Page 41 of Driving My Obsession

Instead of feeling offended, I feel oddly protected. Safe. The tiny feminist voice inside me shouts that I should buck the ownership of the man, but I’m getting a little sick of these rational thoughts telling me what Ishouldorshouldn’tdo. Sometimes it’s okay to be a little irrational.

I close my eyes and allow myself to let go. I may only have a few more days to live, so I might as well give him what he wants. And what he wants is all of me. If he chooses to kill me at the end of this, I can die knowing I did what I could to save myself.

“Okay, Ambrose. Let’s talk.”

ChapterTwenty-Five

Ambrose

The sun’s rays kiss my shoulders, burning my skin with their fiery lips. This place is beautiful. So vast. The water seems to go on forever. But despite the vastness of the scene in front of me, I can only think of the brooding heat beside me, almost stronger than the sun itself. Oaklyn went from being a whore to beingmywhore—my slutty actress in this fucked-up play I’ve cast, produced, and directed. And now she’s ready to talk.

My trust exercise went better than I anticipated. I figured I’d have to work a little harder to show her she could open up to me, but it only took controlling her need for oxygen while she sucked my cock. Holding her underwater might have been enough, but I couldn’t allow her to become complacent or think she was safe from my selfish desires. Best decision ever. I can’t begin to explain how it felt to fuck her face beneath the water, where her fear tensed every muscle in her jaw. I lived for it. While my dick was buried in her throat, I wanted her to feel the fear of suffocation before I brought her up for air. She needed to understand the complete way I own her now. I think she does.

“A dance studio,” she says, interrupting my thoughts as she sits up.

“What?”

“That’s the end goal for me. I want to open a dance studio.” She picks at the grass near her thigh, pulling the green strands between her fingers until they snap. Her head turns, and her gaze focuses on something in the distance. “My silly, unattainable dream I’ve never spoken aloud.”

I don’t know how to respond to her. Her goal does seem very unattainable, but I don’t want to say that.

Why not?

I’ve gone out of my way to wreck her for weeks, so why do I care about her feelings now? It would hurt her if I said that, which is what I’m supposed to do. I’m supposed to open old wounds and dig until the pain blocks out everything. But I can’t, so I say nothing.

“What about you?” she asks. “What’s your end goal?”

This isn’t about me. I have zero desire to talk about myself or my dreams, so I shift the conversation back to her. “Why can’t you just teach at a dance studio in town? Do you have to own it?”

She shrugs and brushes her fingers against the grass to get the dirt from her hands. “There aren’t any studios in town. Or anywhere nearby, for that matter. I checked. Despite what you think, stripping wasn’t my first choice.”

I drop my gaze for a moment, finding the change in her features almost uncomfortable. She’s nearly expressionless, aside from an unreadable emotion on her face. It reminds me of burned-out anger. Like when I’m in a fight and I get exhausted to a point where it feels as if I’m punching in slow motion. The anger is still there, crawling inside me, but my body is too tired to feed off of it. My mind can’t keep up with the intense emotion worming through my muscles. My body is tired, but my mind is raging. That’s what I see on her face now. A tired anger. An exhausted fighter.

“What about your family?” I ask. “They won’t help you?”

She looks at me with a deadpan stare. “Even if my family would have helped me before, I doubt they will now that someone sent them a video of me shoving my tits in a stranger’s face.”

I almost laugh. It’s fucking hilarious. But I don’t. I keep a straight face and just listen as she continues.

“I’m well aware you feel like I deserve my mother’s wrath because of what I do for a living, but she hated me long before I ever shed an article of clothing in a club. She wanted me to be a doctor like my father. She didn’t think pursuing a career in dance was worth my time or her money. I put myself through school and honed my craft on my own.”

“Your mom hated you because you wanted to dance?”

She doesn’t meet my gaze, but she nods.

I look away and toss a nearby twig toward the water. “Well, your mom’s a bitch,” I tell her. What more can I say? So was mine. We have that in common.

“Do you have parents?” she asks, and it draws my eyes back to hers.

“Everyone has parents.”

She scoffs. “You know what I mean.”

I do. But I really don’t want to talk about this.

Then again, does it matter now? She won’t be able to use what I say against me when I leave this place alone. The dead can’t speak.

I sigh. “I don’t know who my father is. And my mother...” Even though it doesn’t matter, the words stick in my chest.

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