Chapter One #2
I lift the axe and slam it into the wood again, exhaling loudly before heading up the worn dirt path toward the house.
I usually enjoy this walk. The scent of pine, the blackbirds, and the peace.
It reminds me of the cadence during mass.
The stillness. The reflection. The integration of body and spirit.
Those comforts are nowhere to be found today, though. Right now, the only thing I’m feeling is a blinding rage. My chest is tight, my breath is shallow, and a wave of heat floods my neck as my jaw muscles lock.
I’ve done the work. I’ve asked a God I denounced for forgiveness. I’ve started something to help people. I’ve let Wren and all possibilities of a future with her go. I had to, because thinking about her makes every cell in my body ache with a need I can’t control.
Fuck! Fuck it all!
I turn toward the cabin at the end of the path, the last few feet shrouded by evergreen and blueberry bushes.
A blackbird sits on a branch, pecking off ripe berries as the sun filters in from above.
He’s at peace, and I should be humbled. I should use this as a reminder to refocus my energy, but the floodgates have opened and my mind is wandering again.
Why would Wren need to go off the map? There’s no reason other than the asshole, and that’s my fault. I didn’t kill the fuck when I had the chance. All I did was make things worse.
Reacting without thought, I punch the post as I step up onto the front porch. That was fucking dumb! Porch one, me zero. I look down to see that my knuckles are already swollen and cracked.
What the fuck? I can’t be this guy! I’m supposed to be a new man. A composed man. A man that no longer punches inanimate objects or goes after a woman’s abusive ex. A man who doesn’t obsess over a woman he can’t have.
I blow out a breath and step through the dark, shadowed cabin toward the whiskey that sits on top of the fridge, unscrew the cap, and take a long swig, then another, reminding myself of the only truths I have.
I saw a side of Wren she couldn’t be with her ex, but still, she chose him. After everything we shared, she went home with him.
I sent her letters. Letters apologizing for my intrusion. Letters of hope. Hope that she’d respond. That she’d explain. She didn’t. When I thought maybe she hadn’t received the first letter, I sent more. Still, no response.
She’s made her choices. She’s chosen her path. I’m not on it.
I take another swig of whiskey, an offering to my body as I beg it to cease all thoughts of the woman I shouldn’t love, but it doesn’t comply. In fact, it does the opposite, and suddenly every thought in my head is consumed by the woman I should’ve never fallen for to begin with.
Did she keep her dark hair long? Does she still wear that dress with the little red flowers? Does she still love to bake?
Fuck, the sight of that woman praising the Lord… it’s unholy the amount of times I let myself wonder what her naked breasts would look like bouncing up and down. What that pretty voice would sound like taking my cock like a good girl.
I take another shot of whiskey, but the sinning has already begun, and my dick is hard and aching.
It’s been so long since I’ve thought of her and touched myself.
So long since I’ve imagined what her tight, little curves feel like pressed against me.
So long since I’ve fantasized about lying her back to taste her sticky-sweet cream.
I should hold firm to that boundary. It’s important that I don’t slip. That I don’t let the thought of her take me over again. That I don’t let myself imagine a life where I’m the one holding her safe, making her happy, fulfilling her dreams.
My body is too drawn to her. I want her too much. So much so that it cost me years of my life. Touching my cock while I think of her will only make things worse.
I know this for a fact, and yet, I’m tucking my hand into my jeans, I’m leaning back on my bed, and I’m imagining her soft, little, naked body waiting for me.
My eyes squeeze shut as I stroke, imagining her on her knees, staring up at me like she would from the church’s pews. The building might as well have been empty, save for us and the sun coming through the windows, every ray shining on her as though Jesus himself was sending me a sign.
She was so focused, her light blue eyes closing every time she opened her mouth to pray.
Fuck!
I jerk harder, playing out the scene in my head, though it ends much differently in my fantasies than it did in real life.
In real life, she said her prayers, smiled at me sweetly, and walked down the aisle back toward the exit.
In my fantasy, she stays on her knees and obeys my every command.
In my fantasy, she keeps her eyes on me while she sucks my cock like a good girl, her tiny fist pumping my shaft as spit slides from her chin and tears weep from the corners of her eyes.
In my fantasy, she’s gagging for air as I thrust deep into her little throat and come.
Ugh… the things I’d do to that girl! The terrible, awful, disrespectful things I’d do to her. The marks I’d leave. The brutal way I’d fuck her. The way I’d kiss her body everywhere, cherish her, give her a life she wouldn’t run from.
No man of God should ever have thoughts this obscene.
They’re feral, primal, animalistic urges that I need to learn how to control, yet here I am, about to unload all over my hand at the thought of her pretty little face dripping with my come.
To the thought of what she’d look like bent over while I fill her with my seed.
Fuck!
My thighs stiffen, my vision goes blurry, and every ounce of pent-up energy in my body releases for the first time in months, just as the sound of an incoming car rumbles outside.