by K. L. Savage
I’m enamored.
I stand there, staring at the most beautiful creature I’ve ever seen, watching her spin and dip like she’s a ballerina. Her movements are smooth and effortless, like waves in the sea, flowing in constant sets of perfection. One arm reaches out, like she’s stretching to touch an object that has her attention, and damn it, I wish it was me. Her back leg lifts and her dress dips low in the back and the material in the front falls over the leg on the ground.
My thoughts start to race, imagining her in my arms in bed, kissing her plump lips that are red from the cold air of the night, grabbing her tits that bounce with every graceful move she makes, and wanting her to be mine.
Only mine.
It’s dangerous when a man like me wants so deeply because I don’t have the ability to let go.
And I know if she were to ever be mine, I wouldn’t allow her to let go.
I’d take her will.
I’d take her freedom.
I’d take.
Until all there was in her world was me. All she could ever want is me.
She spins again, her feet bare and dirty. Her dress is, too. It’s a bit torn along the edges as if she’s been out here for too long. She laughs again, a sound that has my cock turning to stone. Her eyes are closed, dancing as if she’s been twirling across the desert for days. When she tilts her head back, face up toward the sky, another smile plays along her lips as if she’s experiencing euphoria with every move. The golden blonde locks cascade down her back, almost touching the ground as she bends backward.
Fucking hell, she’s a masterpiece.
Her breasts press against the tight material of her dress, her cleavage teasing the control of my tongue has it flicks inside my mouth.
Her leg lifts again before she quickly presses her foot to the ground.
I’m hypnotized.
Where the hell did she come from? Why is she here?
Does she realize the mistake she’s made by me seeing her?
Her left hand drags up her right arm, grazing the smooth flesh, until her fingers dip between her breasts, then skim over the curve of her neck where I want to press my lips. The half moon is bright since there are no clouds in the sky, and it shines against the sweat on her neck. She is glistening. She’s a ballerina dipped in glitter and she’s too glamorous for the likes of me.
I don’t care.
I’m too caught up in the movement of her body and the ache in my cock to notice she’s getting too close to the bikes. One last twirl and she smacks against one with her hip. She gasps, finally opening her eyes, but it is too late.
The bike rocks, and for a moment I don’t think it’s going to fall.
She’s reaches to stop it, but it’s too late.
The bike crashes to the ground, the mirror snapping off when it hits, the glass shattering into pieces.
Oh, Tool is going to be pissed.
I snap out of the trance I’m in and hurry over to her. “Are you okay?”
When she hears me, she’s startled, because she hasn’t seen me this entire time. She looks from me, to the asylum, then back to me.
I bend down to pick up the bike and set it up right, making a note to take blame for the mirror.
When she doesn’t answer me, I start to get concerned. “Hey, what’s your name?” I brush my thumb over her cheek and rub the dirt off, but the moment I touch her skin, the edges of my vision blur when I feel how delicate she is.
Oh, she’s made a mistake coming here, because I’m never going to allow her to leave.
“Chloe,” she says softly, her big hazel eyes locking with mine.
Chloe.
I love her already.
How did I get here? I can’t remember.
Oh no.
I think I might have blacked out again.
I take in my surroundings, seeing nothing but the vast desert and feeling the vow of winter drifting over my skin. I take in a shuttering breath and rub my hands up and down my arms. I realize I’ve been quiet for far too long and tilt my head back to stare at the man’s face. When I see him, I take a step away, feeling small as he stares at me.
His eyes are brown with flecks of garnet, and the left side of his face is lit by the light casting down the porch. He has a smooth head and a brown, thick beard. From shoulder to shoulder, he must be three of me side by side. It’s obvious he is in great shape, perfect for a lumberjack.
He’s beautiful, but something dark hides behind those demented eyes—and like a twist of unpredictable fate, I’m caught in the reflection of the stars swirling in pools of endless ink.
“You’re cold,” he states, unbuttoning his flannel shirt to expose his chest.
“Um.” I glance away, my cheeks turning a hot shade of pink. I’m thankful he can’t see me. His chest is hairy, and his nipples are tight buds of pink from the chill in the air. As he pulls his arms out of the sleeves, my cold quivering body suddenly heats when I see his skin decorated in tattoos. It’s too dark to tell them apart.
Well.
All but one.
There’s a devil on his forearm, colored in red and wearing a black top hat. He throws the flannel over my shoulders, and I sigh in relief. The material is still warm from his body, and I can smell the workday sticking to his shirt. I lift the flannel to my nose and inhale, loving the wild spice marinating the flannel.
“I’m Zain,” he growls, squeezing his eyes shut, then shaking his head. His fists clench at his sides and that’s when I notice roman numerals tattooed on him. His tattoos are fresh, like he just got them done in the last few weeks.
Wow.
That’s a lot of work to get done all at once.
“I like your tattoos,” I say, wrapping the lapels of the shirt around me tighter as the breeze blows and pebbles the skin along my chest.
“Thank you. They are yours,” he states, placing a hand on my lower back.
I don’t understand what he means. They are mine? Maybe he didn’t mean to say that.
“Let’s get you inside. It’s cold.”
We walk toward the large house that has a new wrap around porch and steps. There’s a sign to the right of the steps, much older than the rails leading up the staircase.
The Asylum.
My heart pounds against my chest, my ribcage trembling from the force as I read the words. Is this an insane house? No. Maybe it’s a joke between friends. It has to be.
Zain opens the screen door. I notice it’s aged, too, the white paint chipped and faded, showing rotten wood. The screen itself is torn, only hanging on by rusted staples, but the front door is new. It’s painted black, an unwelcoming color. He turns the silver knob to open the door.
“I’m sorry it’s a mess. We’re renovating the place,” he explains.
I step in front of him, and my dirty feet leave dust on the new hardwood floors. I shuffle my feet, only making the mess worse, and jump backward until I’m outside. “I’m a mess. I don’t want to ruin your house.”
“Are you kidding? This place is messy as is, but if you want, I’ll carry you to the restroom where you can clean up. I can bring you some clothes.”
I want to ask for one of his flannels to wrap myself in so I can sleep comfortable tonight. While I’m lying in bed or on the couch, wherever he decides to put me, I want him to talk to me in his whiskey-ridden voice. Every time he speaks, my body burns to the graveled depths, and to drunkenly fall asleep listening to him sounds like it would give me sweet dreams.
“Okay,” I say quietly.
I haven’t said much, and he hasn’t asked much.
I hope he doesn’t.
Truth is, I really don’t know how I got here. All I remember is the loud crash and then staring down at a motorcycle.
I know who I am and where I’m from, and there is only one way that I got here. My thoughts are interrupted when Zain swings me into the air and crosses the threshold. Something about the gesture seems primal as he holds me tight to his body.
Tight
er than he should.
But I like it.
Not that I’d ever tell him.
I don’t know him well enough to say that.
Zain kicks the door shut, and there’s no one in the living room. The house is eerily quiet.
“Everyone is sleeping. It’s been an exhausting few days trying to get this house up to code. You’ll meet everyone in the morning.”
“And then I can call my dad and tell him to come get me?” I ask.
He doesn’t answer me, not really. He grunts and holds me closer, taking me through the open space of the living room and kitchen. There’s a large red U-shaped sectional and flat screen TV mounted to the wall. Other than that, everything else seems bare. There are no chairs, no artwork or rugs, and there are plastic sheets hanging from certain walls.
We take a left and start heading down a hallway that has cracked walls and flickering lights. I clutch onto Zain because that’s all I have to hold onto, then hold my breath when I see a rusted wheelchair against the wall.
What if this place really is an asylum?
“Where are you taking me?” I ask in a small, frightened voice. There isn’t a noise to be heard. It’s just his footsteps down the long corridor.
“My room,” he answers simply.
“Put me down.” The threat of tears burns; I wiggle in his hold, but he holds tight. “Please. You’re scaring me. Please,” I beg, a hot droplet falling against my cheek.
“I’d never hurt you.” He flips me around like I weigh nothing, and my legs part naturally to wrap around his hips. He seems genuine and sad that I’d be afraid of him. “Ever. I only want to keep you safe.” The intensity of his eyes lightens, and a few lines pinch on either side of his eyes, showing crow’s feet. He’s older than me, by at least fifteen years.
He’s so handsome, but something about him has the hairs on my arms standing up as if there is too much static electricity in the room.
I can’t decipher if that’s a good thing or a bad thing.
“You don’t even know me. I don’t know you. This is inappropriate,” I say, swallowing as his big palm rests against my cheek.
There it is again—the static. I can’t decide if his touch promises good or evil.
“I want to know everything about you, Chloe.”
I jostle against his body when he begins to walk again. “Why?” I ask. No one ever wants to get to know me. I’m too much for them to handle. That’s what everyone tells me, anyway. My parents locked me away, and my therapist was the only one that ever gave me the time of day.
I liked Dr. Washington. Too much.
“It’s one of the things I know I have to do,” he says. “I have to.” He opens his bedroom door, and I stare over his shoulder to see the dark tunnel of hallway, the wheelchairs giving me a taste of discomfort. “You don’t understand how much I need to,” he raises his voice, and I flinch away since his mouth his right next to my ear.
Zain places me on his bed, right on the edge, and unwraps his arms from me, and my fingertips run across his chest as I lower my arms.
Static again.
He growls from the contact, brushing his lips across my cheek. “You are everything my wildest dreams could have ever imagined.”
I swallow the lump in my throat, unable to move, unable to breathe. He inhales, dragging his nose across my jawline. “You smell amazing,” he says, gathering the thick of my hair and dragging it behind my shoulder. “I’ll go fill the tub for you. It’s new, never used. I hope you like it. I’ll even add bubbles. You like bubbles, right? I hear all women like bubble baths. I have salts too. You want salts?” He is talking so fast I can hardy understand him. “I’ll add them all for you. Anything you want. I’ll make sure you have it all.”
I’m too shocked to say anything, so I just blink.
He runs a hand over his bald head and grins at me. “You’ll like it. I promise.” He presses a kiss on my neck, right as my pulse jumps, and I close my eyes, wanting to feel his lips again. “You’ll be taken care of. I’ll make sure of that.”
Zain backs away from me, pulling the energy being created between us tight. He turns and walks toward the bathroom, his wide back flexing, showing his ropes of muscle. I look away, tucking a piece of blonde hair behind my ear, blushing like the virgin that I am. I’ve been around men before, but I’ve never been around someone like Zain.
He’s intense, and that’s putting it lightly.
He scares me, intrigues me, and turns me on all at the same time.
A complete stranger. What in the world have I come to?
The bath water turns on and the masculine hum of Zain’s singing has a faint smile playing on my lips. His voice is low, reminding me of a trombone a deep note vibrating the air. While he is preparing the bathtub, I take the time to study the bedroom. The walls have a fresh paint of light grey, and the lights that hang down around the room are simple, yet charming in a rustic way. The bulb is inside a mason jar and the wire is a copper color attached to the ceiling. The bed is big, with a soft mattress and a forest green comforter. It’s very masculine, which fits Zain perfectly. There is another set of doors to the right of the bathroom, big wooden pieces that slide open. I wonder if that’s the closest.
Or maybe his torture chamber.
No. I’m getting myself all worked up for no reason. He seems nice. He welcomed me into his home. And there are other people here too, so he can’t be too bad. Right?
“Your bath is ready,” he informs me, his voice coming closer as he walks into the bedroom. He holds out his hand for me to take, and I lay my fingers across his, hoping I’m not making a terrible mistake by trusting him.
He leads me to the bathroom, my feet leaving dirty imprints across his new floor again. I sigh, thinking about how I got here. I hate it when I black out. It always leaves me with more questions.
“Do you like it?” Zain asks, laying his hands on my shoulders as I stare at the bubble bath. He lit candles too, and the lavender aroma carries with the steam coming from the tub. “I wanted you to relax. When you’re ready we can talk about what had you dancing in the middle of the desert at night.”
I chuckle and stare at him in confusion, titling my head. “Zain, I don’t dance. What are you talking about?”
“That’s impossible, Chloe. I saw you. I watched you. You danced, and it was beautiful, right before you crashed into one of the motorcycles.”
“Well, that’s impossible. Like I said, I don’t know how to dance.” I bend down to test the water. It’s hot, just the way I like it.
“Chloe, are you okay?” he asks. So kind and considerate.
I turn to look over my shoulder and smirk. “Chloe isn’t here right now,” I say to my rescuer. “But we haven’t had a chance to meet.” I stand, looking the big man up and down. Damn, he is a bear. I run my fingers through his chest hair and moan, biting my lip when I feel the muscles tense under my touch.
I lift my other hand and untie the halter top of my dress. It falls to the ground and the man in front of me looks his fill, staring at my breasts.
“I’m Jessica. And who are you, handsome?”
I knew she was beautiful, but her body exceeded my expectations. Her tits are round and perky, with tight pink buds. Her waist dips and flares out to her curvy hips and thick thighs. She has her belly button pierced, something I didn’t expect from Chloe.
But maybe it wasn’t Chloe’s idea.
I would ask if she’s kidding or pulling my leg, but I’ve been around enough mental patients to know when someone has a split personality disorder.
Chloe would have never dropped her dress in front of me. She seemed too bashful, but Jessica seems to be her polar opposite.
Her hand drops to my hard cock, and I grunt when she squeezes. “Such a big man,” she purrs, tossing her hair over her shoulder. “What’s your name?” she asks again, taking her hand away and turning around to get into the tub.
My eyes follow the smooth length of her spine to her peach-s
haped ass as she takes the step in order to get into the tub.
“Zain,” I say, my tone deep and husky as I watch her sink into the water and the bubbles.
She’s trouble.
The kind of trouble I can’t have around here if I want to make a life for myself.
I’m not surprised to know she has another personality. Maybe I should be, but I’ve been conditioned to appreciate insanity, or she might have run me off.
The prettiest ones are always the craziest.
Damn, looks like I’m asking for trouble, then.
“Zain,” she tests my name out on her tongue, then giggles, swishing the bubbles around until her breasts are completely covered. The water glistens over the curve of her tits. Her golden mane is wet, decorated with white foam. She lifts her leg in the air, showing me how flexible she is. “I hear you like how I dance. Why don’t you join me, and we can talk about it?” she teases, slowly lowering her leg back into the water.
A good man would refuse, turn his back, and walk away.
I unbutton my pants and watch her face, her eyes dropping to where I grab the zipper.
A man with mania is not a good man, especially when he has a new obsession. She’s never going to be able to leave. I’m too… manic with the need to make her mine. I’ll lock her in one of those padded rooms if I have to.
And if Jessica even thinks about hurting my people, I’ll put her in a straitjacket and wait for Chloe to come back. Sounds fun.
“I didn’t think you’d take me up on the offer,” she says.
“Well, I don’t think Chloe would appreciate this, but it’s a good thing I’m not talking to Chloe, isn’t it?” I kick off my jeans, and my cock bounces when it’s released from the uncomfortable denim. I wrap my hand around myself and give myself a few pumps, holding back a groan as I stare at her.