FALLEN: A Dark Mystery Romance (LOVE IS WAR Book 1)

by Shayne Ford

“I’m sorry. I thought you were someone else.”

  “No problem,” he says, his gaze dipping to my blouse.

  Rain keeps falling from the sky, drenching my top.

  “I left my coat is inside,” I say, smiling embarrassedly and feeling the need to explain myself.

  He nods and smiles.

  I tear my gaze away from him when movement across the street catches my eye. A man rushes to his car.

  I freeze.

  It’s not a limousine this time. A valet climbs out of a red sports car while the mysterious man smoothly slips into the driver’s seat.

  Gloved hands, dark coat, white shirt, and a beautiful jawline. The rest of his face escapes my sight, but there’s no doubt in my mind that he is the man that I was looking for.

  A quiet sound rolls in my ears. Music in the background and a woman’s voice. Unintelligible words. Soft laughter and a moan.

  Is this a dream?

  With that thought, my awareness kicks in and my eyes peel open. It’s not morning yet–– I don’t think so, but the sky starts lighting up behind the trees.

  Darkness tangled with a blue glow fills my office.

  I fell asleep on the couch again. I push the blanket to the side and pull upright, my gaze swinging to the laptop.

  Why do I keep leaving it open?

  Leaning forward, I snatch it off the coffee table and turn it to me, the images playing on the screen kicking me into full awareness.

  What. The. Fuck.

  A naked woman laughs in front of the camera. I can’t see her face only her lips.

  Where are these clips coming from? And why do they keep popping on my screen?

  I can’t focus on finding an explanation as the clip keeps rolling.

  The video is black and white. It has a filter applied to it, and also a vignette, reminding me of one of those film noir movies.

  She’s beautiful from what I can see. A black silk mask covers her eyes and most of her face, her lips painted with a dark shade of lipstick.

  Red, perhaps?

  Waves of silky black hair, tumble down her shoulders and her back. Her perky, round-shaped breasts peek from behind the curtain of hair.

  A man’s hand enters the frame, smoothly trailing the woman’s jawline, his thumb brushing the soft skin of her cheek. She giggles and tosses her head back, looking up at him submissively.

  The angle changes, the camera zooming out, showing more of them.

  Propped on her knees, she looks up at him. I can’t see much of her body as she sits in the shadow, but I can get a pretty good idea of her surroundings––the large bed she lies on, the white sheet and fluffy pillows. It looks like a hotel room, although it can be a studio or a luxury apartment.

  He runs his fingers across her lips, smudging her lipstick. Mesmerized she looks at him, not minding it a bit. She tips her head back, craving his hand on her lips, even more, as she seems to be slipping into a trance.

  Lipstick coated fingers go down her throat, leaving dark trails on her skin. Trails that look like blood.

  Soft music plays in the background–– a haunting instrumental tune that gets drowned in my ears by the echo of my drumming heart.

  I slip the laptop onto the coffee table sitting in front of me and keenly study the woman. She looks high on pleasure, as she begs for the man’s touch. Very little of his flank is visible in the clip.

  From what I can tell, the camera is right behind him, pre-set and rolling unless someone else is in the room, but nothing seems to suggest that.

  The camera moves, capturing even more of them, zooming in and out from time to time.

  He’s naked as well, the curve of his backside, the dimple of his lower back and the line of his muscular thigh entering the frame.

  The image spurs a sensation in me that takes me by surprise, a rush that threatens to explode in my blood, delicious tension scaling up quickly.

  I lean back in my seat, my robe falling open as I suddenly experience a bout of heat.

  My eyes stay on them.

  She runs her hands up his muscular legs, exposing her long fingers and painted nails. Her neck extends as she tips her face forward and looks up at him, her eyes concealed behind her mask.

  I lower my robe on the shoulders and untie the belt, my skin getting hotter by the moment.

  His index finger makes a slow, teasing journey across her brow, down her cheek, and along her jawline before his thumb crushes the woman’s plump lips.

  She slowly parts them and curves them into smile while waiting for his next move. I get tense and tingly, my nipples hardening, pointing up.

  The more he runs his finger on her face, the more turned on I get. He edges closer to her, his hips at the level of her mouth and although I can see his front, it doesn’t take much effort to imagine what he has ready for her.

  Clenching my thighs, I indulge in the sensation building in my body. Pleasure flows through me, and wet arousal starts to trickle.

  My breaths get heavy too.

  Why do I have to watch it and subject myself to this torment?

  It proves to be a flitting thought, my brain unable to let go of the images playing in front of my eyes.

  He cups her cheek and slides his thumb across her lips again. Back and forth, crushing them and teasing them until the woman moans.

  My hand slips to my thigh, so close to the pulsing spot between my legs. I can’t even touch myself, I’m so turned on. The thought itself could get me off.

  He rolls his hips a little as if he thrusts his hard flesh into her mouth, and I barely mute a gasp.

  She can’t see him, but I can. His thumb no longer teases the cushion of her lips, but smoothly enters her mouth.

  I arch in my seat, my robe falling from my body.

  He’s naked. I’m naked. She’s blindfolded.

  His thumb starts moving back and forth, the smoothness of his motion sending shockwaves through my core. My body churns more heat as my lungs beg for air.

  The pleasure spirals quickly. Sweet, dense, ready to unfurl.

  I zoom in on the man’s hand as mine goes right between my legs.

  My fingers dip in a pool of wetness.

  “Fuck...” I murmur, so unused to this.

  He shifts a little, the woman’s face still the focus of the camera, her unbridled pleasure on display.

  His free hand goes down between them and wraps around his hard cock. Her moans turn into a quiet growl as she keeps sucking on his thumb.

  The flesh gets drenched between my legs as my eyes absorb the image–– his hand gliding up and down onto his thick, curved up erection.

  His fist tightens and his muscles tense as he picks up the pace. The woman groans with pleasure and utters words to him.

  I teeter on the cusp of coming.

  The last thing I see is his hips tilting and his hard cock entering her mouth.

  The screen turns dark.

  It takes me seconds before my body starts to shudder, a muffled scream falling from my lips.

  I arch my back and shake my hips, my shoulders pressing back into the sofa, my lungs and heart in overdrive.

  “Tess?”

  Allan’s voice jolts me right up.

  Panic-stricken, I slap the laptop shut, and throw it into a drawer. Heaving, I snatch the robe from the couch and fumble with it for a moment as I try to shrug it on.

  Trembling fingers tie my belt before one hand makes it to my hair beginning to brush it all back when the door slides open, and my husband fills the doorframe.

  He turns the lights on.

  Dressed for work, he fashions a pair of gray trousers and a blue shirt.

  He locks my eyes, and I suddenly get lost in the vortex of sensations that assaults my senses. The light feels too bright for me almost blinding me while my skin burns as if it’s the middle of the summer. My scalp prickles and my sex still tingles.

  Something tells me that everything is written in caps all over my face. He runs his eyes on me confirming my
suspicion. I’m sure my face is flushed. I’m also sure the beads of sweat on my brow can be easily spotted.

  My breaths are still ragged.

  And then, as if a dam has broken, a swarm of thoughts starts barreling through me.

  What time is it?

  It must be at least six o’clock. Otherwise, he wouldn't be ready to go to work.

  How can I explain this to him in case he figures out what just happened?

  Surprise and concern line his face, and I’m sure as hell horror reads on mine.

  “What happened?” he asks, completely baffled.

  “What?” I mutter, my voice tattered.

  Still panting, I run the back of my knuckles across my dry lips while pulling my robe closer to my chest with my free hand.

  “I, um... I fell asleep,” I say with a shaky voice.

  His long stare makes me ache.

  “Okay,” he says out of courtesy while waiting for me to elaborate.

  I take a long breath and straighten my back, finally mustering enough courage to unlock my hand from my robe.

  Avoiding his eyes, I run both hands through my hair. Sweat coats my fingers, the smell of aroused sex drifting from between my legs.

  “I had a nightmare,” I say, turning my back to him and getting busy collecting my mug, and some paperwork. “I didn’t sleep well,” I add as I finally manage to regain my composure and turn around to face him. “I’ve dreamed that I was drowning,” I say, offering an explanation for my turmoil.

  He folds his arms across his chest and looks at me in silence. I know him long enough to pick on the fact that he doesn’t buy it.

  “Have you had breakfast? I’m hungry,” I say, slithering by him, trying to avoid his proximity so that he doesn’t register my scent. “First, I need to take a shower,” I throw over my shoulder as he turns around and follows me.

  I walk into the kitchen and set the machine for a pot of fresh coffee before I dash to the bathroom.

  “Hey.”

  He wraps his hand around my arm. I’m mortified.

  I turn to him.

  “Yes?”

  “What happens to you, Tess?”

  I feel a weakness in my body, that’s growing by the second.

  His eyes drill into mine.

  “Nothing.”

  A faint smile curls his lips.

  “Nothing?”

  I blink quickly.

  “What do you mean?” I mutter.

  “Something bothers you.”

  I smile. Faintly. Bitterly.

  “No, it doesn’t,” I say defensively.

  “Yes, it does. Is this about us?”

  A nervous chuckle rolls off my lips.

  I shake my head as convincingly as I can.

  “No, no. What makes you say that?”

  He waits for a few moments as I wrestle with that irking feeling that my back is pushed against the wall, and then, he speaks again.

  “Everything.”

  My mouth falls open in surprise.

  His grip slackens.

  “What?”

  Panic dances in my blood.

  “What is wrong with us?” I ask, throwing him a questioning look.

  He starts swiveling away from me, his gaze lingering on my eyes a little longer before he makes a beeline for the kitchen counter.

  Two mugs surface from a cabinet. He pours freshly brewed coffee into them and hands me one.

  Smoothly, he motions me to take a seat at the table.

  I lower myself into the chair. He takes a seat across from me.

  He sips coffee and sets the cup on the table before he finally flicks his gaze up.

  “I don’t know if there is something wrong with us, but something is going on with you,” he says.

  “I don’t understand,” I murmur, puzzled.

  He studies me for a moment.

  “It’s not normal...” he says.

  Cocking my head to the side, I throw him a questioning look.

  “What’s not normal?”

  “The way you live.”

  Jitters ram through me.

  “What’s so unusual? I’m someone who works from home, editing books.”

  He has that small smile again.

  “You’re a twenty-five woman who leaves in self-assigned confinement in the middle of a vibrant city, who avoids social interaction as much as she can, has troubles sleeping and most of the time struggles with her deadlines.”

  “That has nothing to do with anything,” I protest.

  “Yes, it does. You live in jail, Tess, and you put yourself in it.”

  “I’m an introvert.”

  “Half of the people I know are introverts, myself included,” he argues. “And yet, those people hold jobs, interact socially, have hobbies that put them in contact with other people, can’t wait to hit the bed in the evening, and don’t live in a parallel universe.”

  “I’m not living in a parallel universe.”

  “You live in your head more than anyone else I know.”

  “What’s wrong with that?”

  “It’s not real, Tess. You fill your head with words and fiction. Once in a while, you’re on the phone with Anna or your sister, and that’s pretty much it. Sometimes you don’t even realize when I’m home. You sneak out of our bed every night, sometimes right after we make love and I fall asleep, and you go into your office. Most of the mornings, I find you curled up on the coach, instead of our bed. You daydream most of the day, and that’s why I think you have such a hard time working.”

  “That’s not what I’m doing,” I say, suddenly irritated.

  Because he might be right?

  “What is it then?” he asks.

  I tip my chin down, evading his eyes.

  “It’s the same old story... You know it. Sometimes my mind is jumpy, and then it’s all over the place. That’s why I find it difficult to concentrate, but it doesn’t affect my work. I met all my deadlines these past few weeks.”

  “Yes, you did. With great effort and with a lot of stress that fueled your anxiety.”

  “I wouldn’t call it that.”

  He raises his hand.

  “All right. I don’t want to call it anything. Maggie told me you’re against the medication that the doctor has prescribed.”

  “I’m not against it. It’s just that it doesn’t do much for me, and it’s not as if I need it anyway. Even the doctor said it. There’s nothing wrong with me,” I say, increasingly nervous.

  He takes a long breath.

  “All I want for you Tess is to be happy. Right now you are miserable, and I can’t figure out why. You’ve arranged your life the way you wanted it. You work from home, make your own schedule, get to walk in the park with Luna any time you want. You take the clients that you want and tailor your day to fit your taste, and all of that makes you miserable.”

  “It’s not true.”

  “You’re missing something, Tess, and clearly I’m not the one who can give to you whatever it is that you need.”

  He takes another sip of coffee and pushes his chair back, his gaze no longer on me, frustration sliding onto his face. He picks up his jacket and puts in on before he shrugs on his coat.

  “I’ll be late tonight,” he says as he heads to the door without stopping to kiss me goodbye.

  “Wait.”

  I leap off the chair and dash to him.

  He stops and turns to me.

  “I’ll go see Dr. Jimenez,” I say.

  His eyebrows lift slowly.

  “She does therapy as well. She’ll help me figure out this stuff.”

  “Okay,” he softly says and pauses for a moment. “I just want you to know, that I’m not pushing you to do this. I don’t think there’s anything wrong with you, but I think you can feel better about life if you get a little help.”

  “I know, I know...” I say, smiling.

  My hand slides down his arm.

  He turns to me all the way and wraps his arm around my waist
, planting a goodbye kiss on my lips.

  7

  TESS

  “Everything looks good,” Dr. Lara Jimenez says while closing the door to the room adjacent to her office.

  It’s a small chamber with soft lighting, beautiful art hung on the walls, and plush armchairs and a sofa.

  Flowers decorate this room, an old clock spinning time on the wall across from me.

  The shades are lowered, yet slightly open, letting in the view of the street. A cold autumn evening with wet sidewalks, dimly lit streets and gusty wind, reigns outside.

  Inside, it’s warm and smells like cinnamon.

  “Please make yourself comfortable,” she says, unbuttoning the jacket of her skirt suit.

  A colorful blouse peeks between the wool lapels.

  I set my purse on a side table, run my hands down my soft knit dress, and sink into the coach.

  “Would you like a glass of water?”

  “I’m good. Thank you.”

  “I’ll have one,” she says laying her phone and the tablet on the table sitting in front of her armchair.

  She takes a few steps toward the small fridge tucked into the corner and retrieves a bottle of water. From a shelf, she picks a paper cup. A moment later, she lowers herself on the chair.

  For the next few minutes or so, she goes over my test results, confirming for the second time this year that I’m perfectly fine.

  After a brief pause, she encourages me to talk about myself, my marriage and my work.

  Dr. Lara Jimenez knows me since I was a teenager, but we’ve never met in this capacity. A family friend, she always had words of appraisal for me and my stellar work as a college student.

  I walked into her office as a patient for the first time this year, leaving with medication for better sleep and a mild anxiolytic. I tried them once and never used them again.

  “How’s Allan?”

  A small smile comes to my lips.

  “He’s good. A bit worried about me.”

  “He shouldn’t be,” she says with a soft, monotone voice that has a slight soporific effect on me.

  The ambiance relaxes me as well. I guess that is the whole point.

  “Tell me about your life as a couple.”

  She leans back in her seat and goes silent.

  “I think we’re good.”

  “You think?”