Chapter 7
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 that will be 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 restore her will. 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.
Patience.
You will have patience.
I told her in very clear terms yesterday that I want her. And she’s still came here of her own free will. I should be seeing this as progress from several different angles. I am. I do. It’s simply getting more and more difficult to ignore my severe hunger for this woman.
This married woman I plan to steal out from under her husband’s nose.
“Good morning, Ashley,” I say, striving to keep my tone even.
“Good morning, Caleb.”
I ease back and allow her to enter my office. She comes slowly, glancing up at me shyly from beneath her eyelashes as she passes. “Would you like me to take your coat?”
“Sure.” With her back to me, she shrugs the garment into my waiting hands, pinkness creeping up the side of her neck when I linger close to her a second too long. “Um.” I hear her swallow. “What are we going to do today?”
I hang her coat on the hook by the door, adjusting my stiff cock before turning to face her again. “How we proceed is up to you, Ashley, but I think we should dig a little deeper today.”
Green eyes fly to mine. “D-deeper?”
She thinks I mean physically—it’s easy to see that—though I’m actually referring to her psyche. Still, the man who is starved for her can’t help but press a little before making the clarification. Just to get a clue of how long she plans to keep me waiting. “Yes.” I pace closer to her, listening to her breath hitch. “I want to put you on the couch and go extra deep.” I drop my gaze to her knees and stroke it up the front of her body. “Really find the source of what’s making you ache.”
“Ache,” she whispers, shifting in her sandals. “I…I thought you were going to let me decide if you touch me.”
If? We’re still at “if.”
God help me.
I feign confusion. “That decision is yours. I’m talking about digging into your trauma, angel. What did you think I meant?”
“Nothing,” she blurts, spinning out of my reach and skirting around to the couch where she sits abruptly. “Trauma sounds amazing.”
Despite the heavy pain below my belt, my lips twitch.
I drag a hand down my face, which I apparently forgot to shave, and take my spot at the chair across from Ashley, settling my clipboard onto my lap. I want to tell her she looks like fucking paradise in that dress, but focusing on her looks is a trigger for her, so I hold my tongue. Instead, I say, “Talk to me about your parents.”
She opens her mouth, but hesitates, crossing her legs.
I show no outward reaction to the flash of lily-white panties, but my balls tighten roughly between my legs.
“Well, we’re on good terms now. But they…it’s hard to be around them sometimes, I guess.” Her lips twist. “Not that I’ve gotten much of a chance recently. Waylon doesn’t like me to visit.”
Of course not. He’s isolating her.
Temper burns up my windpipe. “Why is it hard to be around your parents?”
Ashley considers her folded hands. “They obviously feel very guilty about what they were forced to do. They cry and apologize…and I don’t know how to comfort them.” She drops her voice to a whisper. “Sometimes I’m not sure I want to comfort them.”
“Interesting. Why do you think that is?”
Her fingers flinch ever so slightly. Several seconds of silence passes. I wait.
“I don’t think they ever really believed me. When I told them…how bad it was.”
“How bad what was?”
“The harassment from men. And later, from Waylon.” She shrugs a shoulder. “I could have ignored the harassment if it were just cat calls and inappropriate comments, even though no one should be subject to those, either.” She seems to be breathing faster. “But there was an incident. In high school. After that, I just wanted to…hide.”
The word incident almost has me snapping the clipboard in half.
“What incident?”
She wets her lips. “During my sophomore year, I was pulled into the boys’ locker room. They…thought it was funny. To flash me. It was my first time seeing anything like that…and there was so many guys. A wall of them. I couldn’t get out. They just kept shoving me around, pushing me into their friends. And then they decided I should return the favor. I should flash them, too. Only I wouldn’t, of course, so they…started tearing at my clothes.”
My hands are fucking shaking. “I’m sorry, Ashley.”
A small nod. “When I tried to explain it to my parents and the school administrators, they all just kind of brushed it off. Boys will be boys, they said. Meanwhile, I was…some part of me was dying inside. The shame was so thick.”
“The shame is theirs,” I seethe.
“Oh, I know that. Logically. But that doesn’t seem to help the fear of it happening again. Being powerless again. After that day, I didn’t want a single inch of my skin showing after that. It doesn’t stop the comments or the…the entitlement, though. And then came Waylon. My parents thought he was harmless, in terms of the attention he paid me. Once they realized the truth, it was too late.” She looks at me for a prolonged beat. “It’s always like that. No one takes a woman’s fear seriously until she’s dead. Or married to someone who hurts them.”
Grief pours into me like wet concrete.
She has no idea how those words, that truth, affects me. But they affect her so much more. She wasn’t the bystander of the trauma, she experienced it firsthand. All I can do is sit here in my helpless rage, wishing to go back in time and protect her.
“They should have listened to you. They should have punished those boys for their deplorable actions. And most importantly, taken steps to make you feel safe again, by any means necessary. Especially when you were brave enough to come forward.”
She swallows and looks toward the window. “Thanks.”
I realize the tip of my pen has put a hole in the paper attached to my clipboard and toss it aside on the desk behind me. “How do you feel about going back to that locker room with me? Stare the memory in the face and let it know it has no power of you anymore.”
“I…” She sits forward, appearing almost startled by the idea. “I mean, it’s the weekend. The school is locked.”
“If it takes away some of your pain, I’ll rip the walls down with my bare hands.”
She studies me long and hard. Then, “Let’s go.”