Chapter One #2
It takes a moment to realise the hand holding my phone is shaking.
I’m a mess of pent-up anger, pointless misery and a solid case of blue balls.
I need to snap out of it. Searching for the service I need, I shoot a message to the first page that loads with the instruction to get over here ASAP. And now we wait. And not think.
Except this morning’s dream is adamant on haunting me.
It’s not the first time Harper has been lurking on the fringe of my mind.
In fact, she never truly leaves, but her presence is more tangible than usual today.
The silky caress of her skin brushing against mine, her breathy moans swallowed by the thundering of my shower, her giggle echoing around the basketball court, sending an arrow of lust straight to my cock.
Only to wake with the desire to hate-fuck my own hand as the treacherous bastard refuses to go down until I give him what he wants.
I have a feeling Palm-ala and the images behind my eyelids aren’t going to work for much longer, and then what?
I might as well use the pierced fucker as a hat stand since he refuses to even consider joining inside anyone else.
It’s only her now. The girl who ruined me without my consent.
The girl who cracked me open, convincing me I had more to give, and then called me worthless in front of the entire world.
I may be cruel, but Harper Addams is a savage. And yet I want her more than ever.
The doorbell sounds, driving me to the bedroom window to look outside.
A white van is parked at the end of the pathway, ‘The McLean Machine’ printed across the sliding door.
Damn, that really was fast. Across the street, a group of easily fifty people have gathered to see if I’ll leave my domain today.
Looks of hope catch my gaze through the glass, a few girls dropping to their knees to beg me to let them come back in.
I turn away on a scowl, thumping across the wooden floorboards to quickly dress and jog down the stairs.
Might as well get this over with.
Throwing the door open, I grip the white polo top of the man standing on my porch and yank him inside before slamming the door closed again.
With the material still in my hand, I push him against the nearest wall, causing the plastic caddy of cleaning products in his hand to crash to the floor.
‘Eddy McLean’ has been embroidered into his shirt above khaki shorts and embarrassingly tall socks.
“This is your own business, McLean?” I snarl, trying to get a read on him before I permit him to remain in my house. To see me in the sorry state I’m in.
“Yep. Started the company from scratch when I realized entitled frat boys like to party and pay big bucks for someone else to handle the clean up.” His flat chest puffs out, not a waver of nerves in that he just insulted my entire lifestyle.
I study his face for a long minute in silence, which he waits out without trying to squirm away.
I respect his work ethic, to see an opening in this hard world and capitalize on it. Now, for the final test…
“Do you want to suck my dick?” I quirk a brow. Eddy blinks a few times, but manages to keep his tone level.
“No, thank you.”
I shift my fingers, flattening them just beneath the open buttons on his polo shirt.
“Are you sure? I may be biased, but it’s a real beauty.”
“I’m not sucking your dick,” he deadpans, pursing his lips tightly shut. Well, that’s good enough for me. There’s nothing worse than trusting a cleaner in your own home, only to find them stepping in behind you in the shower. I’m speaking from experience.
“Good answer,” I lightly tap his cheek a couple of times. “Go on then, clean this entitled frat boy’s house.”
Picking up his products, Eddy heads into the kitchen without another word.
I stare after him as he gets to work washing out a plant pot I’ve been using as an ashtray, deciding I might just like him before stomping my way back upstairs.
Standing in my bedroom doorway, I stare at the room without really focusing.
Fuck me, I’m bored. Bored of this room. Bored of the constant monologue in my head. Bored of having her scream my name whilst asleep, and knowing she’s walking around out there forgetting I even exist. I’ve let her forget me. I’ve damn near forgotten myself.
Turning down the hallway and entering the room at the far end, I pull off my tank top and push my feet into white sneakers before heading over to the treadmill in front of a flat screen TV.
Flicking on some bullshit for purely background noise, I power up the machine beneath me, pressing the touchpad for the belt under my sneakers to quickly increase to max speed.
The burn is instant, my steps thundering whilst I chase a feeling I can’t explain.
It’s somewhere between gratification and passing out, but once I’ve entered my home gym, I’m not leaving until I’ve reached it.
I’m trapped by my own limitations, forced into a cage my mind has created and unable to break free.
Only thoughts of Harper swirl around there, with hints of emotions I don’t understand.
Whoever said time heals all is full of shit, because with each passing day the binds restraining me only tighten further.
I should hate her for this turmoil, but I can’t even bring myself to do that. I can’t feel anything, yet I can’t not feel either. It’s fucked up and all-consuming, my blackened soul withering away into ash. Everything seemed so much simpler the night Harper dominated me.
The thought jars me so physically, I have to grab the chrome handrails either side of me as my feet are dragged backwards.
Grunting, I manage to slam my closed fist on the emergency stop button and collapse into a heap on the rubber that still wheels me back onto the hard floor, slamming my head into the wall in the process.
That night, Harper changed my concept of gratification.
She controlled me, commanded me. Childhood memories flood back, a reminder that I vowed to never let anyone have power over me again.
Yet I can’t deny the freedom I felt watching Harper use her curves to lure and seduce, her green eyes to own and possess as I was drawn into everything that makes her special.
Her smart mouth, her lack of fear. How she embraced my faults and freed me of the blame. I did it before, I could do it again.
Even just considering submitting to her has the binds around my chest lessening, my mind clearing for the briefest moment.
I don’t know what’s wrong with me or how to fix it, but if I let Harper make those choices, I can be relieved of trying to figure it all out.
If only for a little while. She won’t pander to my ego or stroke my self-esteem.
She won’t offer false words or try to change me.
She’ll give me the cut-throat truth and deliver whatever punishments she sees fit.
She could utterly destroy me, and I think I might just let her.