Page 80 of Fixation
It is.
“My creativity…” The sheets scrunch under my grip. “My creativity was dying. I was dying.”
“You weren’t running from anyone?” The tilt of his head suggests he’s genuinely curious. Mildly relieved.
Here he is, my kidnapper, worried that someone might’ve hurt me.
“That’s four questions,” I seethe, hoping I’d wipe that look off his face. The look that pushes me further down that rabbit hole, to that place where I don’t hate him. “You said you had three questions.”
His fingers burrow into my flesh.
I whimper. He smirks, removing the washcloth from my body.
Anderson’s eyes darken. “I also remember telling you that life isn’t fair.”
The need for him burns brighter, devastating me. Wanting him is a violent ache. It turns the butterflies into spiders. The tingling in my spine into knives.
“Please.”
“Did anyone hurt you?” A drop of water lands on my crack. A horrible tease that has me shaking and squeezing my pussy. “I’ve got nowhere else to be. That means I can stay here, with you, forhours. I won’t touch you, won’t go anywhere until you answer me. Until I’m certain that no one’s out there to hurt you. As your physician, your health and wellbeing are my top priority.”
His devotion to me is addictive. It’s terribly wonderful.
If he weren’t here, holding me up, if the bed wasn’t supporting my weight, I would drop to the floor. I’d keep falling and falling and falling.
I have a stranger being extremely protective over me. A doctor who hurtsandtakes care of me.
Who is this man, even?
I’m paying off an old debt.
I’d linger on those words. I’d try to put two and two together. Except another drop of water trickles down my sensitive crack, over to my pussy, and I can’t. Can’t even focus on breathing.
“No one.” For all my frustration, my voice is nothing but a whisper. “The only person I’m running from is myself.”
Silence. Then he’s scrubbing my pussy clean.
“I’d have killed them for you, you know.” He isn’t musing. He’s informing me while my mind disintegrates at his touch. I have no doubt he means it. No doubt whatsoever, with his fierce eyes and the tension in his jaw. “Would’ve flown over there tonight, found whoever it was who touched you, murdered them, and been back here for breakfast.”
Violence was never my thing. I haven’t watched any horror movies unless my family produced them, and even then, I cover my eyes.
Right now, it’s comforting.
This, hearing a stranger, my captor, say he’d kill people for me…I shouldn’t be reacting to it the way I am. I’m soaking the washcloth. Rocking my hips. Gasping while he watches me with his stony expression.
Anderson cleans my pussy from top to bottom. In round motions. He drops the washcloth to the bed, parting my lips and rolling my clit between his fingers.
His tending to me is sexual. Methodical. He’s debasing me by turning me into this creature I don’t recognize.
This sick doctor-patient fantasy we’re reenacting…in many ways, it’s freedom.
This is the door I couldn’t find anywhere else.
Not in the parks scattered across the city.
Not in the architecture and history and people.
Him. Only him and?—
