Page 15 of Obsession
It’s empty. I’m wired, having drunk more coffee than what can be considered healthy. I’ve typed out one thousand words in the last hour, then deleted them all because I wasn’t happy with how they turned out. How can I possibly begin to make sense of Robbie Hammond? I glance down at the recorder lying on top of a folded newspaper beside my laptop. For a small device, it sure has a weird effect on my heart every time I glance at it.
Which I do a lot.
With a quick peek around me to ensure no one is peering into my cubicle, I place my headphones in my ears and press play.
The smoky notes of Robbie’s voice caress my mind. I relax back in my chair, staring mindlessly at nothing while imagining Robbie’s blue eyes, the way they watch me from across the small square table. His strong hands, covered in tattoos and a smatter of hairs at the knuckles, drum the surface in rhythm with my erratic breathing, as if to summon every inhale.
It’s difficult to listen to him talk about his mother. His detached voice is at odds with the intensity in his eyes when he looks at me.
It’s as if his mouth speaks one language and his eyes another, and I can barely focus on one while deciphering the other.
His breathy chuckle sends a rush of heat between my thighs, and my hands fly up to my headphones as I sit straighter in my seat. It’s wrong to rock on my chair to ease the ache building between my thighs.
It’s also wrong to suck my lip between my teeth and close my eyes.
But I do.
The pressure on my clit feels fucking divine and, combined with the deep drawl of Robbie’s voice when he asks me if I like to psychoanalyze him, it does wicked things to my body that would cause a nun to do the sign of the cross.
Before I can stop myself, I visualize my body tied to his bed, helpless and scared, my clothes torn, while he hovers over me, covered in streaks of blood splattered across the stubble on his cheeks.
“Such a dirty little girl,” he whispers, dragging the sharp blade in his hand down my chest, over the valley of my heaving tits. The knife slips beneath the torn fabric, and he slides it away from my breast, exposing my lace bra. “Dirty girls like you deserve to be punished.”
A hand lands on my shoulder, startling me. I let out a sudden scream and whirl around, coming face to face with a shocked Elliot. His eyes skate to the recorder on the desk when I rip out my earbuds.
“Don’t sneak up on me like that.” My voice is breathy, betraying the lust pulsing between my legs despite my thrashing heart.
“James wants a word with you in his office.”
“James?”
“Our boss,” he replies with a raised brow.
“Oh, right…” I stand up and try to move past him, but he won’t budge.
I should be used to this song and dance by now, but I’m not. It irks me that I have to crane my neck to look him in the eye.
“Getting a little attached, are we?”
Reaching for the recorder with a trembling hand, I refuse to look away from the knowing glint in his eyes. He enjoys watching me squirm. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Sure you don’t,” he drawls, reaching for me, but I jerk my face away from his touch. He’s too close, and his fingers soon stroke across my cheek. I should report his behavior to James, but I know it won’t do me any favors. James won’t believe me, for starters. The last thing I need is to be considered a troublemaker at work. Not now, when I have a project that could catalyze my career.
If I do a good job, I can be out of here by next year, snapped up by a much bigger newspaper.
“Is that what you’re into, sweetheart? Dangerous men who would cut you into pieces and enjoy it?”
“Fuck you,” I hiss through clenched teeth, glaring at him.
“You should be careful what you wish for.”
I bare my teeth, causing him to chuckle as he steps away, watching me stride out of the cubicle.
Fuck him and his god complex.
James looks up from the paperwork before him when I close his door with a little too much force. Anger heats the blood in my veins, but I suppress it by digging my nails into my palms, allowing the sharp bite of pain to calm my nerves.
“Why don’t you sit down?” James says, motioning for the seat across from his mahogany desk. Framed news articles and certificates line the cream wall behind him, and a photograph ofhis wife on their wedding day sits neatly on his desk. It’s not a secret that James cheats on the regular. I’m grateful he hasn’t tried his luck with me yet.
