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“You’re getting all of me.” His mouth slams down on mine, lips moving roughly, sliding his tongue inside and swiping it around as if he’s marking his territory. I want to be his, owned by him, belong to him.
“Fuck, you feel so fucking good,” he grunts, pumping harder and faster. His hands roam all over my body, cupping my ass, squeezing my thighs. My pulse rockets with desire, sending me over the edge, and then he bites down on my shoulder.
“I’m coming,” I cry out and feel him empty inside of me. He presses his forehead on my chest while my heart beats violently.
“So fucking sexy.”
He eventually pulls back and slides out of me, causing me to grunt from the pain. My virgin body is unused to the experience. “I bit you.”
“That’s because you’re an animal.”
His expression changes. “You should probably shower. It will make you feel better.” He jumps off the bed and then slides on his boxers. The sudden change in him shouldn’t surprise me. Dylan is a bit different, and I still can’t figure out his moods and what drives them. Is he bothered by the fact that he bit me? I’ll talk to him after my shower. I head inside and enjoy the luxurious jets run over my sore body and forget all my worries for now.
As I exit the bathroom in the luxurious robe, Dylan runs his hand through his hair. “Ms. Dean, unfortunately things aren’t working out and your services are no longer needed. You can stay here for the evening. Your things will be delivered here by morning. Your payment has been deposited into your account.” He gives me a strained look, confused, pained, and then he hardens it.
My mouth falls open, but before I can respond he exits the hotel room, leaving me all alone. I fall to my knees, tears ripping from my chest. How could he? How could I let him?
I cried for a long time. It seems like hours until there is a knock at my door. “Go away.”
“Ms. Dean. I came to drop off your belongings.” The voice is familiar, and I’m sure it’s one of his team. I wipe my face and then go to the door and open it. “I’ll just bring these inside.”
“Thank you.”
“Please don’t cry. He’s not worth it. He has no respect for women. He uses them and spits them out. You are just one in a million that he takes from one of his many places.”
“Thanks, but that doesn’t help. Being used doesn’t feel good either way. So, um, I’d like to be alone.”
“Yes, Ms. Dean.” He nods and leaves. I lock the door with the deadbolt slide and rest on the settee by the window, unable to lay on the bed we had just shared. I stare out the window, unseeing, thinking about what happened and trying to understand what happened. How did we go from so insanely passionate to pure nothingness, pure indifference?
Chapter Seven
Dylan
It’s been a day, and I haven’t been to work. Instead, I stared at that bedroom door for hours, unable to see anything but my own regret. In fact, I don’t believe I’ve done much of anything. Tim gave me a strange look this morning. “Sir, you shouldn’t let a woman get to you.”
“If you want to keep your job, you’ll watch your mouth. Harley isn’t just some woman.” He grumbles under his breath and walks away. He wouldn’t understand because he doesn’t even like his wife.
What the fuck did I do? I sent her running from my life for no fucking reason. I love her, and I’d never harm her. “Except I already did.” I took her virginity and then paid her to leave me. What kind of bastard am I? My heart feels like it could break into a million pieces, and I have no one to blame but myself.
I need to get her back. “Sir, she’s not at her old apartment.”
“Where is she?” Damn it, I should have had access to the tracker myself. I intentionally didn’t give myself that power because I’d be a crazy stalker, but now I don’t care.
“It looks like she’s with her cousin that’s getting married.”
“Oh, yes. The wedding is in a few days.” Married. It’s what I should be doing; I should be getting married to the love of my life instead of pushing her away.
I hate myself more than I ever have before. I made a call I should have made a long time ago—to a therapist.
The following morning, I go to the first session that day and explain everything, letting it fall from my mouth like verbal diarrhea. It almost feels cathartic to let it out. No one knows my true past, only that I was adopted and my mother died. There is nothing else about my past, and I have no one that I ever shared it with.
The therapist leaves me with a bit of comfort, explaining that it’s something proven to be passed on, and we are who we are based on how we are raised. Many children like me suffer with PTSD because it’s a reminder that we were a product of force.
I see the therapist again for a second day because I want help before going to fix my relationship with Harley.
“You don’t need to hide away from relationships. That’s only going to hurt you. Think about people who are born to alcoholics, and yet one child is an alcoholic and the other never touches a drink in their lives because they don’t want to become their parents. You don’t have to hurt a woman, because you don’t want to. Do you have urges?”
“What urges?” I ask, wanting to know where she’s going with this.
