Page 2 of Monstrous Urges

Sinister.

Dangerous and reckless. Depraved and exiting.

Something seriously fucking stupid, and you need to turn around right now and call Dr. Jesnick ASAP and tell her to clear her schedule because Taylor Air is coming in hot for a landing with a full cargo of baggage.

I glance at the road again, then the phone. My teeth rake over my lower lip as something heated and deliriously dark pools in my core. Before I know what I’m doing, I’m pulling off to the shoulder of the road, throwing the Porsche in park, and plucking the phone from the holder.

I navigate to the app, my pulse quickening as I tap on my correspondence with him.

NapoleonInExile

I’m going to make you my personal little cum slut. My fuck toy. My pretty little whore.

My physical response to the message, same as every time I’ve gone back in and re-read it, is instant. Instant and…all-consuming. My breath hitches. My skin tingles with an electricity that curls my toes and makes the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. My nipples tighten to points. Wet heat pools between my thighs, and when I shift in my seat, I shiver at the delicious friction of my panties against my core.

I can’t believe I’m doing this.

Any of it. I mean, hell, I can’t believe I’m up past nine at night, and it doesn’t involve work. Much less currently driving to fuck-knows-where in the woods forty minutes outside New York to play dark, dangerous games with a man who says things like “I’m going to make you my personal little cum slut”.

I shudder again, my teeth biting my lower lip even harder.

This is insanity. And yet, here I am.

Most girls’ mothers tell them the basics of how to survive in the world. Don’t talk to strangers. Be aware of your surroundings. Don’t put yourself in a bad situation.

I think it’s safe to say “don’t meet strange men from the internet in the woods at night to play out primal fantasies with them” is probably somewhere on that list, too.

At least, I assume most girls’ moms teach them those things. Maybe mine never got around to it. Or maybe she did, and I’ve just forgotten it, same as I’ve forgotten her and the rest of my childhood memories—all gone in an instant, like a bad Vegas magic trick.

*Poof*, there goes the rabbit!

*Poof*, there goes the nine of hearts!

*Poof*, there goes Taylor’s entire memory from before the age of eighteen! Don’t forget to hit the craps table on your way out, folks!

But this isn’t the time to ruminate on lessons my mom may or may not have taught me. I’ve already come this far, and there’s no backing down now.

Not because I can’t. I don’t want to.

At least, I’m reasonably sure I don’t.

Which is why I’m still driving up the Hudson, the Porsche’s headlights illuminating the dark road ahead, following the map directions to the agreed-upon location.

Where he’ll chase me. Where he’ll catch me.

Where he’ll do whatever he wants to me.

This time, the shiver that ripples up my spine is a mix of fear and excitement. It’s addictive as fuck. So is the sprinkling of anxiety and the throb of nervous energy.

Needless to say, none of this is “me”.

Not Taylor Crown, attorney-at-law, who just had a cover piece published about her in The Legal Journal, detailing her rapid rise through the ranks of the legal world of New York, up to and including founding Crown and Black alongside Alistair and Gabriel.

I’m the girl with the Chanel skirt suits and Louboutins. The one with the meticulous schedule involving the four AM alarm so I can hit the gym and get my jogging in, wall-to-wall client and board meetings, and the standing lunch reservation at Per Se. The one with the perfect car and the perfect apartment with the perfect white couch and the cutlery that matches the kitchen fixtures. The girl with the perfectly vanilla boyfriend.

I know I’m all those things, because I’ve been all those things, robotically, for a decade.

But tonight, I’m going off-book. Off script.

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