t say a word. But Grave isn’t any other client. In the months we have been talking, we’ve developed a relationship of sorts. I might always be in lingerie when we meet online, but there isn’t always sex involved. He probably knows more about me than anyone in my actual life, with how much time we’ve spent simply bullshitting about random nothingness. Some nights, he really just wants to talk. Other nights, he wants to watch me come until I nearly pass out.

  Balance, I guess.

  “Tell me what’s wrong,” he presses.

  “I had a pretty shitty day,” I lament.

  His brows furrow slightly, and the displeasure of my statement is clearly readable in his eyes.

  “What happened?”

  CHAPTER THREE

  GRAVE

  Whatever is bothering Kayce is strewn across her face and obvious in her body language. Someone upset her today, and at the rate rage is coursing through my veins, it is overly apparent that I don’t like seeing her like this.

  The mask covering my face hides the flaring nostrils of my deep, heavy breaths, and the tightly balled fists at my sides are outside the camera's view. I try to hide my anger from her, but there is no denying it in my tone as I speak through the gritted teeth of my clenched jaw.

  “Did someone hurt you, cinnamon?”

  “Yes…I mean, no,” she stammers and struggles to maintain eye contact with the camera. “He didn’t actually do anything.”

  “He obviously did something,” I snarl, my anger unintentionally misplaced.

  Tears well in her eyes—only fueling my fury—as I give her a moment to collect her thoughts before pushing for more information.

  “My psych professor flunked my midterm, and I know I aced it. It’s going to ruin my GPA,” she sniffles. That wasn’t a fatherly look of concern at all this afternoon. That fuck was jealous of how I was looking at her. Using the backs of her fingers, she carefully wipes under her eyes to gather her pending tears without smearing her makeup. “But he was generous enough to offer me”—Kayce air quotes—“extra credit if I fucked him.”

  “There’s no way in hell you’re going to fuck him,” I angrily blurt out before I can stop myself from showing my vicious jealousy.

  “I might fuck myself on camera for money, but I’m not a fucking whore,” she spits, tears trickling from her eyes as she doesn’t understand the reasoning behind my outburst.

  “That’s not what I mea—” Kayce slams shut the lid of her laptop, abruptly ending our conversation before I can finish. “Fuck!”

  Shoving away from my desk, I pace around my apartment for a few minutes before grabbing a gray Oakridge hoodie from the foot of my bed. I toss it on and shove my mask into the front pocket before storming into the hallway. With heavy, brisk steps, I make my way downstairs and to the adjacent parking garage.

  Reaching my Audi A5 Coupe, I slide behind the steering wheel and gun the engine. My tires squeal against the concrete as I tear from the parking space and toward the source of Kayce’s problem. Delving into the people in her life seemed like overkill a couple of months ago, but tonight it’s proving to be quite fucking helpful to know Professor Stewart’s address.

  He doesn’t live far from campus, and it takes only a few minutes to reach the quaint Cape Cod he lives in—alone. I drive a few houses further down the block before pulling to the curb and parking.

  If I wind up fucking killing him, I really don’t want my car parked out front.

  After helping myself into the backyard, I peer through his window as I pull my skeleton mask back over my face.

  Professor Stewart is enjoying a glass of red wine while sitting on the couch . Almost as much as he’s enjoying the blonde co-ed kneeling at his feet, bobbing her head between his thighs as she sucks his cock.

  Fucking prick.

  They both startle when I forcibly let myself through the backdoor, him struggling to put his cock away as he clamors from the couch and her screaming. I storm toward him as he shouts, “Get the fuck out of my house!”

  Slamming both my hands against his chest, I shove him into the couch he just stood from before turning my attention to the blonde. “Do you want to be here?”

  Barely able to make eye contact with me, she shakes her head in response.

  “Are you sucking his cock so you can pass his class?”

  “Yes,” she answers in a shameful whisper.

  “Leave,” I command. “You weren’t here. You didn’t see me.”

  “You leave, you fai—” My hands wrapping around his throat cut Professor Stewart’s words short, and they do nothing to stop the blonde co-ed from hustling out the front door.

  “Careful, Professor, because if you’re that desperate to have your cock sucked, it might just wind up in your mouth before I leave,” I snarl as his eyes grow wide. Tightening my grip on his throat, I loom over him, fighting the urge to remove him from existence. “That little blonde running out the front door, Kayce James, and any other fucking student you’ve tried to blackmail are getting A’s, aren’t they?”

  His bluing lips part as he futilely struggles to gasp for air before quickly nodding.

  “Good,” I snark, relinquishing my white-knuckled grip to just one hand. Reaching between us, I grip his cock with my free hand and squeeze with enough force that he howls in pain. I don’t relent but increase the ferocity my hold until he cannot control the tears of distress streaming down his face.

  “And if you so much as think about acting on another sexual thought with a student, this”—I violently twist the vise of my fist around his cock—“is going to feel good compared to what happens if I have to come back. Understood?”

  With wide eyes and an agonized expression, Professor Stewart quickly nods. Tipping my head to the side, I wish he could see the maniacal grin beneath my mask as I sneer, “Not good enough. I’m going to need to hear you say it.”

  “I…I won’t,” he painfully whimpers. “No. Ssss…st…stu…students.”

  “Good boy.” I release my hold of his throat and cock before condescendingly patting his cheek. As he doubles over in pain and relieves his stomach of its contents, I let myself out as quickly as I got in.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  KAYCE

  I wake to a knock at my door and rub the sleep from my eyes before throwing back the covers and trying to rouse myself enough to climb from bed. As my feet hit the icy tile floor, whoever is behind the door obnoxiously knocks again. I cross the small dorm room, intent on finding out who needs to see me this early in the morning.

  When I pull open the door, there is no one on the other side. I glance in both directions before looking down and finding a bouquet. The flowers look like tiny pink hearts with a teardrop falling from them. They are sadly beautiful. Lifting the vase from the floor, I carry it into my room before reading the card.

  I’m sorry, cinnamon.

  A barely audible gasp passes over my lips as I stare at the words sprawled across the paper in my hand, reading them over and over.

  This isn’t the first time I’ve received gifts from clients through the agency. However, this is the first time that it’s been flowers and not lingerie—or some weird as fuck, obscure sex toys they wanted to watch me use. Some of those have been downright comical and an absolutely hard fucking no. If I can’t wrap around it with both hands, it sure as hell isn’t going anywhere near inside of me.

  I’m all for girth, but I’m not fucking myself with a Pringles’ can.

  I lashed out at the only person willing to listen last night, and I feel horrible about it. The way he talks to me and genuinely seems to care, I know that’s not the way he sees me. The other men I talk to, definitely. But not Grave.

  Fuck, I wish I could call him to talk.

  The agency has strict rules about fraternizing outside of its controlled online environment. Videos and chat are monitored and censored to ensure that details, like phone numbers and emails, aren’t exchanged between the cam girls and their clients. At first, I always thought that it was for our safety. When some clients cleverly worked their way around the censorship, I quickly realized it was to prevent us from using the service as a vetting system of sorts for prostitution.

 

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