Page 181 of Fixation
I laugh, unable to hold back.
Being loved by an obsessive psycho isn’t sweet. It’s chaos wrapped in intensity and devotion.
I can’t get enough of it.
31
HARPER
“Before we wrap up this interview, I have one last question.” Octavia, the editor-in-chief of New You City magazine, uncrosses and crosses her long legs. You wouldn’t think anyone could look graceful shifting around on a high stool with no backrest. This woman proves that theory wrong. “Is that okay?”
“More than okay.” A smile curves my lips up, though it isn’t really okay.
I don’t like surprises.
We’ve been chatting in this loft the magazine rented for the past two hours, which I fully expected. The questions were sent to me six months in advance, as soon as she’d contacted me about doing this piece.
And she’s already asked them all.
What she hasn’t addressed is my slight, hardly noticeable limp.
These damn. Gorgeous heels.
Octavia, with her sharp sapphire eyes, couldn’t have missed my hobble.
My doctor sure didn’t. He scolded me for putting them on in the first place.
Just as planned, he wasn’t there to make me change out of them. But he saw me getting dolled up on his phone.
After he texted me that I looked good enough to eat in my silk black blouse and my black flared pants, he ordered me to take off my heels. To put on flats instead.
I refused his orders, then I reminded him he’d promised not to deny me another orgasm for a week, so I could basically do anything I wanted.
He called me a brat.
I’m still reeling from that. The heat between my legs is dizzying.
I won’t let it show. I keep my feelings bottled up with the rest of my secrets.
My rehearsed smile and calm demeanor are my impenetrable shield.
To anyone except Anderson.
“So…” she starts. “About?—”
“Miss Ellis, I’m so sorry.” Her assistant’s heels clink on the concrete floor, the sound echoing from the high ceilings of the loft. Her hair is pulled into a tight bun. Her nervous expression is tighter. “Miranda’s on the phone. She says it’s urgent.”
Octavia’s lips press into a fine line as she accepts the phone from her. Her hair that’s styled in a perfect bob sways when she turns her face to me. “I could ask her to hold.”
“No, no.” I wave my hand, grateful for the break. Talking for two hours straight can get exhausting when you’re a homebody like me. “Go ahead.”
Her sigh is short. “What.” The word she barks into the phone isn’t a real question. She’s demanding answers. “The model wouldn’t wear it? Get another one. They what? What am I paying you for?”
Her conversation isn’t any of my business. I’m not interested in eavesdropping her, anyway.
Instead, my mind is determined to carry me elsewhere. Away from this huge, empty loft in SoHo. Away from the magazine’s crew.
To Anderson. The feel of his hand. The brush of his lips along my skin. The needle teasing my neck.
