Addicted to Sin

by Monica James

  I forgot Juliet never saw me fully unclothed, as due to our animalistic fucking, only the bare essentials were removed and we worked with whatever was left. That thought has me feeling like a complete bastard, so I open the door wider, permitting Juliet into my home.

  The moment she steps into my abode, however, every pore in my body demands I kick her out because this feels so wrong. I have no other choice, so I close the exit behind me, feeling like I’m locking my own prison door.

  I stand back as Juliet takes in my apartment.

  “So,” she says, turning around to face me after a minute of scrutinizing my home.

  “So,” I parrot, placing my hands into my pockets.

  I have nothing I want to say to her because after this morning, I’m a little shocked to see her here. I made peace with the fact I’d probably never see her again. But here she is, standing in front of me, looking deliciously mouth-watering.

  “Sorry about this morning, Dixon,” she says. “I had somewhere I had to be.”

  I nod, trying my best to appear unaffected. “Thanks for bringing my things over. You can leave them there.” I gesture with my chin toward the kitchen counter.

  “You’re mad?” Juliet says in part shock, part question, as she attempts to contain her surprise.

  Am I?

  Honestly, I don’t know what I feel. I’ve never had this happen to me before, so I guess my ego is a little bruised.

  “To be mad would indicate that I care, Ms. Harte, and to be frank, I do not. Last night was fun, but that’s all it was. So the answer to your question is no, I’m not mad,” I reply sharply.

  Juliet looks taken aback by my curt response, but recovers a second later. “It was more than just fun. It’s all I’ve been thinking about all day.” She sweeps her hair off her neck, revealing the huge red welt I inflicted with my teeth.

  I remain impassive, although I feel like an animal. “Well, I’m glad I’ve provided you with images you can revisit, as that was the first and last time. Last night was a mistake,” I firmly state.

  “You don’t mean that,” Juliet counters with a confident smile.

  “Yes, I do. It was entirely my fault. I apologize for my inexcusable behavior. I take all the blame,” I say, using my professional voice.

  But Juliet won’t have a bit of it. “Oh, cut the crap. I was there, I know you enjoyed it. I know you enjoyed fucking me without restraint. You have nothing to apologize for. I wanted it as much as you did. I’ve wanted you from the moment I saw you,” she confesses, and this is the first moment I’ve seen a glimmer of vulnerability in the unbending Juliet. “I still want you. And I know you want me too,” she asserts, looking up at me from under her mascara-clad lashes.

  Wanting her is not the issue here. It’s the fact that I shouldn’t want her—that’s the problem. Juliet is a dangerous woman, and with her, all I can see is that danger escalating into hazardous territory. My brain tells me to throw her out, but my traitorous body is telling me that she’s no longer my patient, so what’s the harm in two consensual adults giving in to what they both want?

  Juliet takes a step toward me, no doubt sensing my retreat, and I don’t back away, even though I know I should. She casually unties the sash from around her waist, peeling the brown trench coat from her slender body. The coat pools at her stiletto-clad feet and she takes another step toward me.

  “Don’t be mad at me. Let me remind you how hot we were together.” She runs a red fingernail down my chest.

  “Juliet,” I protest in a half-assed plea, but the moment she cups my rising erection in her palm, I’m hers.

  “You may say no, Dixon, but your body is saying yes,” and as she rubs me harder, my treacherous body succumbs.

  Before long, she’s dropped to her knees in front of me and is pulling down my sweats, my rigid body on full display, betraying how turned on I am.

  “Do you know how good this felt in me last night?” she says, sliding her hand up and down my length.

  “Tell me,” I demand, unable to tear my eyes away as she’s jerking me off.

  “How about I just show you?” she suggests, and the moment she wraps her ruby lips around me, any uncertainties get thrown out the window, and I allow this vixen total control.

  Her expert mouth glides down my cock with precision, and I can’t stop the moan that escapes my lips as I’ve never been blown this good before. I thrust my hips forward and throw my head backward when I hit the back of her throat. She deep throats me effortlessly.

  “That’s it, oh fuck. You’re so damn good,” I pant, trying to rein in my early release. “Deeper, go deeper.”

  This woman is a blowjob queen, and I’m not in the slightest repulsed at why she’s as good as she is because, as they say, practice makes perfect. Nothing else matters when she steadies a hand around my waist, her fingers squeezing in sync with her delicious mouth.

  The harder she sucks, the faster I pump my hips and before long, I’m fucking her mouth with a desperate speed. The moment I try and pull away, as I’m afraid I’m hurting her, she latches on tighter, reaching down and palming my shaft. The friction of her hand, combined with the speed of her mouth is too much, and I’m seconds away from coming.

  She senses my frantic need to explode and holds on tighter, her mouth creating an intense suction around me, and after two cavernous sucks, I’m shamefully done. I pull my hips away, but she licks and strokes with a deep pull and with no other choice, I explode in her mouth while cursing out my release. She milks me until I have nothing left, and only when the last aftershock rocks my body does she let go.

  I’ve just received the best blowjob of my life, in the apartment I once shared with the love of my life. The apartment I promised another female would never enter.

  Do I feel guilty?

  Hell no.

  8

  Like a Hurricane

  MADISON

  “Maddy, I hate to say it, but I don’t think he’s coming,” says my best friend, Mary Mitts, as she wipes down table nine.

  “You don’t know that,” I argue, her truthful comment snapping me out of my stare-off with the front door. “We never agreed on a time. Maybe something came up and he’s on the way. I mean, I did say sometime tonight,” I state, making up excuses for why Dixon isn’t here.

  “Well, technically, it is tomorrow,” Mary says, looking at her watch.

  “Not helping, Lamb,” I reply with a smile, using the nickname I’ve had for her since we were kids.

  “I’m sorry, but what kind of best friend would I be if I wasn’t looking out for you? I just don’t want to see you get hurt,” she says, and I know she’s referring to Tim, my stalker, who Dixon saved me from the first night we met.

  “I know, but Dixon is…”

  “Don’t you dare say different,” Mary warns, wagging her finger at me while I bite back a smile.

  “But he is,” I quickly rebuke, and duck to avoid getting hit in the face with a coaster.

  “No, he isn’t. He’s a guy, therefore he’s a dick,” Mary states, but I don’t take it to heart, as she’s only bitter at the moment because she’s going through a tough breakup.

  “Lamb, not all men are pigs. He didn’t have to jump in and save me from Tim, but he did. He didn’t even think twice about it. If that doesn’t scream ‘non-pig’ then I don’t know what does.”

  “Oh please, that’s your hormones talking. That man is trouble with a capital T. And not to mention you’re like half his age,” she adds, fastening her fiery red hair into a tighter ponytail.

  I can’t help but laugh, as I am so not half his age. Early thirties I’d peg him being, but it’s not his age I find myself uncharacteristically daydreaming about. His bright blue eyes and messy, chocolate brown hair are another story, however.

  “I’ll give him another twenty minutes, and if he doesn’t show up, then I’ll forget I ever met Dr. Dixon,” I state, very unconvincingly.

  “Ah-ha,” Mary retorts, totally not buying my pledge
. “Again, I believe that’s your hormones talking.”

  I playfully flip her off while she pokes her tongue out at me before heading off to serve table twelve.

  I, however, continue wiping down a spotless table eight with my eyes peeled to the door, because I know he’ll arrive any minute now.

  He has to.

  * * *

  Twenty minutes came and went with no sign of Dixon. It’s now 2 a.m., and I’m locking up. I can’t wait to go home and forget today ever existed.

  I still can’t believe he stood me up. I know we didn’t have a date per se, but we did kind of have plans. I really thought he was different, as there is definitely something there between us. I know he felt it too, and by the not so covert glances, I also know he’s somewhat attracted to me.

  But on the flipside, he did look like he was sneaking out of someone’s apartment this morning, and then he wanted me to fist bump him. Maybe I’m just reading into things ’cause God knows, I have limited experience with this kind of stuff.

  I’ve never really had a boyfriend, and Tim doesn’t count. We were seeing one another for a month, and after two dates, I knew we wouldn’t work. But Tim thought otherwise, and that’s the reason why he got so mad at me the night Dixon and I met. He pretty much demanded I give him another chance. When I said hell to the fuck no, he suggested I “give it up,” as apparently that’s what our nonexistent relationship was missing. When I not so politely declined, he got a little physical, and that’s when Dixon saved the day.

  Apart from the fact I am in no way attracted to Tim, I don’t actually know if I’ll ever be ready to “give it up.”

  I’m good at hiding my emotions and feelings, I always have been. But when Dixon told me he was a psychiatrist, I thought my ruse was up. I almost got up and left, but walking away from the first male I was remotely interested in felt wrong. And besides, I promised myself I would no longer allow my past to weigh me down.

  I’m so glad I stayed, because for the first time in a long time, I actually enjoyed myself and wasn’t constantly looking at my watch, or looking over my shoulder. With Dixon, I felt safe, and I also felt alive.

  I switch off the lights and lock up. Living in New York, you just get used to dealing with a trillion locks, and it takes me about two minutes to figure out which key goes into which lock. I’m halfway done when someone taps me on the shoulder, which has me screaming in absolute terror.

  “Madison, it’s me! Shit, I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you,” says a familiar voice. I turn around so fast, I nearly fall flat on my ass.

  “Dixon?” I wheeze, my hand poised over my beating heart. “What are you doing here?”

  I watch as he averts his beautiful blue eyes and shame-facedly replies, “I said I would drop by. I’m sorry I’m late,” he adds.

  “Did you run here?” I stupidly ask.

  “Well, I would call it a brisk walk,” he confesses with a lopsided smirk as he rolls a stone under his sneaker.

  The damp hair at his temples reveals he more than just walked, and I try not to bask in the fact that he ran all the way here just to see me. Mentally giving Mary an “I told you so,” I turn my back and finish locking up, needing a minute to center my raging nerves.

  I can’t help but wonder where Dixon has been, as he doesn’t appear to be dressed up, and I dare say, he ran here from his house. So what was he doing till 2 a.m.? And more importantly, who was he doing it with? That thought has me envisioning distasteful scenarios and positions, but I tell my distrustful mind to quit it with the conspiracy theories for one night.

  “Well, I hope you didn’t give yourself a stitch,” I taunt, wanting to lighten the mood.

  Dixon scoffs. “I’ll have you know I was a track athlete in high school.”

  “The operative word being ‘was,’” I say as I turn around to face him. “And high school was a lonnng time ago for you.”

  “Want to put a wager on that?” He smirks, and my God, he is handsome.

  “Sure,” I reply, crossing my arms over my chest in hopes my beating heart doesn’t explode from my ribcage.

  “You said you run every morning, well, I challenge you to a race,” he smugly declares, raising an eyebrow.

  “Name your time and place, Dr. Dixon,” I boldly reply.

  “Tomorrow. 6 a.m. Central Park. First person to run a mile in the shortest amount of time is the winner.”

  “Let’s make it two miles,” I cockily say, but quickly curse my confidence.

  Dixon looks impressed. “Very well, two it is. Meet at North Meadow?”

  “Sure. What does the winner get?” I ask, my competitive streak shining through.

  Dixon taps his chin, deep in thought. “The winner will be treated to a lavish breakfast by the loser.”

  “Well, you already owe me a breakfast, Doc. And I can’t eat two breakfasts in one day.”

  Dixon chuckles at my self-assurance. “Okay, let’s make it dinner then.”

  “Dinner it is. I hope you’ve saved your pennies, ’cause I’m gonna order the lobster,” I tease, rubbing my hands together.

  “We’ll see.” He grins, and I’m thankful he appreciates my bad humor.

  “Well, on that note, I better go home and get some beauty sleep. Night, Dixon.” I search through my bag for my keys.

  “Where’d you park? I’ll walk you to your car,” he quickly offers.

  “It’s okay. I’m just around the corner.”

  “Please, I insist,” and before I have time to argue, he’s leading the way.

  With a small smile, I follow, feeling strangely happy that this amazingly hot man wants to walk me to my car—a car that I don’t need, but have, thanks to my fears.

  We walk in reflective silence as I desperately want to ask him where he was tonight, but it’s not really my business. I mean, we just met. We’re not even really friends, as I hardly know him, but the thing is, I want to. From the moment I met him, there was something there, but I’m sure a man like Dixon isn’t short of female attention, and has women, not inexperienced, scarred virgins, to satisfy his needs.

  “Everything okay over there?” Dixon asks, disturbing my thoughts.

  “Yeah, why?” I ask, suddenly worried my thoughts are transparent.

  “You’re awfully quiet, which can’t be a good sign.”

  “I was just thinking about where I would like to go for dinner,” I tease, hoping to disguise my insecurities as I sound the alarm on my Fiesta. “Well, this is me. I’ll see you in a few hours.” I fiddle with the strap on my bag, not knowing what to do next.

  This is the second time there has been some weird static bouncing between us, and I know he feels it too because he totally just checked out my boobs. But this is not me. I’m not one to feel so comfortable with the opposite sex, or care if they like me or not. But with Dixon, that’s exactly how I feel. And I don’t understand why.

  “Well,” he says, clearing his throat. “I’ll see you in the morning,” and I cringe, hoping he doesn’t want me to fist bump him again.

  However, he surprises me as he unexpectedly reaches forward and brushes a stray strand of hair off my face. Normally, I would shy away, but in this instance I find myself wanting to lean into his touch. But I don’t.

  “Night, Dixon,” I whisper.

  “Night, Madison.”

  And with that, he turns his back on me, and only then do I breathe.

  9

  Dessert

  MADISON

  It’s now 5:30a.m., and I look like utter shit. Why I agreed to such an early morning run, on a Sunday I might add, is beyond me. But I have a feeling Dixon could ask me just about anything and I would say yes.

  I’ve dressed for comfort, not style, as I intend to run like the wind across that finish line. I’ve been blessed in the boob department and actually have a decent rack for a small-framed girl. However, while most girls would be ecstatic to have boobs the size of mine, I see them as a curse.

  Reaching for my water b
ottle and keys, I lock the door behind me and make my way downstairs. I hit the pavement at a brisk pace, as it always freaks me out being up this early with no one around. But I’m twenty-three and I’ve decided this is the year I won’t allow the skeletons in my closet to haunt me any longer.

  For more than half of my life, I’ve lived with a secret I’ve never told a single soul, not even my mother, who I love more than life itself. Even though those secrets can never be told, I feel in some sick, twisted way that they’ve shaped me into the woman I’m determined to become.

  Crossing the street, I stop with the nostalgia and focus on finding Dixon. I search the main entrance, but he’s nowhere to be found. Maybe he’s running late.

  Starting my warm-up, I turn my head to the left to stretch out my neck muscles. From the corner of my eye, I see Dixon. Someone who’s just about to go for a two-mile run shouldn’t look this good, but he does. He’s in loose running shorts and a tight white T-shirt, and although it doesn’t sound like anything special, on Dixon it looks like he’s dressed for Milan.

  His muscular physique is a lot more obvious now that he’s not wearing a suit jacket and pants, and oh my God, as he stretches his arms above his head, his T-shirt rides up, exposing a hardened slab of sculptured abs and toned obliques. My eyes may have deceived me because he’s a few feet away, but I’m quite certain I saw a hint of ink tattooed on his side.

  The thought has my toes curling, as that image has just made Dr. Dixon a truckload sexier.

  Deciding to stop with the drooling, I make my way over to him and will my racing pulse to calm down, as I haven’t even started running yet.

  “It’s not too late to back out, ya know?” I chirp, stopping a few feet away.

  “In your dreams,” he says with a lopsided smirk. I watch his eyes unexpectedly smolder as he takes in my appearance.