by A. R. Torre
It’s been three and a half years since the first time Jeremy heard her voice. Four months since he first kissed her lips. Six days since he confessed his love. One day since he last saw her smile. He’s lost track of the month when she took his heart in her rebellious hands.
All he wants to do is be at her place. Walk in that door and feel her arms around him. He puts the truck into drive and heads for the distribution center. He’ll swing by the house first, change out of this uniform and shower. See what she wants to eat, then make it to her place by seven.
Seven gives them two hours. Two hours till that druggie locks her in. He hates the situation, but has learned to keep his mouth shut. A person doesn’t really argue with her. Not when her eyes blaze quickly, and she has all the cards and he is left guessing at her hand. A situation he’d never accept from any woman other than her. There is so much he doesn’t know, so much that she holds close to the vest. She says she needs to be locked in at night, so he doesn’t argue. She says she wants Simon to do it, doesn’t want to put their relationship in that situation, so he doesn’t argue. He takes what she gives, and keeps his mouth shut about how he feels about it. But he doesn’t like it. Doesn’t like so much unknown. Doesn’t like the feeling of a girlfriend who keeps secrets. Doesn’t like the fact that he’s scared of the secrets. Doesn’t like that twitchy-eyed prick Simon has anything to do with her. Especially after his eyes all but raped her in the hallway.
He doesn’t like any of it, but he takes it. Takes it and asks for more. Puts his heart closer to her with every interaction. Why? Why when so much of him is scared of her secrets? Scared that they will be too big to overcome. Scared that they will force him to step away, sanity not allowing any other option. No, he doesn’t want to know anything that will end this moment in time when their lives are connected. He’ll take it as long as he can. Take as much of this beautiful stranger as he can get. The secrets he’ll overlook. Her job… that will one day be a bigger problem. His patience with it is waning, especially after he saw her on camera. Felt the reaction he had to her digital image. Realized how much of a connection can be made through a digital porthole. Understood what other men are experiencing with her. He hadn’t realized how much could be communicated through a phone call and corresponding video. Hadn’t realized the risk that his fragile relationship undergoes every time a new client pops up on her screen. What if she makes a connection? What if she falls for one of the strangers that seek her out?
He will go along with it all until the moment he can’t take it. She says she loves him. If he can continue on, cement her love until it reaches a place of unshakable bond, then he will bring up his issues. Will work with her toward a solution. But not now, not when her love for him is so young and vulnerable.
An hour and a half later, with a bag of subs in hand, he knocks on her door. It’s unlocked. It’s always unlocked during the day. Another thing he hates. Another thing he doesn’t understand. It’d be a bad enough practice in a good area, much less this dump where police cars are often curbside, hookers lounge against telephone poles, and the homeless sleep on the benches out front.
She opens the door, the door he could have just pushed in, and turns, sauntering away while pointing toward the kitchen. “Put the food down.”
He groans, shutting the door and locking it, his eyes on her ass, the curve of it accentuated by the sheer lingerie that hugs it. “Babe. You’re driving me crazy.”
She turns, rolls her desk chair till it is against the back wall, and points to it. “Put the food down and sit.”
He cocks his head, confused. Takes two steps over and sets the subs down. “Am I in trouble?”
Her mouth curves into a smile. “Yes. Sit.”
She is saying yes, but she looks anything but mad. Mischievous would be a better descriptor. He walks slowly to the chair. Sits down. Watches her face as she steps closer, her stripper shoes putting her at an insane height, his mouth in line with her belly button. He reaches out, wanting to touch her, but she shakes her head, clucks her tongue disapprovingly and steps back, out of his reach.
“Hands on the arms. Don’t touch me.”
“I’d love to know what I’ve done wrong.”
His dry tone makes her smile, the twinkle in her eyes tugging on every string in his heart.
“You,” she whispers, standing before him, raising her arms and reaching back, behind her head, undoing some tie that causes the lace to slink off her front, her bare breasts suddenly on display for him. He feels his cock respond, thickening and hardening, pushing against his jeans, insistent in its rush. She reaches back again, pulls at the fabric and the entire ensemble suddenly drops, leaving only her skin, still in heels, her confidence so fucking sexy his cock hurts. “You,” she repeats, stepping forward and leaning over him, her breasts brushing against his shirt, her teeth taking a soft nip of his jaw before her mouth moves to his ear. “Didn’t tell me it was your birthday.”
She kneels, a pillow under her knees, running her hands confidently down his shirt and thumbing the buckle of his belt. He inhales when her hands dip under his jeans, her fingers wrapping over the denim while working the button, and she smiles.
You didn’t tell me it was your birthday.
“I would have, had I known it would lead to this.” He doesn’t have a condom. The oversight is glaring, in big huge letters that a blind man would have trouble missing. He hasn’t needed one, the unspoken boundaries in their relationship clear. They touch, they kiss… but they haven’t gone there, haven’t gone there enough times that he’s stopped carrying one. Yet another question he doesn’t ask and another answer she doesn’t volunteer. Maybe he won’t need one. Maybe, with his back to the wall and her settled in on her knees, this will be a blow job, no condom necessary. He almost hopes she doesn’t ask. He won’t be able to say no if she pulls him to his feet and leads him to the bed. A man’s willpower is only so strong, and turning her down is Numero Uno on the list of things he is unable to do.
Then her fingers pull his cock out, an organ that has only strengthened in the few minutes that have passed since she disrobed, a cock that swells even more in her hands, her eager look surprising as she examines it. Squeezes it gently, runs her fist up and down its length, her other hand lightly traveling over it, trailing the veins just under the skin, cupping his balls lightly. He stares at her face, wondering at the delight there. As if this is something she has waited for. Imagined. Almost like she is pinching herself to see if this is real. This girl, this girl who has so much fear of herself in her heart… he will never understand her many sides. And here is a new one, the explorative innocent, eager and ready to please.
Then she lowers her mouth, taking her enthusiasm to a different level, and he gasps, his pelvis spasming, his hand falling and entangling in her hair. Maybe not innocent. This mouth, working his cock in ways he has never felt, is anything but innocent.
In this moment, his most vulnerable organ in her mouth, the impossible happens, and he falls even deeper in love.
CHAPTER 41
House Arrest Countdown: 2 Weeks
MARCUS SHUTS DOWN the computer, his sex drive sated, the latest Jess Reilly videos spurring his arousal in a way that the white-trash hooker had failed to do. He gave up on ordering in pussy after that night. Decided to wait until his house arrest ended, then celebrate his freedom in the proper fashion, his sights once again set on Jess Reilly.
He has jacked off to the camgirl every night this week, the “Submissive” section of her website being of particular interest to him, her normally feisty eyes staring into the camera, focused right on him, their stare softer, more willing, the shudder of her obedience making his cock stand at attention every fucking time. She is perfect. She is exactly what he needs. The obedience in these videos shows that she is already capable of it. He may not have to work too hard to pull it out of her. She will be so sweet when she cries beneath him.
With a second thought, he turns the computer back on, relogs i
nto her site and stares at the “Contact Me” button. It has been five weeks since the bitch banned him from the camsite. Her loss, as the number of hours he’d spent on her videos could have meant serious income. Now, it feels like the right time to reapproach her. He’ll start with an appointment on her site, have a chat session where she’ll breathe his name into the camera and tell him the sexual words he needs to hear. Make him come. He has two weeks till his house arrest ends. Enough time to work his way back into her good graces, offer her even more money this time. The dollar figure is really irrelevant considering that she’ll never see the money anyway. He should go big. Throw out a large enough figure she won’t be able to say no. Fifty thousand—that’ll catch her attention. Cause her to make plans, meet him, and give him the Welcome Back gift he deserves.
He reaches forward, nudges the mouse toward the “Contact Me” button and clicks once, his mind going over the words he will open with. A negotiation. Like hundreds he has successfully pulled off. He just needs to swallow his pride and take her shit.
BLOCKED ACCESS.
His stomach drops at the screen, its colors screaming red, boiling the blood in his system, his hand moving with urgency back to the address bar and retyping her website in.
BLOCKED ACCESS.
Cocksucking motherfucker. He leans back his head and screams his anger, his fists clenching, and any post-orgasm glow vanishes.
He will kill her. He is Marcus Fucking Renza. Who the fuck does she think she is?
CHAPTER 42
November 11—Two Years Earlier
WHEN DADDY’S MONEY rained, it poured. And when you’ve been cut off, it sucks. Katie McLaughlin glances toward the bartender, green eyes meeting brown, and shakes her head, red curls bouncing. She pushes off the counter, her hand reaching out and snagging the leather elbow of her roommate. “Hey.” She leans in, close enough to smell Dior and smoke. “Spot me twenty.”
“I’m out.” The blonde shrugs. “Unbutton your blouse. Let ’em work.” She moves away, bouncing through bodies, her hand tugged forward by a Mohawk with sunglasses. Neon lights dance off bodies, and she is lost in the crowd as soon as the bass beats out the next song.
“You look like you need a drink,” the voice yells, and she can still barely hear it over the music. She turns, the swell of bodies behind her jostling her forward into the proximity of the voice, one who holds out a bottle of Michelob ULTRA. “This is what you were drinking, right?” He smiles. Nice smile. Shaved head, short enough to bring the word military to mind. A tall body that stretches his polo tight, biceps big enough to impress. Midthirties. A little old but he works it. She reaches out, accepts the cool bottle with a smile, and notes the Breitling on his wrist.
“Yeah. Thanks.”
“I saw you nursing one earlier.” He nods toward the bar. “Pretty girls shouldn’t drink alone.”
She lifts up the bottle. “I’ll drink to that.”
“To company,” he says solemnly.
“And strangers,” she adds, clinking bottles with him and turning up the beer, letting it rush down her throat, the energy and fight of the club pushing them closer, a hard jostle from behind causing a spurt of alcohol to run out of her mouth. She laughs awkwardly, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand, the stranger shooting a hard look at her bumping offender, his arm moving protectively around her, the touch of his fingers sending a jolt of arousal through her buzzed mind.
“I’m Katie.” She switches beer hands and holds out a palm, shaking his as she blushes, the smear of beer still wet across her lips.
“Benjamin.” He has to say the name twice, the crowd noise scrambling the syllables in her brain.
“Benjamin,” she repeats with a shake of her head. “I’ll never remember that in the morning.”
He laughs. “No.” He shakes his head with a wide smile. God, he has pretty teeth. “You probably won’t.”
It was 12:02 a.m. Nine hours later she would wake up in a hospital.
CHAPTER 43
“THE GUY DOWN the hall has become a problem.” I floss my teeth, talking through a long string of peppermint dental hygiene. I shut the medicine cabinet door, hiding eleven more containers of the floss. The downfall of shopping exclusively online. Bulk inventory of everything.
“In what way?” Dr. Derek’s voice is calm. It’s always calm. For once, I’d like to see him freak the fuck out.
“The I’m-gonna-fucking-kill-him way.”
“Which guy are you talking about?”
I roll my neck, the muscles sore from a ridiculously long blow-job session with a client who I will never service again. Forty-five minutes of plastic dick in my mouth cost him three hundred bucks and a front row seat on my block list. The taste of cyberskin is still on my tongue. I lean over and spit, rinsing out my mouth before refocusing on Dr. Derek. “Simon. The one who locks me in at night.”
“What’s the problem?”
“He saw me. In the hall one day. So now he’s trying to flirt with me.” It had happened again. A knock on my door, at an evening hour. I didn’t respond to it this time. Instead I unplugged my microwave, hefted it above my head, and stood to the side of the door with it raised high. Waited and prayed that he would try the knob. Find it unlocked. Walk in. Let me slam the thirty-some pound appliance on his head. He hadn’t tried the knob. He’d knocked again. Waited. Knocked. Waited. Waited so long that my arms ached and I developed a cramp somewhere in my upper back. When he finally gave up, wandered back down the hall to his apartment, my arms were so weak they could barely carry the damn thing back to its normal place on the counter. I had collapsed on the floor, shaking out my arms and cursing my lack of muscle tone.
“This is why you shouldn’t leave the apartment. If he hadn’t seen you, this wouldn’t be an issue.”
“You try staying in your bedroom for years at a time.”
He is silent for a moment. “Your concern is that you will be able to talk him into unlocking the door?”
“Yes. Or just invite him in during the day. And it’s not a concern. It’s a fact.”
“And you want to kill him?”
I scrunch my face in incredulity. “Do you think I like paying you money? Why the fuck would I hire you if I don’t want to kill people?”
He sighed in a manner that reminds me of my father, and I suddenly have the urge to cry. Can feel the swell of emotion that used to push its way out in tears. I was grateful when he spoke, grateful to have something to focus on other than the memory of my father. “I don’t understand why you suddenly think you can rejoin society. Hang out in the hall. Go on dates and have sex and cross the damn street for snacks. You’re living as if you don’t have these urges. As if you don’t need me. Why? Why the sudden changes? Have you improved? Because from my end of the line, you seem the same.”
I blink in surprise. A good part of my sessions with Derek is spent trying to goad him into emotion. Because I’m bored, or because it’s fun, there is no rhyme or reason why. Hell, five minutes ago I was lamenting his lack of reaction. For him to snap at me, his tone laced with irritation and frustration, and a dash of… was that damaged ego? The tones are completely foreign, and I grin.
“I apologize, O great psychologist. Yes, I want to kill Simon. I want to cut his stomach open and reclaim every white pill I’ve ever paid him with.”
“You realize those pills don’t stay there. They are digested by stomach acids, pass through the body in a matter of hours. You’d be lucky to find a small part of a pill, even if you sifted through his entire long intestine all afternoon.” His voice is so matter-of-fact, so instructionally Derek, that I almost miss the humor. I gawk at the phone, the man on the other side a stranger.
The man doesn’t rant. Doesn’t get emotional, or frustrated, or jealous. And he doesn’t joke. Not even a little bit. And certainly not about anything as macabre as killing.
Who was this stranger? And could I, despite the lectures, be actually enjoying our session?
I hang up o
n him just for the hell of it. It helps me convince myself, in some small way, that I have the upper hand. At times it seems my whole life is a fight for the upper hand.
CHAPTER 44
FIVE DAYS AFTER the birthday blow job, I hear the elevator and shoot to my feet, swinging open the door before Jeremy gets to it, my purse in hand. My purse. It feels so strange in my hand, the extra unnecessary weight one carries around for the purposes of… what? What is so imperative that we, as women, must carry an extra appendage? Men manage to survive just fine without carrying around a personal supply of Band-Aids, tissues, medicine and Q-tips. My purse is shiny and new, a whoopee-I’m-rich purchase back when I didn’t have the sense to realize a shut-in doesn’t need a purse. So dammit—I’m using it. A giant, empty purse with only two things inside: a driver’s license and a checkbook.
“Hey.” Jeremy stops short in the hall, his eyes sweeping appreciatively over me. “You look… ready.”
“Ready?” I roll my eyes and pull my door shut. “Wow, you’re as out of practice as I am. How about hot? Sexy? Beautiful?”
I breeze past him and am caught off guard when his hand catches me, rolling me to one side and pinning me against the wall, his body suddenly there, hard and strong against me, his breath hot against my neck. “Hot. Sexy. Beautiful,” he whispers, my body weakening underneath his as my chin lifts up and he captures my mouth in his.
Thud. My purse hits the floor as he dips into my mouth, his tongue dancing over mine in a slow, confident sweep, my hands stealing under his shirt and gripping his back, wanting him closer, harder, everywhere against me.
