Page 16 of Chasing the Flame
For the most part, his abuse is mental. He enjoys keeping me under his thumb, thriving on complete control of my day-to-day life. A true narcissist at his core.
I’m constantly walking on eggshells, wondering which Luke I will get every morning.
Once, I tried to get him some help, recommending that he seek therapy for the violent mood swings. I couldn’t sit right for a week after he took his belt to me. I stopped trying after that.
Nope, we’re not going there today. I refuse to sit in those memories. I’m not ruining my peace today.
Sighing, I turn to my desk, snatching the earbuds I’d left there. I plug them into my ears and sync them to my phone, quickly pulling up my favorite podcast. Ashley’s voice is a soothing balm to the raging tempest inside me. I sit, pleased as punch at myself for placing the desk in the center of the room. The view from the bay window is gorgeous, and I love watching as the water ripples in the background.
I open my laptop, quickly logging into all the appropriate channels. After checking my email, I look at the clock on the wall. Good.
It’s just after twelve, so I should have several hours to finish some writing. My editor has been hounding me for the last week over the next installment of the project.
I may or may not have embellished all that needed to be done for our move, but I needed the quiet. I love Cora, but she could beat a dead horse forever if you let her. It isn’t long before I get in the groove, finding my rhythm—that shift where reality melts away and I slip into my character’s persona.
I love to write. It’s always been my escape. About a year ago, I began crafting my first novel, and let me just say—it’s not for the faint of heart. There are moments where I shut my laptop and wonder: what the actual fuck I’ve done?
My villain is evil, and writing from his point of view gives me the ick. It’s like a filthy residue that won’t scrub off. I guess that’s the thing about crafting a fantastic story. If I’m not creeped out writing it? Then, I haven’t done my job correctly.
By the time I finish the following several chapters, hours have passed. It’s just after three, and I realize I’ve got to get a move on. After emailing Cora the new material, I rise from my seat and stretch, bending and moving so that my body can relax after sitting for so long.
Luckily, when Jettson and his crew left for lunch, I was able to collect my belongings from the beach. Now, all that’s left is a shower.
I have music blaring, and one of my favorite songs comes across the music app. The fun melody fills my ears, and I pad down the hallway, heading straight toward the luxurious bathroom.
It’s the only thing in the house that can stay.
The black tile is one of my favorite things, and I love the matching marble tub that’s big enough to hold two people. Not that it’ll ever get much use.
However, my favorite item would have to be the shower. It’s walk-in size, paired with a showerhead with the best pressure settings. It feels like getting a mild massage without leaving the comfort of your home.
After slipping out of my clothes, I turn on the shower and let it warm up. I grab hold of the bottle of witch-hazel and my favorite all-natural cleanser sitting on the counter, and work on washing my face. Once all that’s said and done, I hop in the shower, letting the warm water cascade down my back.
I don’t waste any time getting to work scrubbing every single inch of myself. I start with my favorite expensive shampoo, which is rose and jasmine-scented. I love how it makes my hair smell. I only exit the shower after shaving and scrubbing, feeling squeaky clean.
Grabbing my smart watch off the counter, I check the time—just a quarter after four.
Perfect. That leaves plenty of time to make myself presentable for dinner. I wrap a towel around me, one of the plush, oversized size towels that fully cover me, and bound back down the hall toward the main bedroom. The hardwood floor is cool beneath my damp feet, and when I come around the next corner, I slip and fall flat on my ass.
“Damnit,” I groan, snatching at the edges of my towel before trying to get up. The way I’m situated, if someone walks by, they will get awholeshow theydidn’task for.
When I reach my feet, I realize the front door is open. I have a clear view and yelp when my gaze slams into Jettson.Fuck!
His eyes snare mine, and the blatant need there startles me. A flush climbs my neck, and I’m sure my face is scorching red. I can’t find the words, I didn’t even fucking hear him come in. All I can do is stand there, staring at this man who keeps managing to surprise me.
Jettson’s gaze sends another wave of heat to my center, and I clench my thighs a little tighter, suddenly remembering that I need to readjust the towel. I spin, turning my back to him and fix myself. Once I’m secure, I turn back to him, swallowing hard and still struggling for words.
His eyes trail lower, resting on my breasts before following the curve of my body, all the way down to my thighs and legs. The slickness between my thighs is a reminder of my body’s traitorous response. A response it shouldn’t even have.
I need a good fuck, that’s all. An actual orgasm, a partner that cares if I reach climax. That’s it.
My hormones are raging, and Jettson’s the only male in the vicinity paying me attention. That’s all this is.
It’s just a harmless flirtation.
An idle curiosity that will go away when he finishes the job.
Who are you trying to fool? You’re so starved for real affection that if he asked you’d bend over the kitchen table and let him fuck you. Right here, right now.
