Twisted Obsession
by Iris Ann Hunter
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Copyright © 2016 by Iris Ann Hunter
All rights reserved.
This book is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental. This work, or any portion thereof, may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
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As always…for Justin,
my Man, my Muse, my Master
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Table of Contents
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
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CHAPTER ONE
I stand facing the door of my apartment, keys in hand, Daniel close behind me. He waits, quietly, his towering presence feeding the strength of my heartbeat, just like it has all through dinner. I can feel the graze of his chest against my back, feel the ripple of his breath along my hair. The warm August night trickles down the hallway from a nearby open window, the heat seeming to gather in the narrow slit between us. It drifts and moans, sparking a wildfire, just like it has from the very first moment we met.
“Amelia,” he whispers, letting me know he feels it too.
My body reacts to his voice, the rich, deep tremors rippling along my insides, but still he waits, still he keeps himself just out of reach, waiting for me to do something other than send him off with a kiss on the cheek; which is what I’ve done for the past three weeks, ever since a random encounter on the street—where we literally ran into each other—led to a date, then another and another.
It’s not that I haven’t wanted to do more. I have. God, I have. I’ve wanted to give in to this force of nature, this magnetic pull that seems to draw me to him with such strength that it often steals my breath away, but I just haven’t been able to. Because the sad truth is: I’m in love with another man…a man I’ve been saving myself for.
I gasp when his lips brush loosely along my ear. “If you’re not ready for this…it’s okay. I can wait. I can wait for as long as you need me to.”
His words are meant to soothe, meant to calm, but all they do is stoke the already burning flames; because I hear the whispers of aching desire behind them, hear the subtle strains of a man fighting to not devour me whole.
But that’s not what scares me, even though perhaps it should.
If I let him in, I’ll be letting him into my life, into my private world. We’ll be in close proximity, in an intimate setting…my intimate setting. Which is terrifying because he does something to me; some strange sort of draw that makes me want to reveal all my secrets, to lay myself out bare for his pleasure, for his approval. That’s his power, his pull, and he does it so effortlessly. Merely a glance, or a graze of his touch, and I’m weak all over. In many ways, he reminds me of him.
No.
I force him from my mind, determined not to let him take this moment from me. This isn’t cheating, I remind myself, even though it feels that way…feels like I’m leaving a long-time love behind and moving on. The thought stabs me in the heart, bleeding out despair.
I force back the pain, and with a trembling hand, slide the key into the lock and open the door. I hesitate, then with a determined step, cross over the threshold and look back at Daniel. I’m temporarily struck, gazing into dark hazel eyes, so full of depth, so full of mystery. They give away a soul much older than his thirty-two years. I wonder what he sees when he looks at me: the twenty-six-year-old woman, or the child inside? Something in the way his expression shifts, in the way his nostrils flare, tells me it’s the woman.
“You sure?” he asks, a fleeting dark shadow passing over his beautiful face that gives me pause.
But then I answer, “Yes. I’m sure.”
He studies me for an intense moment, both of us knowing what I’m really saying yes to, then he steps forward, his tall, sturdy frame a broad sweep across the doorway.
With anxious steps, I move through the small, darkened apartment, running a hand over my long chestnut hair to smooth over any strays while my heels click over the hardwood floors. I switch on the floor lamp next to the sofa, sending a soft glow through the air that dances off my little white dress and the pale, peach walls.
I glance over and see Daniel gazing around, taking in the place, the details of which there isn’t much, yet. Just a cream-colored sofa, a coffee table, a television and a book shelf. No knick-knacks, no trinkets, no picture frames. Just enough to live on. Enough to get from day to day.
“Would you like a drink?” I ask, hoping he’ll say yes so I can have one too.
“Please,” he says, turning to study a print of Van Gogh’s Starry Night on the wall.
I hesitate, feeling as though he’s studying me by extension.
Then he moves—a casual slide of his hands into the pockets of his black slacks while he peruses the art—and my body tightens. But that’s how it is with him. Every little thing about him just draws me in. The carved out angle of his jaw; the slow, thoughtful smiles; the way light bounces of his short, dark hair, revealing rich browns with hints of amber—almost the same color as my eyes. I watch entranced as subtle, curving lines of muscle whisper beneath the charcoal dress shirt, promising strength, promising power. I’m still staring when he begins to turn.
“Red wine okay?” I ask, forcing my gaze away.
“Sure.”
I move to the small kitchen and grab a bottle of wine from the little wooden rack, watching him out of the corner of my eye. He’s quiet, always quiet. At first I thought he was shy, but as I’ve gotten to know him, I realize he’s not shy at all, just reserved. It’s made our getting to know each other somewhat slow, as I on the other hand, am shy. And in many ways, taken.
But he hasn’t pushed, hasn’t pressed. We’ve taken our time, with a few dinners in quiet, little restaurants, a couple walks in the park, a sunset by the lake where we almost kissed. One time, when we couldn’t see each other, we talked on the phone for hours, until dawn burrowed its way into the sky. I can still remember with decadent clarity just how soft and deep his voice became in those early morning hours. We talked about everything…everything safe. His landscape photography, my job at the museum, what foods we like, what movies we enjoy, favorite music, little bits of personal history that lends a chuckle or a gasp of surprise without revealing too much; each offering the other a piece of the puzzle that is our lives, and yet with everything we’ve shared, in many ways, we’re still strangers. Because something tells me I’m not the only one with secrets to hide.
I look over and see him glance to the unpacked boxes in the corner.
“I just moved in a couple months ago,” I offer, then remember I probably already told him that. “I just haven’t unpacked it all, yet.” And likely never will, as I’ll probably decide to move again, hopelessly searching for a life I’ll never have.
He nods, then his gaze drifts to the bookshelf, crammed with books of all kinds. I watch him tilt his head, scanning the titles. Then he reaches for a book with a fragile cover and worn binding. My breath catches.
Why did he go right for that one?
“The Dark Descent ,” he mutters, flipping through it. “Looks like you’ve read this a few times.”
“Uhhh…yeah.”
I feel oddly exposed. The wine opener slips from my fingers and onto the white tile counter with a clang. My hands are shaking.
Calm down, Amelia. He doesn’t know. Can’t know.
I begin opening the wine, but I can’t keep my eyes off him. H
e sets it back on the shelf and scans the other books by the same author. “I take it you’re a fan of Thomas Holden?”
“He’s…he’s an amazing writer.” It’s all I can say.
He nods absently, then turns his attention to some of the other books. I breathe a sigh of relief until I watch him reach for a small red paperback. My cheeks flush the same color as the book. I should’ve planned this out better. I should’ve expected I would be letting him in tonight. Now it’s too late.
I watch him read the title while I fumble pulling out the cork. He just stares at the cover, then he looks over at me. His eyes have darkened and a small smile plays along his lips. “Master’s Rules?” He says it like a question. A loaded question.
I blink, then find myself looking anywhere but his direction. “Umm…it’s…it’s just for fun.”
If only I could crawl into a hole somewhere. I watch him place the book back while I unscrew the cork from the opener. A breath of relief leaves my lungs when he steps away from the book shelf, only it’s short lived when I watch his gaze return to Van Gogh’s print. “Why that piece?” he asks with a motion of his head. His eyes drift to all the other empty walls, then back to the print. “Does it mean something?”
Yes.
I want to be honest with him. I want to pull back the drapes from my life and let him in further, but how do I respond to his question without scaring him off?
I set the cork down, watching it roll a little before it settles into place. “It reminds me that I’m not alone.”
When I glance over, his eyebrows gather. “How so?”
Maybe I should evade his answer, or perhaps I’ll lie. But then…I’m not a good liar. I’m good at lying to myself, but anyone else? No. I can’t do it. Especially not Daniel. In such a short time, he’s grown to mean too much to me.
I look over, meeting his inquiring gaze. “Van Gogh painted that when he was in a mental institution…not long after he cut off his ear. It’s said to be the view he had out his window.”
He blinks slowly. I can see the unspoken questions brewing in his eyes.
I shrug, trying to appear nonchalant, but I know I’ve failed. “I…was in one for a while—a mental institution—when I was seventeen.”
I think perhaps I’ve shocked him. “I didn’t know that,” he says tightly, his face now pale. There’s an odd tinge in his voice that draws my attention. I can’t figure out if it’s disappointment, or concern...or something else.
“How could you? It’s not exactly something I reveal on a first date.” In fact, it’s something I haven’t told anyone.
Not even him.
My eyes avoid Daniel as I grab a couple wine glasses out of the cupboard and pour the Merlot, mindful of his gaze. Perhaps I should just tell him. If he’s going to run, it might as well be now, before I get too attached. But as soon as I think it, I realize it’s too late for that.
I cork the bottle then with a deep breath, walk towards him and extend a glass.
“Thank you,” he says, taking it from me with a graze of his fingers, his eyes never leaving mine.
I glance to the print and take a sip. And it’s there, in that moment, that I decide to take a giant leap, feeling like one of those curving swirls reaching for the starry sky. “My mom thinks I’ve got some sort of chemical imbalance,” I start, my voice soft, almost a whisper. “She doesn’t see any other reason why a sweet, privileged, well-behaved young woman would try to do what I did. My dad thinks it’s the day and age, the social media, the endless online rabbit holes where young minds get tainted and misled.” I pause, taking a moment to sink into the scene, falling into the pulsing stars and shifting night, letting it sweep me away like it’s done so many times before. “But the truth is, I felt alone. I felt different. Without really knowing why. I had a good life I suppose, the picture-perfect suburban upbringing, and yet…” I shrug. “I had trouble seeing the sun, you know what I mean?”
Silence, then his deep, rough voice seeps into the starry night. “Yeah, I know what you mean.”
I can tell by the weight in his tone that he does, and something inside me breathes a deep sigh of relief. Instinct tells me he’s no stranger to the dark, no stranger to the shadows that lurk in the far reaches of the mind. Perhaps that’s why I fell for him so quickly.
“It’s funny,” I continue. “I’d always loved this work of art, even before I knew anything about it. I often wonder how he must’ve felt when he painted this. Was he sad? Was he lonely? Was he looking out into a bleak night and wanting to see something different?” I sigh. “I guess…in the end, for me, he took something dark and made it magical. At least, that’s what I want to see in it. It gives me hope, that even through darkness, there can be beauty. If you think to look for it.”
I turn to see Daniel’s eyes drop and I know instantly what he’s looking at. Quietly, he takes my wine glass and places it on the nearby book shelf, along with his. Then he steps back to me and takes both my hands in his, gazing down at the two bracelets I wear, one on each wrist. They’re the same ones I always wear. They’re about an inch and a half thick, made of small beads of different colors. He glances up at me, solemn, knowing, then without a word he begins taking off the bracelets, revealing a scar on each wrist.
I hear a soft whimper leave his lips as he runs his thumbs along the white, slightly raised flesh. It’s such a deep, intimate touch.
“Do you still?” he asks quietly, looking up at me while he holds my fragile wrists in his hands. “Do you still have trouble seeing the sun?”
“I don’t know. Sometimes, I suppose. I was good for a while. I became…close to someone after what happened…someone who helped me a great deal. Especially in the beginning. I don’t think I’d ever seen life so brightly. And strangely enough, I never even told him about what happened. He was just there for me, when I had no one else. He seemed to understand me. Seemed to know me. But in the end, he kind of added to the dark. And now…well, I don’t know—it’s…complicated.” I shift my eyes away, feeling like I’ve revealed too much. So I sidestep. “But then, I guess that’s how life is. It never really gets easy. Some days are just less hard than others. But for the most part, I’m okay now.” I think.
I take a deep breath and risk a glance his way. I blink, somewhat shocked by the strange intensity in his gaze. He looks almost…mad .
“Sorry,” I wince. “I guess that was kind of a downer. I just didn’t want—”
“Daniel,” I gasp when he shoves me up against the wall.
“I’m sorry,” he grates, pressing his body into mine, his eyes so dark they appear black. His warm sweet breath dashes back and forth along my face. “I’m so sorry you’ve had to suffer.”
I can’t breathe, can’t think, he’s so close, so wound up. I’ve never seen him like this before…never seen this loss of control, this breech of emotion. “Don’t—be. It’s not—not your—”
Before I can get another word out, his mouth is on mine, lips crushing against me. It’s a hot, violent kiss. A hungry kiss. Our first kiss. He groans, I groan, our tongues curving and carving out the other. It’s an explosion, a collision of pent up desires, like holding back the tide and then letting go, then feeling the roar of the ocean as it’s set free.
His mouth leaves mine far too quickly and I feel a brutal rake of his teeth along my jaw as he surges down to my neck, and bites.
I cry out, feeling touched on like an exposed nerve.
Suddenly he pulls back, panting. He stares at me, brooding and virulent. “Promise me,” he grates. “Promise me that no matter what happens between us, or what happens in the future, that you’ll never—” The words stop abruptly, and he swallows hard. Intense hazel eyes pin me down.
I know what he’s trying to say. I know what words rest on his tongue.
My heart lurches, the feeling of being wanted quenching a longtime thirst that’s plagued my life. My parents loved the idea of me, just not the real me…the troubled me…the crazy me. The one they
could live without. The one I think they sometimes wish had bled away on that lonely winter’s night. But this man here, who I’ve known less than a month, seems genuinely terrified that I might find my way down that path once more. Perhaps it’s a fear of not wanting to be responsible for something I might do if he ever broke my heart, or perhaps it’s a real fear that he might lose me one day if life got too dark, but either way, I’ll take the concern. I can see that it’s sincere. I can see that it’s honest.
“I promise,” I say, knowing it’s not a lie, because it’s a promise I made to myself not too long ago. I would survive this life, even if it killed me in the process.
A slight show of relief settles into his face, but he still seems bothered, still seems rattled.
“Hey,” I soothe, reaching up to stroke his cheek. “It’s okay. I’m alright now.”
“No. It’s not okay.”
His tight-lipped words confuse me, as though there’s something else rumbling through his head. “Please. Talk to me,” I beg.
He says nothing. So I try something else. “I’ve given you something. A secret. Now you need to give me something. That’s how these things work.”
I try offering a smile but it only appears to hurt him.
He sucks in a deep, ragged breath, then gazes down into my eyes. “You don’t want to know my secrets, Princess.”
My heart warms at the nickname he’s been using for me, but my body chills at the dark threat hidden behind his words. They’re intimidating, just like him when he wants to be. I’ve seen the cold, hard glares he gives men who glance my way, seen the domineering way he commands the space around him without ever speaking a word. Even with me at times, when I’ve caught him lost in thought, or he’s been distracted by something on his mind, he’ll return to the moment with a detached, almost disturbing look in his eyes that has me swallowing down fear. But then he focuses on me, and the warmth returns. But in many ways, it’s that ebb and flow of emotion, that subtle strobe of mystery that seems to lure me to him even further. Like the moth to the flame, I can’t stay away. Just like I couldn’t stay away from him .
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