Page 104 of Brutal Obsession

I go to her texts, and a conversation with Mia Germain catches my eye. The director of her last show, from the video online. If she’s done with ballet, why is she talking to her? Then I see the appointment time, the doctor’s name, and my throat gets tight. I look back farther, but that seems to be her only correspondence.

I Google Dr. Michaels. He’s in Vermont. This town actually, which might explain Violet’s weird mood… and why she came along on this trip in the first place. Did Mia Germain infuse some hope in her, then the doctor—an orthopedic surgeon who specializes in working with athletes—took it away?

Well, I guess that solves some of the mystery. I erase my search history and move on. I click onto her social media and follow myself across the various platforms. I snoop through her emails, which proves to be slightly more fruitful.

Her academic advisor has sent her the form to graduate. My thumb hovers over the delete button, and then I glance back up at Violet again. She rolls away from me, burying her head in the pillow.

I go back to her texts.

The ex-boyfriend has sent a slew that has me grinding my teeth. There are a lot from immediately after the accident:I’m so excited to see you when you get backandwe’re going to have an awesome junior yearand then a few weeks later:Fuck, Violet, I miss you. I don’t care about your leg, just take me back. I’m sorry. Then they stop up until her return to school. A big gap.

I delete his thread and block his number.

What did he say to her? The line that he crossed to make her end things with him? For a second, I envision holding him down and cutting off his tongue. The imagery is satisfying, if a bit violent.

Like her.

I set aside her phone and circle around to the other side of the bed. I peel the blankets off her, letting them all slide to the floor. Sheets, comforter. Until all that’s left is her. I crouch beside it, level with her knees, and inspect her left leg more thoroughly. The scar is silver and straight down the front of her shin. I reach out and brush my finger over it.

How long was she in surgery?

When did they tell her she wouldn’t dance again?

I carefully lift her leg, shifting her weight, until she rolls onto her back. I wait a handful of seconds, but she doesn’t stir.

Whatever she took last night has done its job. First the high, then the crash.

So she doesn’t move when I pull her panties down either, exposing her pink pussy. The hair is trimmed and neat. She’s already wet—dreaming about me, I hope. I touch one of her outer lips, tracing the hot skin down and back up on the other side.

I lick my lips and lean forward, crawling between her legs. Her face is still angelic, peaceful. Relaxed. I rarely see her without some sort of pinched, exasperated expression. Even when she comes, she holds back.

It’s irritating.

On some surface level, I get it. We don’t trust each other. We can barely tolerate each other most times. But then there are times when all I want to do is get close enough to her to climb into her skin.

I don’t understand it.

I press a kiss to the inside of her thigh. Her legs are open, and she doesn’t react to my touch. Not yet. I slide a finger inside her, my gaze going from her cunt to her face. Over and over. I thrust in and out, curling the finger when it’s in her. Then add another one. She shifts at that, as my digits stretch her a bit.

I add another, then lean forward and taste her. She’s sweet. A hint of salt, of sweat. I lick her, then focus on her clit. My hand doesn’t stop moving. I nibble on her clit and keep the pressure. My focus is on her body, her face.

She squirms, and her muscles clench at my fingers.

When she comes, it’s beautiful.

Her mouth opens. Her back arches off the bed, pushing her breasts up. Her nipples are hard and pebbled, poking through the thin shirt.

Violet lets out a whimper, and she shivers. The orgasm overwhelms her.

I hope she’s having a good dream.

I slowly pull my fingers out, but my cock is rock-hard. Without thinking, I climb up, kick my shorts off, and thrust into her.

Hard.

Her eyes fly open, her expression transforming from sleepy to surprised. I don’t think she recognizes me. It’s still a little dark in the room, not quite sunrise, and she shoves at my chest.

I capture her wrists and pin them beside her head.

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