Obsessed With Him (The Boxed Set) (Obsessed With Him Books 1-3)

by Ford, Hannah

  There was a tray resting on the bed, and sitting on top of it was a bowl of soup and a sandwich. BLT. My favorite. Next to that was a neatly folded gray t-shirt and a pair of track pants.

  I hadn’t eaten anything all day – this morning at the shelter they were serving oatmeal with raisins, and I stayed away from the oatmeal there since one time last month when one of my raisins turned out to be a fly.

  I ate the sandwich hungrily. I wondered if Colt had made it himself. The sandwich was surprisingly good – the bacon was salty and warm, the lettuce crisp and fresh.

  When I was done eating, I brushed my teeth with a fresh toothbrush I found under the sink, then dried my hair with the hair drying hanging on the wall.

  I changed into the clothes he’d left for me and then slid under the sheets.

  They were silky and smooth and felt foreign against my skin.

  I was sure I wouldn’t be able to fall asleep. The bed was foreign, the place strange, not to mention that Colt was downstairs.

  But a second after I closed my eyes, I was in a dream.

  I was back in my foster home, the one at the Dalys, the one where I met Liam. Mr. Daly, or Frank as he liked us to call him, was making me put birthday candles into this huge cake that was made out of dirt and grass. I started putting them in one by one, but every time I’d put in a new candle, one of the other candles would fall. Mr. Daly stood in the corner with a belt, his eyes looking sad as he shook his head back and forth. “You’re not doing it right, Olivia,” he said sadly. “You’re not doing it right.”

  Then Declan was there, reaching out, holding my hand, guiding me to put the candles in right. I was happy. But then, out of nowhere, the belt came down over Declan’s hand, smashing into the cake.

  “No!” I screamed.

  My eyes flew open.

  My heart was pounding, my face flushed. I sat up in bed, panicked, not sure where I was. Then I remembered. The strip club. Colt. His apartment.

  I laid back down and tried to calm myself. But it wasn’t going to work. I knew it wasn’t going to work.

  There was only one thing to do.

  I got up and headed for the bathroom, grabbing my purse as I went. Once I was there, I pulled out my compact, then reached under the mirror and pulled out my razor blade.

  It glinted in the light, and I put the edge up to my skin. I liked to cut my arms. I knew it was a risk, that I should try for something on my thigh, or even further up my arm. But nothing calmed me more than cutting my arms.

  The first cut didn’t go deep. It was superficial, just a tiny little nick, one that hardly even drew any blood. It was a tease of the release that was to come, like ordering an appetizer before your main meal so you could take the edge off.

  I was just about to make a second, bigger cut when the door to the bathroom went flying open.

  Colt was standing there, wearing a white t-shirt and a pair of dark blue sweatpants. His hair was wet and a little messy, like he’d just gotten out of the shower. He looked at me, his face dark.

  “I heard you yell,” he said. “I needed to make sure you were okay.”

  “I was having a dream.”

  He looked down at the razor in my hand, then at the cut on my arm. His gaze slid back up and met mine, and something passed between us. I could tell he knew exactly what I was doing. He knew I was cutting, he knew I was doing it for a release. It made me wonder how he knew– if he was a cutter, too. But one glance at the smooth skin of his forearms and I knew he wasn’t. I wondered if he was going to ask me to stop.

  I froze, the razor still pressed against my arm. It was an exquisite torture, thinking you were about to get a release and then being caught.

  Colt crossed the room in two long strides, reached out and gently took the razor out of my hand. He set it on the sink and then turned my arm over in his hand.

  He studied my cut. A thin line of dark red blood had appeared on my skin. But instead of chastising me or asking me why I was doing this to myself, he pulled a band-aid and Neosporin out of the medicine cabinet.

  “It’s okay,” I said. “I can do it.”

  He raised his eyebrows at me, like he couldn’t trust me to do even the simplest thing. Then he squeezed a bit of Neosporin onto the band-aid and put the bandage over my cut.

  “Thank you,” I said, taking my hand back. It burned from where he touched me.

  He didn’t say you’re welcome. Instead, he just stared. His eyes were deep and calm, and they surveyed me like he was in charge, like he could do whatever he wanted with me. The silence stretched between us for a moment, and I raised my chin at him, daring him to tell me to get out. If he did, I wouldn’t care. I wasn’t afraid to go back to the shelter.

  But he didn’t kick me out.

  Instead, he licked his top lip and moved toward me.

  He was so tall that he leaned down over me so he could whisper in my ear.

  “You want to forget everything?” he breathed. “You want to let yourself feel a release?” He was so close I could feel the heat radiating between us. His skin was smooth, gorgeous, and he reached down and took my chin between his forefinger and thumb, tilted it up so that I was forced to look at him.

  There was an amused glint in his eyes. “I can make you forget everything, Princess,” he said. The pad of his thumb slid gently over my bottom lip, sending waves of heat through my body.

  He moved closer, so close his lips were almost touching mine, but not quite. “Do you want to forget?” he asked me again.

  His arm wrapped around my back, and his hand trailed down over my spine. I shivered. My nipples hardened under the thin t-shirt I was wearing, and that same out-of-control feeling rushed over me, the one I had back at the club when I was dancing for him.

  “Yes,” I whispered. “I want to forget.”

  It was true. I wanted to forget everything. I wanted to forget the fact that I was homeless, that my parents wanted nothing to do with me, that none of my other relatives were willing to take me in. But most of all, right now, I wanted to forget about the promise I had made to Declan. And I hated myself for it.

  “No.” I took a step back and shook my head. “I can’t.”

  If he was offended, he didn’t show it. Instead, that same amused glint came back into his eyes. But there was something else there, too, burning beneath the surface. If I didn’t know better, I’d say it was lust. But that was impossible. A guy like him – rich, sexy as all hell, with beautiful women throwing themselves at him every night – didn’t lust after girls like me.

  “You can,” he said, his eyes still on mine.

  “No.” I shook my head. “I really can’t.”

  “You want to.” It’s a statement, not a question.

  I raised my chin. “Oh, really?” I shot at him. “You sure about that?”

  “Yes.” He was still staring into my eyes, the connection between us burning hot. “So then, Princess,” he said. “Why don’t you tell me why you can’t?”

  The way it said it infuriated me, like he thought whatever reason I had would be something completely ridiculous.

  “You wouldn’t understand,” I said, trying to step around him.

  But he stayed put, blocking my path. “Try me.”

  I shook my head. “There’s no reason,” I lied. “You’re just not as irresistible as you’d like to think.”

  “Oh, I’m plenty irresistible.”

  It sounded like a dare.

  “Not to me.”

  “We’ll see.”

  He turned and walked out of the bathroom.

  I watched him go, then turned back to the sink, my heart pounding. I gripped the edge of the counter so hard I left marks on my fingers. I wanted to cut again so badly, but the fact that Colt had caught me had completely ruined any relief I might get from it.

  I splashed cold water on my face and on my wrists.

  When I got back to the bedroom, Colt was standing by the bed.

  “If you’re going to try and gi
ve me some big lecture on why I shouldn’t be cutting, you can save your breath,” I said. “My foster mom tried doing that every month since I was fourteen, and it obviously didn’t work.” I didn’t mention the countless social workers, the psychotherapists, the inpatient clinic they put me in for two weeks. None of it worked, or if it did, it wasn’t for long.

  “I don’t lecture people,” Colt said. He reached out and took my wrist, pulled me close to him so that our chests were touching. “I don’t believe in big speeches. Words are just words. They don’t mean shit.”

  I laughed. “Ain’t that the truth.”

  He turned my hand over in his slowly, then ran his finger over the Band-Aid on my arm. “It stopped bleeding.”

  “Yeah.” I pulled my arm away from him, uncomfortable at the closeness between us. “It’s fine.”

  I pushed past him., needing to get away from his closeness. But there was nowhere to go except for the bed, and I didn’t really want to be in bed with him in the room.

  But he saved me from that awkwardness by turning around and walking toward the door.

  At the last moment, he turned and looked at me. “If you’re going to stay here, you have to promise to stop cutting yourself.”

  “I’m only going to be here for one night,” I said.

  “No, you’re not.”

  “Oh, really?” I laughed. “Are you moving me in?”

  “Perhaps.”

  “I really don’t think my family would approve.”

  “Olivia,” he said. “I know you’ve been staying at the Walnut Street shelter. I’ve called and arranged for your things to be brought here.” He said it matter-of-factly, devoid of pity or sympathy.

  “What?” I scoffed. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.” My voice didn’t shake. It didn’t break. I was a good liar. You have to be when your whole existence depends on it.

  “Don’t bullshit a bullshitter,” he said. “I know where you’ve been staying.”

  “How did you – ”

  He held his hand up. “We’ll get to that. But first, I have a business proposition for you.”

  END OF BOOK ONE

  Addicted To Him (Obsessed With Him, Book Two)

  By Hannah Ford

  Copyright 2015, Hannah Ford, all rights reserved. This book is a work of fiction, and any resemblance to any persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  ***

  “A business proposition?” I repeated. “Why would I want to get into business with you?”

  Colt grinned. “You seemed like you wanted to get into business with me earlier.”

  “Earlier?”

  “When you were dancing for me.”

  I swallowed, remembering the way it had felt, unbuttoning my shirt for him, the way his hands guided my hips, how heady the lust was that I’d felt, how uncontrollable. How close I came to breaking my promise to Declan.

  “That was different,” I said. “That was a job.” We were both still standing up, and I wanted to sit down, but doing that seemed like some kind of admission. An admission that I wanted to be here, that Colt had some kind of power over me.

  “And how is a job different than getting into business with me?” he countered. His t-shirt stretched against his broad chest and across his huge shoulders. Even in just a t-shirt and sweatpants, you could tell how built he was, how strong, how chiseled.

  The pull I felt toward him was intoxicating, and also frightening. I didn’t know anything about this man -- except that he ran a strip club. Strike one. He apparently didn’t have a problem with beating people up, as evidenced by what he’d done to those two thugs on the street earlier. Strike two. He also broke into a convenience store ice machine, which, let’s face it, wasn’t that big of a deal, but it spoke to something else – he was comfortable taking other people’s property, almost like he’d done it before. Maybe a lot. Strike three.

  Then he brought me, a total stranger, back to his house without asking questions, which spoke to a tendency for impulsivity. He somehow knew I was staying at the Walnut Street shelter, which made it likely he was some kind of stalker. And he didn’t seem all that concerned by the fact that he’d caught me in his bathroom cutting myself.

  The red flags were blinding.

  “A job is totally different,” I said. “It’s a lot different than sleeping with you for money.”

  “Sleeping with me for money?” He sounded offended, like he couldn’t believe I would even think such a thing. “Who said anything about sleeping with me for money?”

  “You said you wanted to get into business with me.”

  “Are you in the business of sleeping with people for money?”

  “No!” I said. “Why would you even say something like that?” I wondered what he would do if he knew I was a virgin, that I hadn’t even kissed a boy.

  “Well.” Colt shrugged, like it was blindingly obvious why he would jump to the conclusion that I’d had experience with prostitution. “I said I had a business proposition for you, and you immediately assumed I wanted to have sex with you.” His eyes blazed when he said this last part, almost like he was amused by the idea of sleeping with me, even though he’d pretty much just propositioned me a couple of minutes ago.

  “Oh, please,” I said, rolling my eyes. “You would have slept with me earlier when I was dancing for you and you know it. Not to mention what you just said to me in the bathroom.”

  The side of his mouth twitched up into a grin, like I was a silly little girl who knew nothing about the world.

  “Don’t look at me like that,” I said.

  “Like what?” he asked, holding his hands up and feigning innocence.

  “Like I’m a silly little girl who knows nothing about the world.”

  The cocky grin immediately disappeared from his face. “I think you know plenty about the world.” His gaze dropped to my wrist, and I knew what he was thinking – that anyone who took a razor blade to their skin, who wanted to feel that pain in order to ground themselves in something, anything, must have been through some shit. But that was none of his business.

  “It’s none of your business what I’ve been through,” I said.

  “Fair enough.”

  He didn’t say anything for a moment after that, and the silence stretched on for several moments. It was disarming. I wanted to say something, anything, just to end it, but that too felt like I was giving into him. And if there was one thing this silly little girl knew, it was that if you let someone think you were giving in, if you let them think you were weak, they would take advantage any chance they got.

  I shivered, aware of the fact that I was still wearing just a thin t-shirt.

  “You’re cold,” Colt said.

  “No, I’m not.”

  “I’ll be right back.”

  He returned with a grey zip up hoodie, then stopped short just inside the door. He held it out to me, motioning for me to come get it. I took a step toward him, and his eyes raked over my body, lingering on my nipples, which were hard and visible through my t-shirt. Just like at the club, he made no excuses for the fact that he was openly staring at my body.

  “Why don’t you take a picture, it will last longer,” I mumbled.

  “Nothing I haven’t seen before,” he said, amused.

  I turned around and slid my arms through the sweatshirt, then went to grab the zipper.

  “It’s tricky,” he said, reaching around and grabbing it for me. “Sometimes it catches.” His chest was so broad, his hands so big, his body so strong, that it made me feel tiny in comparison. I closed my eyes as he did the zipper, letting the side of his hand slide over my breast as he did it. I knew he was trouble, I knew I barely knew him, but for some reason, in that moment, all I wanted to do was turn around and bury myself in his arms.

  He’d told me that he could make me forget, and I believed him. Cutting had been my escape until now, a way to take the edge of and keep me from feeling things I didn’t want to feel. I’d avoided
alcohol and drugs because I’d seen what they could do to people, so cutting had been my way of dealing.

  In theory, I wasn’t opposed to losing myself in another person, through sex, lust, love, obsession, whatever. But if I was going to do it, it was going to be Declan. It had to be. He was the man I was going to give myself to.

  And I’ve never been tempted by anyone else.

  Until now.

  I shrugged away from Colt, pulling the sweatshirt tighter around me.

  “You shouldn’t have given me a sweatshirt with a messed up zipper,” I said.

  “Sorry, Princess. I didn’t know you were so picky.”

  “Is that a dig at the fact that I’m staying at a shelter? Because you’re not any better than me.” His sweatshirt was huge on me, and I pushed up the sleeves and pulled it tighter around me.

  “Who said I was better than you?”

  “Oh, please.” I folded my arms over my chest. Even with the extra security and padding of the sweatshirt, I felt a little too exposed, a little too vulnerable to his wandering eyes. “You’re rich.”

  “Is that what you think? That I think I’m better than you because I have money?”

  “Of course! Isn’t that why you brought me here?” Thinking about it now, saying the words out loud, I was starting to get angry. “Because you felt sorry for me? You saw I was wearing cheap clothes and that I was looking for a job as a stripper, so you just assumed I was poor. And then you somehow poked around in my personal, private business, which you were probably able to do because of your money, and you realized I was staying at a shelter. And that really probably made you feel bad for me.” I was getting going now. I wanted to put him in his place, to make him see that I wasn’t just some girl he could come along and save with his good looks and his money. I didn’t need saving. I was fine.

  His cell phone rang before he could reply.

  He reached into his pocket and pulled it out, answering it with a brisk, “Colt Cannon.”

  Which just proved my point. If he didn’t think he was better than me, then why the hell did he answer a phone call in the middle of our conversation?