by K. M. Scott
“I missed you,” he whispers in a hoarse voice that hits me deep inside. “I’ve missed feeling of you next to me.”
“I missed you too,” I say as I slide my fingers through his dark hair. “I thought about you today. I was reading the inscription you wrote in my copy of Caligula’s Dream. Your best fan. I love that.”
His hand slowly caresses the tops of my thighs, teasing me every so often when he sneaks a finger over the front of my panties already damp from my desire for him. I watch his tongue slowly glide over his lower lip as his gaze travels to where his hand comes to rest, and I’m desperate for him to ease the ache inside me.
“I love how wet you get just from my touch,” he says and presses his fingertip to my clit, sending a jolt of need through my body.
“I want you, Ian. Please don’t tease.”
He removes his hand from under my skirt and kisses me softly on the lips. “After we read the scene I just wrote.”
I can’t help but pout at his insistence in reading instead of getting me off, but I try to be understanding, even as he quickly shifts from lover mode to author mode. He turns the laptop to face me and begins to read and it doesn’t take long for a sense of uneasiness to creep in between us.
His eyes fix on the words that tell how Kate Silk stands on the street across from her lover’s house thinking about how much she cares for him, but all I hear is the story of a woman stalking a man. After too many brushes with the media and paparazzi, I feel nothing but dread at the idea of someone watching me from the street below.
I thought Ian felt the same way, but as he continues to read I realize Kate is him. Has he stood across the street from my building and watched my apartment windows for any sign of me like his character does? I want to ask him, but I’m too afraid of the answer.
Ian’s fingers stroke the insides of my thighs as he speaks, but all I want to do is run. With every word, I’m more convinced than ever that the scene he’s written is one he’s lived out before with me.
I need to get away from this place.
I need to get away from him.
“Ian, I’m not feeling well,” I say suddenly, tearing him out of his work.
He looks confused, but his expression changes to concern and he asks, “Are you okay? Is something wrong?”
Those dark eyes look at me like I’m more important than anything else in his world, but I can’t forget how I felt as he read to me just moments before. I need to get out there now before he realizes I don’t like what he’s done.
“My stomach is upset. I need to go home.”
He says nothing but studies my face for a long moment. “Is something wrong, Kristina?”
The edge in his voice tells me he knows something’s wrong. I need to leave. Standing, I look for where I dropped my purse on the way in. “Just don’t feel well. I’ll call you after I lie down for a bit.”
I scramble toward the door, forgetting to even kiss him as I leave like I always do. He follows me and catches my arm as I reach for the door. “I don’t even get a kiss goodbye?”
I don’t want to face him now. He scares me. But slowly, I turn to see him standing behind me, a look of hurt in his eyes. For a moment, I regret my fear. He’s been nothing but sweet and accepting of me. The problem is even as that regret makes me feel bad, the fear of being stalked makes me feel much worse.
“Of course. I’m sorry,” I say before I lean in and kiss him as I have every time I left his apartment.
This time is different, though. I can’t come back here.
He tenderly cradles my face and looks into my eyes as if he’s searching for the answer to why I seem so different. His gaze unnerves me, and I say in a shaky voice, “I’m sure it’s just a touch of the bug or something. I’ll call you.”
“You don’t want me to call you a cab? I know you only live a few blocks away, but if you’re sick, you don’t want to walk all that way.”
He knows I’m lying. I see it in his eyes. He knows and he can’t figure out what’s wrong.
“I think a little fresh air will be good for me.”
“Do you want me to walk you home?”
“No. I’ll call you later.”
His hands slip from my face, and I turn toward the door. A quick twist of the doorknob and I pull the door open and leave as he calls after me to be careful. I don’t look back, afraid of feeling bad if I see hurt in his eyes or terrified if I see he knows I don’t plan to come back here ever again.
I frantically press the down arrow to get the elevator to come, hoping he doesn’t decide to ignore what I said and walk me home. It feels like it takes forever for it to finally arrive, and I step in and sag against the metal walls as I press the button for the ground floor. I let out a deep sigh as if I’ve been holding my breath for too long and look down to see my hands shaking.
The elevator doors open and I bolt out into the lobby, nearly running over the doorman as he stands talking to a woman about the weather or something. I hear him wish me a good night just as I hit the doors to the outside, but I don’t reply.
The October wind hits me as I step onto the sidewalk, making me all the more conscious of how much I want to be safe and sound in my home. I run down the block toward my building, turning around once or twice to see if Ian’s behind me, but I don’t see him. Maybe he believed my lie.
When I finally reach my apartment, I truly do feel sick to my stomach. The vision of him standing on the street watching my every move as I walk around my apartment blissfully ignorant of being stalked terrifies me.
But deep inside a tiny voice whispers that he would never hurt me. Ian cares for me. I’m his muse. He would never mean to frighten me intentionally.
I want to think all this is true, but then I remember him reading that scene so full of details of his character watching the one she loves and all I feel is afraid.
Afraid of him.
Closing my apartment door, I fasten every lock and deadbolt, something I never do when I’m home. I see his book sitting where I left it on my coffee table when I walk to my windows to draw the shades and a pang of loss bites at my heart. Curling up on the couch, I hold the book to my heart and sob. Had I been wrong to leave him? Was that voice that told me Ian would never hurt me right, or was my fear of him stalking me like a crazed fan right?
I pick up my phone to text him, but I don’t know the words to say. Finally, my fingers type the only words that make sense.
I can’t see you anymore.
Seconds later, his text comes in.
Why?
I just can’t. I’m sorry.
He answers immediately with a text that breaks my heart. I love you. Please don’t leave me.
As the tears roll down my face, I type I’m sorry. We can’t be together anymore.
He doesn’t answer, and my sadness grows until I want to call him and know why he won’t speak to me anymore. I know it’s crazy. I love him too, but I know my fear is real. How will I go on without him after everything we’ve been to one another?
My therapist is right. I am addicted to people. No, not people. Him. I’m addicted to him.
How will I be able to let him go?
As the reality of life without Ian settles into my brain, my phone vibrates against my leg one more time. Looking down, I see his reply to me.
There is no running from what we are, Kristina. I crave your touch as much you crave mine. There’s no point in denying it. We will see each other again.
Terror courses through me as I read his words again and again. We will see each other again. I walk to the window to see if he’s standing down on the sidewalk across the street watching me, waiting for me to open the blinds and see him. People walk past my building, but he’s not there. I stand there for a long time peeking out to see if he ever shows up.
He doesn’t.
In some small way, I wish he would. I know that’s crazier than even I want to admit, but I’m disappointed when I finally step away from the window an hour la
ter. I sit back down on the couch where he and I first kissed and made love and read over his message one more time.
There is no running from what we are, Kristina.
Adore
ADDICTED TO YOU #2
K.M. SCOTT
Addiction and obsession brought Ian and Kristina together, and real life tore them apart.
For Ian, Kristina is everything. What began as an obsession has morphed into that something more he so wanted. Kristina is his muse and so much more, but now both of them must make choices that may change everything.
For Kristina, Ian offers all that she’s ever wanted. Love. Passion. Adoration. But these come with a price, and the cost of loving him may be more than she’s willing to pay.
Adore was previously published as SILK Volume Two.
CHAPTER ONE
Ian
The smooth taste of vodka washes over my tongue on its way down to where it can do the most damage. Its strength isn’t diluted by orange juice or anything else like that. That’s for people wanting to enjoy what they’re drinking. Enjoying isn’t on the menu tonight. Getting fucking blasted so I can’t think anymore?
Yeah. That’s what I want.
I bothered to get dressed today. That’s a change from the past six days. I think somewhere in my mind I mark this day as some kind of ugly anniversary. Seven days since Kristina told me she didn’t want to see me anymore.
One week alone without her.
It’s been a long week of endless drinking all alone in my apartment. I think I might have eaten a few times in that span. Not that eating is high on my list of priorities. Either is showering, writing, or doing anything that doesn’t involve my efforts to forget.
There is no goal other than forgetting, but I know that’s futile. I can’t forget her. I may say I want to, but that’s the last thing I truly want to do. I want to remember every beautiful inch of her body as my hands caressed her silky skin. I want to remember the gentle sound of her voice as she asked me about my work. I want to remember her smile as she lay next to me in bed after we lost ourselves in each other.
I want to remember her. All of her.
I spent the first few days trying to figure out why she doesn’t want to see me. What did I do to make her run away? Every time I asked myself that question, my mind came up with the long list of my faults, any one of which could have made her not want me.
You shouldn’t have told her about your addictions my brain whispers.
No, she understood. I know she did.
You shouldn’t have told her about wanting her before you even met her it murmurs.
No, she’s an actress. They understand being desired by fans.
You shouldn’t have asked her to be your muse my brain wonders.
No, she loved that. It couldn’t be that. She loved it as much as I did.
Lifting the vodka bottle to my lips, I take another gulp and let it slowly trickle down my throat before I set today’s companion on the table in front of me. I lean my head back and close my eyes as the alcohol hits my stomach, and for a second the pain eases.
But it doesn’t last.
The problem is that I can’t turn my brain off. Even with all this vodka in me, my mind can still remember. Like it’s on some mission to make sure I don’t forget her, it forces me to watch as it replays our time together.
Eyes closed, I can almost feel her on my lap, her thighs spread as she settles onto me. My hands find their place on her hips directing her movement. She looks down at me and gives me one of those sweet smiles that belie how sensual a being she truly is as she rides my cock like no other woman ever has.
“Fuck me, Ian,” she whispers lightly against my lips, ratcheting my desire up even higher. I obey. How could I not? Fucking her gives me more than physical release. It lifts my spirit from the darkness that surrounds me to that light and gentle place she provides.
I open my eyes and look around my apartment, disappointed to admit it was just a memory. I grab my phone from the table and scroll through her messages to me. Reading each one, I still can’t understand why she left. My fingers hover over the empty space under the last message I sent her. I want to tell her I miss her. That I’m sorry for whatever I did. That I can fix it. Everything can be fixed so it all goes back to the way it was. I can do that.
But they remain frozen hovering over my phone because like every time before when I told myself I should text her, a tiny voice in the back of my mind whispers those dark words and stops me.
Fuck her. She doesn’t want to see me? Well, I don’t want to fucking see her. She’s a Hollywood bitch whose life is a fucking mess. Even her therapist thinks so. For fuck’s sake, she thinks she has an addiction to people.
But if she’s addicted to people, which in far less stupid terms means she’s addicted to their approval and love, how could she leave me?
It always comes back to that question. Every time my mind spins out of control, that voice asks that one question that hurts to even think about because I know addiction. I know the feeling of needing something or someone so fucking bad that your body aches without relief. I know there’s no talking yourself out of it if you’re addicted.
It’s a need, not a want.
So if she has that addiction to people, why didn’t she become addicted to me like I did to her?
I clutch my legs as a wave of pain washes over me. My fingernails dig into my thighs just above my knees as the need for her takes me over, and my forearms hurt like someone is twisting them. My muscles ache like someone has placed a heavy object on them, pressing down on me and threatening to crush me with its weight.
I know this feeling. We’re old friends. Or enemies, depending on how you view things.
My body craves her. Like the drugs, she got into my system and became part of me. Now that she’s gone, every other part of me desperately longs for the missing part.
Maybe if I just text her and ask why she left. Maybe she’ll see I care and need her back.
Fuck her. I don’t need her. I can live without her.
No, I can’t.
I should try to write. Our book waits for me to return to it like some lost orphan who can’t understand why its parent abandoned them. Our book. That’s the problem. It’s not my book. It’s ours. Hers and mine. That’s why I can’t write. She’s not here.
Without my muse, I’m lost. Without my Kristina, I can’t do it.
Silk will have to wait. Maybe I can find another muse. In whatever stupor I’m in, this sounds like a wonderful idea. Muses can’t be that hard to find. Desperate women who want to be adored must be a dime a dozen. Sure. Modern life has made it easy to find them.
Hello, Netflix, my old friend. Show me what you got.
I scroll through the lines of offerings but see little of interest. A blonde would be nice. Kate Silk should have been a blonde the whole time. What was I thinking? Like the world wants another common brown-haired heroine.
Some flick about an outbreak of something catches my eye, and I begin watching it looking for my new muse. I know she’s here. My blurry vision isn’t helping the search, though. I see a woman, but she’s not right. Too trashy. Another enters the scene and she’s wrong too. Too sterile.
After about fifteen minutes of what turns out to be a goddamned zombie movie, I go back to the main screen. There’s a story in itself—me searching for a muse in a fucking zombie film. Maybe I’ll include that in the acknowledgements. To the hot, half-rotted piece of ass I watched for a quarter of a fucking hour. Literally. More scrolling through more films I can’t imagine anyone thought would be successful brings me to my favorites.
No, I don’t need my favorites. I need something new. Someone new.
But the photos from Kristina’s films sit there lined up in a row for me to watch. I can’t help but chuckle as I think, “Well, I guess we know where Netflix stands on the issue of me and Kristina.”
I click on the film that started it all. That remake of The Misfits. I’ve watch
ed this so many times I could act out the parts myself, but as I sit here in my living room fucked up from too much vodka, I watch it feeling like I’m seeing her for the first time in ages. I wait with eager anticipation for the moment when I know she’ll be in the picture. The first time her face appears on the screen, my heart leaps in my chest.
Missing her for the past week has been nothing compared to how I feel as I watch her. I can’t go on like this. Every second she’s in front of me and I can see her but not touch her or speak to her is killing me.
I need to talk to her. No. Talking is never good, at least not for me. Like most writers, I’m my worst when my mouth is open. No, words come much better from me when they’re written. When I have the time to choose the perfect ones to express my thoughts. When I can construct my sentences exactly so she’ll understand my true feelings.
Then I’ll be able to say the right things.
She always thought I said the perfect words. I remember her saying that.
I reach for my phone and go to her messages again. My thumbs hover over the letters as I think about what I want to say. Jesus, now isn’t the time for writer’s block. I want to tell her so much. Need to tell her so much. I’m sorry. I don’t know what I did, but I’m sorry. Tell me what I did so I can make up for it. Come to me and let me fix this.
None of those words show up on my phone because my fingers never move. After convincing myself I shouldn’t do anything, I throw the phone away from me, disgusted. I hate myself for doing nothing.
I can’t go on like this.
* * *
Ten o’clock on Wednesday night turns out to be a busy time on the streets of the Upper West Side. Maybe there’s some street festival or some event being held, but as the October wind bites at my cheeks, I can’t imagine that’s the case. Maybe I’m just one of legions of people smashed and needing to see someone, like love zombies who can’t do anything but drag their empty selves to where their heart lives. More people out actually works for me tonight, though, since I’m hoping to be invisible.
