Thief of Hearts: A Rogue Billionaire Fake Fiance Romance

by Carter Blake

  That I alone am able to soothe the savage beast.

  I can hear myself whimper now as I finger-fuck myself, panting from my sharp arousal, wishing it was his hard cock.

  As I feel myself tighten with the first waves of orgasm, my dream shifts.

  Now I’m naked on my desk while Jaxon fills me. Every thrust is the most exquisite torture. He’s still partially dressed, but his jacket is gone, his shirt is askew, and he looks devilishly sexy.

  But his hands—his hands are covered in blood.

  In fact, he’s covered in blood. We both are. His warm, bloody hands leaving smudges of gore all over my porcelain skin…

  And I love it.

  I revel in it with him.

  And as I feel myself start to come, I imagine myself pulling him down, devouring his mouth. And then I come—harder than I have ever come masturbating before—with the metallic taste of blood sweet on my tongue.

  I snap back to myself after the fog of oxytocin and endorphins recede.

  What have I done?

  I answer myself without even thinking:

  I’ve just masturbated to completion while fantasizing about a possibly psychotic patient covered in blood.

  This won’t work.

  I can’t possibly continue to treat Jaxon if I’m incapable of professional detachment.

  I sink deeper into the tub, but I’m afraid no amount of water will wash away my shame.

  Jaxon Covington can’t be my patient. And I see no other solution.

  I have to figure a way out of this.

  Jaxon

  Second session with Alison today.

  I’ve got my hair neatly combed, and I can’t quit playing with it as I sit at the cold metal table waiting for her. Maybe she prefers it tousled. I’ll have to find out.

  Pictures of me. Hidden on her desk.

  My cock throbs.

  I can’t wait to see her. I’ve been running her through my mind every second we’ve been apart. Her physical beauty is only an enhancement of her incredible mind.

  She gets me. I know it. Just like I know her.

  She must be starting to feel it.

  I start to worry, thinking she might be late.

  Why would she dawdle? What possible reason would she have for delaying?

  I rushed here this morning—made the guards bring me early because I couldn’t sit in my room getting annoyed by fucking jerk-offs.

  Finally, she comes walking down the hall.

  I’m not chained today. I didn’t expect to be. I knew it wouldn’t take much for her to feel safe around me.

  Well. Safe isn’t the point, is it?

  The point is that she wants my hands free to touch her…whether it’s safe or not.

  I know now, she wants me to touch her. She just doesn’t know how to go about it.

  I’ve learned so much about her. I have extensive records and quite a bit of rumor and hearsay. But I still don’t know how to approach her.

  That, I can only learn from watching her, absorbing her. Learning how she reacts.

  She’s making a psychologist out of me.

  I’ve always been an expert on human behavior. Now I’m learning a whole new game. She’s no quick study.

  She sweeps into the room, clutching her stack of files against her chest. Move them, pretty woman…

  Ah, the angel. She does.

  Her breasts push against a crimson blouse, buttoned down the front. Loose black skirt with dark stockings. The same black heels I saw last time.

  Must be her favorites.

  I’ll find out the brand and size and have them sent to her in every color.

  She smiles as she sits down, fiery hair flowing around her.

  “Hello, Jaxon, how are you today?”

  My hands twitch on the table. I want to touch her.

  But no. No sudden moves. Don’t scare the lovely doe.

  “Better now.”

  My voice is low and deep. I don’t move from my position deep in the chair, my eyes focused on her face.

  It’s time to cut the crap. I know she wants me. I need to let her know I want her, too.

  She looks uncertain, but I don’t move or change my expression. With my eyes, I trail over her, her face, her hair. I let my eyes crawl slowly over her body.

  With all my will, I direct my thoughts at her.

  Be certain. I want you as much as you want me.

  She ignores my intense stare and pulls out some papers. When she looks back at me, her eyes are bright yet detached somehow. What the fuck is going on?

  “Well then, Jaxon. Since our last session was ‘bullshit’—as you so eloquently put it— I’m wondering if you’d like to take another crack at the big question. Why do you hate being called ‘Jack?’?”

  My fists clench without my realizing. The whisper slips out before I can stop it.

  “It’s not my name.”

  “What did you say, sorry? I didn’t hear.”

  I clear my throat, sitting up. “Okay. You want the real story? The real reason I hate being called Jack? Well, I’ll tell you, Ali…”

  I let the pet name hang on the air. She smiles and blushes a little. I hear the ‘knock’ on the floor of her heel.

  There it is, that little twitch of hers. How I love it.

  “No one has ever called me Ali before.”

  “Wonderful.” I smile warmly for her. “That means it can be just between us.”

  She’s coming in, I can see it. Getting warmed up. Whatever reservations she had, they are fleeing now in the glamour of my physical presence.

  “I would very much like it if you can be honest with me.”

  “Okay,” I nod, solemnly, searching through my memories.

  I did the dear old Dad bit, didn’t I?

  “It wasn’t my father who was abusive. It was my mother. She used to duct tape me to the wall. When she did, she called me Jack. That was the only time. I was only three, I think, the first time she did it. She did it regularly. She would be sweet and loving, calling me Jaxon, giving me sweets and cake.

  “Then she’d suddenly say she’d had enough of me. She would grab the duct tape, paste me to the wall. It’s funny because she’s so fucking rich, it’s the only time she did anything that could be called manual labor. She’d get me strapped to the wall, then she’d start taunting me. ‘Find a beanstalk, Jack ol’ boy…’”

  The ‘click’ of her heel on the floor. She made a note.

  “You seem to be quite caught on the fairytale association to your diminutive name.”

  I’m actually startled. “What?”

  “You’ve mentioned on more than one occasion the fairy tales associated with the shortened version of your name. Do you care to comment on that?”

  “I…”

  I’m thrown for a second. Do I have an issue with the fairy tales?

  It never occurred to me. She really is fucking sharp.

  She looks up, her pale eyes fixing on mine and softening. It’s like she needs to be honest about something.

  Yes, baby. Spill your guts. Tell me all your truths.

  “Jaxon. I’m so sorry. But you might have a new doctor soon.”

  “WHAT?”

  I can’t take so many shocks at once.

  I feel suddenly vulnerable. I don’t like feeling like this.

  When I feel this way, people get hurt.

  “What are you talking about?” My eyes are stinging. “You can’t—I mean, no one has ever gotten me like you do.”

  I reach out and grasp her hand, just lightly. First touch.

  Tingles of pleasure all the way to my cock.

  “Ali. Please.”

  She shakes her head, all that red hair just shimmering like blood and flame.

  She squeezes my hand. “Jaxon—”

  “Don’t you want to see me anymore?” I force her eyes up to mine. “What’s wrong? You have to tell me.”

  “I don’t—”

  “Please. No one can fix me except you. You
know that.”

  My guts are churning. She’s everything I need. She can’t just disappear.

  I won’t let this happen. I have to pull tight at her heartstrings, and quick.

  She’s about to speak again when there’s a buzz at the door. Prof has come to put in his two cents.

  Holy fuck, they aren’t going to give me to Charlie, are they? He’ll hang himself in a week.

  Alison heads out the door, where she and the prof begin to whisper frantically at each other. Blessing my free hands, I slide across the room like a cat to press my ear against the wood.

  “—you have two weeks to rehabilitate this patient. Do you understand, Dr. Hughes?” Prof sounds pissed.

  Well, so would I be if the last blow job I got was junior high.

  “Doctor, I’ve been asking you to discuss this with me for some time. Not only are the parameters you set unrealistic, but I also have my doubts that I can—”

  “We have legal services waiting for our approval on this. We don’t have years. This case is so high profile; it’s the only test you need. He has to be ready for trial.”

  Ha! What a joke.

  I’m not going to trial. Prof might be smart, but he doesn’t understand how good my lawyers are.

  “With all due respect, doctor, under these terms and others I have previously stated, I’ll have to give up—”

  “Alison.” Prof changes his stance on the other side of the door. I picture him being fatherly, benevolent. “You know both I and the medical board expect great results on this. You’re not just gifted and talented; you have a drive that’s rarely seen in this field.”

  “You understand what’s at stake here,” he intones. “You must continue your work here and do it faster—no one else can work with this patient!”

  I lean against the door, grinning. Got that fucking right!

  I know I’m responsible for this. Not only have I got prof under the thumb, little Charlie’s school report probably also stated what a changed man Jaxon Covington is.

  All thanks to the very young, very talented Dr. Hughes.

  Prof hurries down the hallways, and I hear Ali sigh as she leans against the door.

  I lean against the door, too. Stroke it gently. Separated by an inch of wood.

  I leave my fingertips lightly against the door as I listen to her breathing.

  She’s so different from anyone I have ever met.

  Different from anyone I have ever bent to my will. She doesn’t react with emotion. She doesn’t let it get the better of her.

  She solves everything with her cold reason and never lets the world see how she really feels. God, how I adore her.

  Alison

  A sigh escapes my lips as I lean against the door and watch Doctor Gardner’s figure retreat down the hall after delivering his lovely ultimatum. And when that doesn’t adequately express my frustration, I add a whispered “fuck” for good measure.

  I take another moment to gather my thoughts and make a plan.

  This is just a challenge. It was never meant to be easy—that’s why it’s a test of my skills, my professionalism, and my clinical detachment.

  I have the potential to be the best this field has to offer. I need to start acting like it.

  I straighten my spine and adjust my skirt before settling my professional mask of aloof agreeableness on my face.

  I’m the doctor, and Jaxon is my patient. It’s as simple as that.

  I open the door to find Jaxon repositioning in his seat, as if he just slipped back into it. Hmm. I suspect he was listening to my conversation with Dr. Gardner, but I don’t necessarily have proof.

  More than that, though—he could have easily made it into the seat and situated himself so I would’ve been none the wiser—it’s almost like he wants me to know he knows.

  “Good news, Mr. Covington,” I say, forcing myself to use his surname, to at least try to create some distance. “It appears there was a misunderstanding, and I’ll be remaining as your treating physician for the foreseeable future.”

  I smile blandly.

  Jaxon leans back in his chair, hands on his flat stomach, and stretches his legs out until they’re almost touching mine. He smiles like a cat that just got his cream.

  “That’s good. I’m glad to hear it, Ali,” he laughs, the nickname rolling languidly off his tongue.

  I almost shiver. I catch myself, though, and stiffen my spine instead.

  When I told him no one had ever called me Ali before, I meant it. But not because no one had thought to.

  Hardly. No, no one had ever called me Ali before because I’d never allowed anyone to.

  I found the diminutive insipid. In fact, I find most nicknames to be an unnecessary complication.

  But when Jaxon Covington calls me Ali, I feel none of my usual aversions. Instead, it’s like warm honey poured over vanilla ice cream. It makes me want to moan.

  And I find myself mesmerized by his tongue.

  Specifically, the way it catches between his teeth on the “-lee.”

  I imagine it doing all sorts of other things.

  I pick up my notes and begin shuffling through them. I need to give myself a moment to solidify my professional persona and banish the image of Jaxon drizzling warm honey over my breasts before suckling them clean.

  I shift slightly in my seat at my own sudden desire. This might be harder than I thought.

  I clear my throat. “So, Mr. Covington. Please tell me more about your mother.”

  ***

  The rest of the session flies by in a whirl of loaded glances, half-smiles, and falsehoods. I listen to him elaborate on his traumatic childhood, taking notes as he talks.

  It’s all lies. Every word of it.

  But I let him go, wanting to see where each lie will lead because there’s a truth to be had even in deception. If you know where to look.

  I simply record everything, interrupting periodically to ask him a probing question or if he could clarify a statement. I notice that he pauses occasionally to gauge my reaction, especially if the story was particularly horrific.

  But I give him nothing.

  My mask of professional detachment is firmly in place, despite the rocky start.

  I can tell it frustrates him. I can see a faint tic in his jaw. And I like it.

  If I’m going to be frustrated, then he damn well can be, too.

  We carry on like this for some time, and before I know it, there’s the usual knock on the door. A prison guard is here to collect him.

  I arch an eyebrow as I watch Jaxon simply give the guard a look and the man retreats to wait for him in the hallway. The subtle display of dominance is intoxicating.

  The entire session, Jaxon has been careful not to touch me. So, so careful.

  But he’s hovered just barely out of reach, to the point where I could practically feel his heat. But as the guard leaves, he leans forward across the table and takes my hands. I almost jump at the crackling intensity of the contact.

  “Ali,” he says.

  I maintain eye contact, instead of dropping my glance to his mouth.

  Don’t shiver.

  “Doctor Hughes,” he continues, rubbing small, soft circles on my wrists with his thumbs.

  I know I should remove my hands, but I can’t seem to find the motivation.

  “Thank you for continuing to treat me. I feel a connection here that I’ve never felt before, and I think I’m finally having a breakthrough. I’m learning stuff about myself I never even realized.”

  He gives me a slight smile, then he pulls back and takes his hands away. “Keep up the good work.”

  He winks as he stands and heads out of the room without waiting for my response.

  I hear the door open and close, and then he’s gone.

  I sit there, stunned, unsure of what just happened. And for the first time today, for the first time since I met him, I’m not sure whether or not he’s lying.

  ***

  Back in
my office, I have Jaxon’s police file, as well as my records from every meeting spread in front of me trying to determine a pattern. I go over all of my notes from the day, then I shift my attention back to the police file.

  I’ve read it already, of course, but I keep going back to it, trying to find something that I missed. A piece that will help me solve this puzzle.

  Then I see it. A small note in the margin.

  Someone jotted down that Jaxon was completely cooperative until the detective called him Jack.

  Then, it was as if someone flipped a switch.

  I sit back and think. I personally had seen Jaxon become completely unhinged when someone called him Jack. But it seems that this is more than just an aversion.

  It’s a compulsion, a deep-seated trigger.

  When I brought it up today, he deflected first then gave me another false story.

  I lean back in my chair and rub my temples.

  Then I pick up my memo recorder and press record.

  “Patient Jaxon Covington presents as a possible case of either sociopathy or psychopathy. However, it is yet to be determined where on this spectrum he falls, or if these personality disorders are paired in any degree with a psychosis.”

  I hit pause, thinking this over.

  I’m not sure what I want to do. If I really wanted to be done with him, I could just declare him competent and wash my hands off the whole affair. No one would be the wiser.

  But I don’t think I can do that, and not just because it would be unethical.

  Because once I reach a diagnosis, I’m done. And I don’t think I’m ready for that.

  I want—no, I need more time with him. To properly diagnose him. That’s it.

  I continue. “Patient remains guarded and stand-offish. A change of venue may be necessary to put him at ease.”

  I don’t know why I said that. I have no doubt Jaxon Covington would be at ease wherever he was. Nevertheless, almost as if I can’t control myself, I put into the official record.