Page 37 of Driving My Obsession

I want to laugh in his face with each new lie he tells. I’ve struck a nerve, and the way his dick strains against his jeans tells me everything I need to know. He can say he isn’t attracted to me all he wants, but his body betrays him. He’s very much attracted to me, and I’m far from worthless in his eyes. You don’t stop a worthless woman from killing herself.

My body betrays me as well. With each breath that caresses my skin, my core clenches a little tighter. Goosebumps pebble my skin. Confusion overwhelms me as thoughts scrabble for purchase in my mind. I don’t want him inside me again, but I don’t know if that’s because I genuinely don’t want it...

Or because I’m notsupposedto want it.

No woman deserves to have her consent stripped away from her, and I’m not advocating for assault here, but what if a woman discovers she doesn’t mind if it happens again? I’m sure the first person who voiced their love for being tied up and flogged got some weird looks too. It’s not anything I’ve fantasized about, but now that it’s happened, I can’t deny that I’m open to being used by him again. I won’t lie to myself about that. I won’t be like him.

But I won’t admit it to his face, either. Admitting it to myself is enough.

I clutch my bag to my chest and duck under his arm. This close proximity is too dangerous for a number of reasons. I’m losing my fucking mind, for starters. Clutching the scratchy towel to my body, I head for the bathroom to change into something comfortable. Once I’m behind the closed door, I dress in a pair of jean shorts and a tank top. My reflection catches my eye. Bruises still stain my neck, and I got some gnarly scratches from running through the woods. An ashen cast to my skin makes me look a bit tired, but I suppose blood loss will do that to a person. I study the gash in my arm—a red wound that will become yet another scar.

Why did I do it?

I don’t have a good answer. My mindset at the time wasn’t fabulous. He dredged up the sunken ships of my past, and it was hard to look at them lying on the shore. Useless. Destroyed. Decaying. He’s forcing me to look at what I’ve become, and I can’t do that without glancing over my shoulder at what I used to be. What I’ll never be again.

I close my eyes. I don’t want to look anymore.

My line of work doesn’t bother me, and I’m not ashamed of what I do. Strippers get slapped with all sorts of unfair labels, but that doesn’t mean we’re any of those names they call us. It’s not the job that I can’t bear to think about. It’s the daily reminder of my loss. If an up-and-coming neurosurgeon had a horrific accident that disfigured their hands and prevented them from pursuing their dream, they’d be forced to abandon years of study and a lot of work to shift their trajectory toward another line of medicine. This is no different.

Actually, it is. People would pity the neurosurgeon instead of degrading them.

I grab a brush from beside the sink and drag it through my hair. I may feel like a drowned rat, but that doesn’t mean I have to look like one. Ambrose will do what he wants whether I look like heaven or hell, so I might as well do something for myself.

Once I’ve done what I can with my red locks, I turn to face the door. I don’t want to go back out there. I don’t want to face him again. I don’t want to deal with the confusing feelings he stirs inside me. But I must.

I grip the handle with a sweaty palm and open the door.

ChapterTwenty-Three

Ambrose

The bathroom door clicks shut, and her bare feet pad down the hall. I turn to give her a snide remark, but my words tangle in my throat when I see her. I choke on them. She’s brushed through the snags in her hair, and that vibrant red color accentuates her green eyes. Her white tank top hugs her body, revealing every delicious curve. Long, toned legs work beneath her in a way that swings her full hips when she walks. I bite my lower lip because what I really want to bite is too far away.

I turn away from my greatest temptation and pull the ingredients for a Moscow Mule from the fridge. There aren’t any copper mugs here, so I search for something comparable in the kitchen cabinets. I pick up and put down several old family mugs with pictures of a young Oaklyn plastered along the sides. Pictures of her dancing with a wide, young smile on her face. I’m sure she never expected what she would become. How does a cute little dancer like her become the whore she is now?

I pull one of the picture mugs from the cabinet, knowing it will hurt when she’s reminded of her past, but I put it back and choose a plain green one instead. I don’t know why, and I’m not in the mood to dig too deep into the meaning of that decision. The answers would probably piss me off.

“When did you have time to go to the store?” she asks as she drops to the couch. “It’s miles away.”

“You were out for a while. I figured you wouldn’t get very far if you woke up while I was gone.”

She offers a scoff.

I twist the cap from the vodka bottle, breathing in the strong scent. I miss alcohol. It had a way of numbing the hurt, but the numbness never lasted long enough. My pain is a needle, driving deeper than the lidocaine can reach. It surpasses the numbness and digs until it finds an awakened nerve ending.

I finish preparing her drink and bring it to her. She’s placed the bag of ice onto her ankle again—or what’s left of it, since most of the ice has melted by this point—so it must be bothering her. I hold the mug toward her, intending to make up another ice pack once she takes it from me, but she just looks at the drink and turns up her nose.

“I’m not drinking anything from you,” she says.

“I literally just opened that bottle, tragedy. Stop.” My eyes rove down her body. “And besides, I don’tneedto drug you if I want to have my way with you.”

“But you like it that way,” she quips.

I shake my head. “I do, but I like it when you fight me, too.”

Her eyes narrow. “What’s wrong with you?”

I set the mug on the coffee table and sit down on the chair beside it. “How much time you got?” We’d be here for a month if I tried to unload every piece of baggage.

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