Page 14 of A Method to His Madness

My fingers fly down to my sex out of pure necessity, moans cracking in my throat as I slide eager digits through my drenched flesh, desperately searching for the source of my incredible misery.

“That’s it, Ashley. Find your clit, It’s the sensitive spot at the very top of your slit. Higher, higher…even high—there.” My whimper is high pitched and urgent. “There you go. Rub it quickly. When you feel a gathering of nerves and you sense a storm is about to break, circle your fingers faster. Press deeper and grind, if you need to. You deserve this.”

For some reasonyou deserve thismakes me forget my surroundings. ForgetwhatI’m doing and focus on thewhy. Release release release. I deserve it.

“I feel it,” I manage, my tone choppy, pleasure zeroing in beneath my touch, like I’ve found a secret target that has been waiting for my arrow. “I-I feel it.”

“Take it, angel. Be fucking selfish.”

I moan as the storm doesn’t simply break, it explodes, my intimate flesh drawing in so tight that my moan becomes a scream, tears leaking from my eyes and coursing down my temples, a ripple of appeased hunger eating me alive, wracking my entire body with pleasure so immense, I can’t see the edges of it.

I fly out the other side of it…renewed. A different person.

A force.

And there’s a waiting pair of arms that signal safety, acceptance. Not ownership, but a place to go and own myself. I throw myself into them, close my eyes and go limp, secure in my belief in another human being for the first time in my life.

The next time I wake up, I’m in my own bed, looking up at the shifting patterns on the ceiling, my body relaxed and satisfied.

There’s no sign of Caleb, apart from a business card on my nightstand.

Your next appointment: 10 am. Tomorrow.

CHAPTER 7

Caleb

Ashley is mine.

I knew it as soon as I saw her in the pickle aisle, but the logical part of my brain attempted to hit the brakes. Reason tried to stop me, warn me that people don’t fall in love in a matter of moments. Well, that’s what the fuck I did, so explain that. Puzzle it out. I saw her and my life’s plan altered itself, a new path laying itself out in front of me.

That new path includes disentangling Ashley from her husband.

The one thing keeping me remotely sane is that she only belongs to that son of a bitch on paper. Not physically. Not emotionally. Those are parts of Ashley thatwillbe mine. Soon. She must take her identity and soul and needs back first, before she can give them to another person. I’m trying like hell not to rush the process of healing, but dear God, I don’t know how long I can restrain myself.

From kissing that mouth.

From holding her legs open and licking her hot little cunt.

From taking the decision to be with me out of her hands and simply binding her to my headboard, demanding she love me back.

Jesus Christ, I’m capable of that, aren’t I? I had no idea these tendencies were inside me. She’s unearthed them. Or created them out of thin air. The good, logical man I’m supposed to be is horrified by my thunderous obsession with Ashley, because this infatuated man wants to bend her to his will, while my conscience orders me to help restoreherwill. That conflict wages itself in my middle now, making my pulse hammer.

One thing that requires no debate is this, however: I’ll bury Waylon alive before I allow her to return to him. The two weeks she spent living in his home exist like needles underneath my skin. They turn my stomach. I should have found her sooner. I should have known my angel was out here in need of help. I resent the universe for not giving me a sign and guiding me to her sooner.

I’m here now, however, sitting in the driver’s side of my Bronco, watching her family through the front window of their farmhouse. It’s easy to see the mood is heavy, as one might imagine it would be after selling Ashley to a violent lecher. An older woman sits at the dinner table and stares straight ahead, not eating the food right in front of her. An older man rubs her shoulders, though he seems to know his comfort is useless.

I came here wanting to hate them for putting Ashley in a perilous situation, but they appear to be victims, too.

Not for long.

Taking my phone from the cupholder, I dial a detective friend back in Chicago.

“Luther, hey.” I close my eyes and see Ashley, peaceful and trusting in my arms, as I lay her down in bed. The warmth of her still lingers against my chest, my heart pounding pathetically from missing her. “I’m officially calling in that favor. I need you to run a background check on Waylon Collins, Lunson, Illinois.”

There’s a noticeable change in Ashley when I open the door of my office the following morning. Color dances in her cheeks. Her blonde hair is still fashioned in a braid, but it’s looser, a couple of strands having been teased free by the wind to frame her beautiful face. She wears the pea coat again. It’s not buttoned, however, giving me a glimpse at the pale pink dress underneath, the little pearl buttons that run down the center of her body. Between her tits. Resting against her pussy.

It takes all my self-control not to manhandle her inside and flatten her against the inside of my office door. To run my hands up beneath her dress and feel her curves, her smooth skin, my mouth finally, finally, experiencing her taste.

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