Chapter 4
Chapter Four
Eleanor
Twelve Years Later
Intimacy isn’t for the faint of heart.
M en are fickle creatures. Easily manipulated with a soft smile, a flick of hair, or a promise of a private audience. You shower them with attention, with the illusion of power, and they will fall under your spell. Not all men, but the ones with a single-track mind? They’re the easiest to manipulate. Those are the ones I pick to become part of my therapy.
According to Gail, my online no-nonsense therapist, I lack intimacy and connection. If only she knew. My homework has been to increase the personal connections in my life, to let someone into my space, and expand my small bubble of reality one step at a time.
I rock against the sheets, counting down the seconds until I get my bed back. Denzil? Diesel? Devin? It definitely begins with a D. He moves on top of me, inside of me. He’s not bad to look at, with toned muscles and a strong jawline, but that’s where his appeal ends. His outfit was clean and ironed earlier, but now it sits in a crumpled heap on the floor of my rented house. He smells nice, and his hair is styled. That hasn’t changed, despite us rolling around together. Perhaps if he made me moan for real, I would muss his styled hair with my fingers, but alas, like the others who have come before him, he is focused on his pleasure. Mine is an afterthought, as if I should orgasm from the mere fact he dropped his pants for me.
Newsflash: women don’t come the second they see a cock. We take work, effort, care, patience—something men seem to lack.
Shadows bathe the room as street lighting filters in through the gauzy curtains covering the floor-to-ceiling window, allowing enough visibility to make out his features and nothing more. The darkness conceals the story my body tells, one I am not willing to share with anyone. Not even Gail.
“You like that, baby?” he grunts above me as he twists his hips. He grabs my wrists and pins them above my head. Oh, wait, that’s interesting. He groans and ruts into me harder, bumping against my clit with every other stroke. Bonus points for accidental stimulation.
“You coming?” he asks, slowing down his thrusts.
Oh, wow. He’s one of those. Wants to ensure I enjoy myself, but doesn’t know how to get me there. Poor guy. All looks, no skill. I clench my inner muscles in a bid to hurry this encounter to its conclusion so I can get back to my research. I have lives to save. Gail didn’t factor that into her homework. My brain pulls up the complex web of information I’ve spent years amassing, yet again analyzing the net I’m slowly shrinking around Jonathan Carver. Murderer. Rapist. Sex trafficker. He is everything vile in this world, and despite my best efforts, he eludes me. I close my net, yet he slips through, moving his operation to a new location every time I get close. He has friends in high places; powerful politicians funding and feeding him information.
Derek? groans above me as I tighten around him again. “That’s it, baby. You like it right there? My big cock makes you come real hard.”
He’s a talker. Ugh.
The flash of his white teeth show. “Yeah. Moan for me, baby.”
I did that out loud? My bad. “Yes, just there,” I cry out as I practice my Kegel exercises. Might as well make use of this time. It’s not giving me a good enough cardio workout anyway. I moan again, forcing an arch in my back. Where’s my Golden Globe? Hollywood should be calling any minute now.
“Yeah, you love my cock, baby.”
What is it with men calling us baby? I don’t get it. I have a name; use it. Albeit, a fake name, but it’s still more individualized than baby . Then again, if I continue to pick men with little substance, what do I expect? The double standard isn’t lost on me. I don’t want to be called baby, and yet I can’t remember his name. It’s due to indifference, not memory problems. If anything, I have a splendid memory, photographic for the written word. But my brain is full, and I know this encounter will be over in thirteen minutes. He grunts into my shoulder as he presses his weight down on me. Overestimated. This will be over in three minutes.
He stalls his hips, a low whine escaping his mouth. That’s different. Groans, shouts, huffs, one screamer, but the whine is a first. He pants against my neck, his hot breath stirring the hairs on my temple, his skin sliding against mine.
I haven’t even broken a sweat.
He rolls off me and pulls the condom off, ties it into a knot, and drops it in the trash can I set next to the bed for that exact purpose.
I stare at the ceiling. Nothing. A gaping emptiness sits within my skin. No connection. No emotion—good or bad. Maybe a minor irritation Gail’s magic fix hasn’t made me normal, but that’s overrated anyway. Perhaps I should give up now? Accept I am here to demolish evil men’s empires and resign myself to a life of solo pleasure? It’s not an awful life. It is a free one, something I didn’t think was possible growing up. My mind flicks to the teachings, the training, the abuse. Still nothing. My heart continues at a steady pace. It’s like I can watch the memories, but I am not in them. I’m separated from the little girl I was, leaving my mind on that dining table in a room smelling of burning wood and heated metal. My body trembling against a tree in the dark as my mother spews her defiance at Jonathan and pays for it with her life. Perhaps I never escaped and this is merely some delusion I built around myself to prevent my mind from shattering into a thousand pieces.
Scrap that. If it was, I’d definitely have constructed a world where I had an orgasm every time I had sex.
“That was…” Dennis starts. Crap. He’s still here. I thought he’d left already. They always leave as soon as they’re done. “Give me ten minutes, and we can go again.”
What? Again? Um, no. “Thanks, but I have an early morning. I need my beauty sleep.”
He rolls onto his side, and his warm hand lands on my breast, squeezing the delicate flesh. I frown as I glance down at his large tanned hand contrasting against my milky pallor. The groping breast squeeze? That is not sexy. “You are beautiful enough, baby.”
Sterling compliment, Donald . I’m enough . Am I though? My lips thin. Not really. I can say the right thing, behave in a way that engages someone enough for a tumble between the sheets, but the facade is exhausting, and not something I can maintain for long periods of time. The second they see the true me, beneath the makeup, the coy flirty smile, and the well-placed compliments—the moment they discover I’m not a perfect woman, they run.
I learned that the hard way.
What I need now is for Mr. D to leave so I can finish myself off, report to Gail, and head home.
“Sorry, I really need sleep.”
His hand trails down my stomach and lands between my legs. I blink at the ceiling as he tries, and fails, to locate my clit. Given the metal hoop attached to it, it’s actually a feat to not find that bundle of nerves. At least he knows it exists. That’s one step closer to men conquering the orgasm.
I grip his wrist and shake my head. “I’m too sensitive.”
He grins. “You sore, baby?”
I scrunch my nose. Yes, your giant dick broke my pussy. Congratulations . “I am.”
He sighs and rolls onto his back before folding his arms underneath his head and closing his eyes.
Umm. No.
“What are you doing?” I ask.
“Sleeping.”
“Not here.”
“Excuse me?”
You are excused, right out of the door.
“Not. Here.”
His eyelids flick open. “Are you throwing me out?”
“Throwing? No. You are twice my size. Throwing is physically impossible. Asking you to leave politely and expecting you to honor my wishes? Absolutely.”
“But I can stay, and you can make me breakfast in the morning. I made you come.”
A long suffering sigh escapes me. Who does that? Invites themselves for a sleepover and breakfast because of a fake orgasm? That’s on me, I guess. Hollywood owes me one. “You also came.”
“Right, so breakfast.”
“Let me get this straight—you came, and I am meant to thank you for your semen by feeding you breakfast?”
“I can feed you something else if you prefer.”
Ew, Mr. D. No. It’s not the oral I’m averse to; rather, his offer to feed me sperm. And they call me weird. I’ve had other names. Ice queen. Bitch. Frigid cunt.
I rub my hands down my face. He’s persistent, if nothing else. “Thank you for the offer, but no.”
I jerk up and slide off the bed. My fingers clutch the satin robe from the chair in the corner and pull it around my body. I flick the light on and turn around to face him. He’s laid out on the bed like a smug, muscly meal. He’s good looking, sure, but clearly, he’s depended on his looks to get him laid, which has left him with little bedroom skills.
Time to burst that bubble.
“I did not come. You were simply the latest addition to a growing list of disappointments.”
He sits, the blanket pooling around his waist, and arches a brow. “You are a bit of a bitch.”
“I tried letting you leave with your ego intact, but you are pushing for something that is not happening. There will be no bacon and eggs. No morning delight. No second dates or exchanging of numbers or bodily fluids. If you leave now, you can probably fool yourself into thinking it was my lack of response, not your skill level that left me feeling unsatisfied.”
He huffs as he storms to his feet, snatching his clothing from the floor. He jerks his feet into his dark jeans before shoving his bare feet into his boots. My lip curls. That can’t be comfortable. Who wears boots without socks? Psychopath.
“For the record, I was leaving anyway.”
The cool window supports my back as I fold my arms and listen to him spew falsities. It’s a struggle not to roll my eyes as he snatches his shirt from the floor while glaring at me. I’m not lying about him being twice my size. I can’t throw him out, but I am not a damsel either. If he comes at me with the anger sharpening his features, I will flatten him. My nose twitches as my eyes dissect his body, silently daring him to try. I haven’t been that helpless little girl in a long time. Never again will a man command my world.
He takes a step toward me and adrenaline floods my veins as my lips kick up at the sides. Try it. Although I’m short on time if I want to fit in an orgasm and an update call to Gail before I have to leave to catch my flight.
He pauses and assesses me before shaking his head. “You aren’t worth it,” he mutters before disappearing out of the room. I follow behind him as he struts down the hallway and yanks the front door open. He glances over his shoulder, lips curled in a sneer, before leaving the door wide open and jogging down the steps into the night.
I finally roll my eyes at his antics.
Funny. If a man does it, he’s simply a man. If a woman does it, she’s a bitch.
I’m protecting my mental headspace and won’t apologize for it. I reach the front door and push it closed before setting the alarm. My shoulders sag in relief. People drain me.
I make my way back to the bedroom and open the closet. The empty metal hangers swing from the barren rail, and I bat them out of the way as I scoop my small carry-on bag off the floor. Riffling through it, I locate my trusty wand vibrator. It’s not my most recent purchase, but when I’m traveling light, I ensure I take this one—guaranteed to get me off in five minutes.
Shedding my robe and climbing back onto the bed, I blindly select my optimum setting—medium strength, steady vibration —and a satisfied sigh escapes me. My legs fall open, and I press it against my clit. My back arches off the bed as I chase my release. Who needs men? This rechargeable device beats all other sexual experiences. Not that I’ve had hundreds, but enough to know they aren’t worth it. Still, my mental health healing journey apparently requires it. Four minutes… and I’m done. The little rush of satisfaction at being able to take care of this need alone makes me smile.
I shower, clean my personal items, and repack my small bag before lifting my phone from the charging station next to the bed. I press Gail’s icon and wait for the video call to connect as I tap out a tune stuck in my head onto my jean-covered thigh. It’s the start of a melody that has been lingering in my subconscious for weeks. I need some time with my guitar to iron it out.
“Ellie?” Gail’s voice croaks as darkness blurs onto the screen.
Why is it so dark?
“I did it.”
“Wait. No, Connor, go back to sleep. It’s Ellie.”
Oh right. It’s the middle of the night.
She shuffles around, then soft lighting illuminates the screen as she moves into her kitchen. She props me up on the countertop and yawns as she squints at me.
“Where are you?”
“A rental.”
“Why? Are you out of town?”
“Yes.”
“What did you do that needs a phone call at four-thirty in the morning?”
“You gave me homework. I’m reporting in.”
She leans forward on her elbows, her pretty blonde curls a crazy mess as they settle around her face. “Which part exactly?”
“Intimacy and letting someone in my space.”
“You went on a date and brought someone home?”
“No, I met a guy in a bar and brought him back to the Airbnb I rented for the night.”
“And did what?”
“Had sex. Intimacy.”
She runs a hand down her face and sighs. “I’m going to need caffeine for this.”
Oh, I pissed her off. She only says that when she is mad and needs a minute to compose herself. She makes a show out of pulling a very large mug out of the cupboard and setting her preferred options on the coffee maker.
She’s the one and only therapist that has taken the time to understand me, to not label me as difficult, combative, or obtuse. Two years, four months, and six days she’s been seeing me, and she’s the only person I’ve opened up to about my childhood. Uncle Steven knows scattered details. Straight after my escape, we drove to the police station and explained what occurred that night. They were too slow, or maybe on Jonathan’s payroll, and by the time they’d assembled a task force to raid the compound, the community was gone, my mother’s lifeless body nowhere to be found.
“That’s not what I meant when I said let someone in, Ellie,” Gail says as she takes a seat on her stool at the breakfast bar. “Let’s start with why you got a rental and avoided inviting them back to your home.”
“You know why.”
“I want you to speak the words. I can’t work with what’s in your head unless you make it real. Make it concrete.”
My gaze flicks to the ceiling. Wow, they keep this place super clean. I’ll have to make sure to rate it highly. “I have a flight to catch.”
“What time?”
“Ten-thirteen.”
“You have time. Now, why the rental?”
I suck in a long breath, waiting a beat before releasing it. “Because I don’t want anyone in my personal space. I don’t like the thought of them touching my things or messing up my routine.”
“How would—what’s his name?” I grimace, and her eyes widen. “Ellie!”
“Mr. D,” I supply. It sounds dumb out loud. Damn therapist.
“Fine; how would Mr. D,” she makes a face, “have messed up your routine by simply being in your home?”
“He might have left the toilet seat up, drank the last of my almond milk, or eaten my daily chocolate allowance.”
“Let’s say Mr. D did none of those things. Let’s say he came?—”
“Oh, he definitely came.”
She rubs her temple. “Inside?—”
“No, in a condom. I always practice safe sex.”
“Your home.”
“Oh.”
“Then he spent the night, and when he left, no routine was upset?”
“But he spent the night? By definition, he’s upset my routine. I don’t sleep with anyone.”
“Because…” she prompts.
I roll my eyes, giving Gail the answer she’s looking for. “I have trust issues. A twelve-year-old could have diagnosed that.”
“Right, but let’s say he left before the dreaded sleeping over conversation.”
“He did, but he wasn’t happy about it. Offered to feed me breakfast.”
“You are offended by him cooking you breakfast?”
“No, he offered to let me cook. His alternative was to feed me his se?—”
She snaps her hand up. “Okay, I get the point.”
Finally.
“Let’s say he leaves,” she pushes. “What would the problem be?”
“He could come back.”
She smirks. It’s like a light switch that gets flipped on and ignites the entire room in understanding. “There’s nothing wrong with me protecting my personal address. He could be a serial killer, and I let him inside my home. That’s stupid.”
“And renting a home where none of your family or friends know where you are and meeting a stranger in a bar isn’t stupid?”
I hate her as much as I love her. “I hadn’t thought about it like that. Next time, I will tell you.”
“Next time, I want you to actually attempt intimacy.”
“I got naked, and he came inside a condom. I faked an orgasm and made sure his giant ego was nice and happy.”
“See? That there is avoiding intimacy.”
“I’m not following.”
“There are documented studies detailing the times we feel the most vulnerable. Obvious ones are ill, naked, grieving, less so is having an orgasm?—”
“And being on the toilet. I read the same study. Are you saying I have to either take a shit in front of someone or have an orgasm in front of them?”
“Babe, what did I walk into?” Connor drawls as he wanders behind her and presses a kiss to her cheek. I watch their interaction with morbid curiosity. Love isn’t what I’m chasing, but the promise of pleasure that seems to keep forcing people together. He peers over her shoulder. “Hey Ellie.”
I smile. “Hey Connor.”
“I’m taking a shower, then I need my wife back in bed, Ellie,” he shouts as he disappears off camera.
“For orgasms?”
“Yup. Many, many orgasms,” he responds.
“You’re so lucky,” I mutter.
She smiles at me. “We will get you there, Ellie. Small steps.”
“Having an orgasm in front of someone seems like a giant step.”
Her grin widens as she blows on the top of her coffee, steam billowing in front of her face. “No orgasms. In fact, let’s take sex off the table completely. Unless, of course, someone sweeps you off your feet. Then go for it.”
“Okay. While my hair goes gray waiting for my Prince Charming, what do you want me to do? Because I don’t think I can go to the toilet in front of anyone.”
“I want you to have an honest conversation with someone. In a bar, a restaurant, on a plane—no stakes, no stipulations, no expectations. If it helps, pick someone you aren’t attracted to, but challenge yourself to reveal at least two things you haven’t told anyone before.”
I open my mouth, ready to disclose two things to her. She holds her hand up, halting me. “Not me, Ellie. Two honest things to someone other than myself or your uncle.”
My brows lower. Honesty is what gets me in trouble.