Page 26 of Imprisoned Obsession

Whether it’s “love” or not, I’m certain these feelings in my heart run more deeply than the gratification I get from finding joy in the misery of others.

Willa is turning me into a changed man. I would have laughed at the idea of giving my undivided attention to any woman, but this isn’t the past.

Accepting this revelation is easy; I have almost been bracing myself for it.

Another jolt crashes into my rattling heart. The dull pain has left, and my skin no longer suffers from the spiteful tautness.

I reach across my body, squeezing the junction of my neck and shoulder to test the peculiar change. Where did this sudden change come from?

I bring my hand back down and flex the stiff fingers. Slivers of ashen scars litter the inked patterns, brightening the black ink to a bleached gray color.

Some scars on my body are hidden, the deep tissue scars. They will never heal like the more shallow wounds have.

My heart rumbles beneath my palm. The strength of the rhythm echoes in my ears as I relish the gentle caress of painless solace.

Tension rolls off my rigid muscles as I close my eyes. The window overlooking the back of my home is illuminated by moonlight, but it is a mere distraction.

I thought it was going to be one of those sleepless nights.

Turning on my heel, my heart lurches into my throat. Chills tumble clumsily down my spine as my muscles lock in shock.

“Darling,” I breathe with a smile, “What a pleasant surprise. Why aren’t you in bed?”

It’s past one in the morning. She shouldn’t be awake and out of bed without being properly clothed.

It’s wrong of her to tease me in the button-down shirt she wholeheartedly believes is her sleeping attire.

A twist in my gut forces me to advance towards her. She scrambles away with a frown as her back meets the opposite wall.

Her face flushes endearingly as she turns her head away for the most obvious reason. I'm not properly dressed either.

A man should be able to walk around his home in his nightwear.

“Stop coming closer,” she squeaks, her voice trailing into a hitched gasp.

I hum lightly as I trap her against the wall. We’re inches from each other with intimate sensations running through our bodies. She squirms and shrinks further against the wall. Her perky tits bounce daintily under my scrutinizing gaze.

I cup her chin and turn her frantic eyes to mine. She struggles to shake my hand away from her jaw, gripping my wrist and pulling futilely.

“Stop making me look at you,” she hisses with a brighter blush. “You’re naked. Have some decency!”

“It’s my home,” I note wryly.

I’m wearing boxer-briefs, albeit too tight. It’s her fault. How dare she look so delectable and not expect me to touch her little body?

I gruffly add, “You haven’t answered me yet.”

Willa mumbles incoherently with her teeth nibbling on the bottom lip. “I don’t know. Didn’t feel right sleeping for some reason.”

“Insomnia?” I guess as I stroke the soft skin on her cheek.

She squints and purses her lips. “No. It felt like ants were biting me.”

I want to test a thought that came to me not long ago. If we grew up in the same behavior-correction program, she would’ve experienced the same horror in that house.

“Did you run through a glass window?” she asks out of the blue.

“No,” I say. “Why do you ask that?”

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