by J. C. Reed
“See you in a bit,” I call out after her.
Sighing, I press my folder against my chest, clutching at it as though it’s my safety net. But the motion does nothing to take away the tension and the dark thoughts at being on my own in this place.
Under different circumstances, I would have asked Sylvie for her number to make sure we keep in touch. I guess she would have done the same.
But these aren’t ordinary circumstances.
I’m here because my emotions aren’t what people would call “ordinary love” either.
According to the judge, who court-ordered the therapy, I need to be here to learn how to stop my “obsessive compulsive stalking disorder.”
I’m going to prove to her that I don’t need this BS.
My love for Bruce is real.
It really is—even if people don’t understand the depth of my emotions.
Why can’t they just see it? I’m Juliet to Romeo. Elizabeth to Fitzwilliam.
Maybe Bruce and I are star-crossed lovers after all, but I know that what I’m feeling is real. And there is no way that I’m going to let them pierce their invisible daggers into my heart and tell me what I can or cannot feel.
I won’t let some idiot with a medical certificate declare that I’m addicted to love.
The building boasts a total of twenty apartments and plenty of space.
According to the leaflet, this used to be a popular attraction with visitors before it was remodeled to fit the needs of the acclaimed LAA Center.
My new home is situated in the west wing on the second floor. I find the key in my box and unlock the door, silently praying that my new roommate is going to be as easygoing as Sylvie. The last thing I need is someone who’s difficult to live with.
I close the door behind me with my foot and then drop the box onto the table in the hall, next to a beautiful arrangement of flowers.
The apartment is much smaller than I expected, but it’s clean and the furniture looks fairly new. I kick off my shoes and squeeze out of my jacket, ready to explore the place.
It’s seriously not as bad as I thought.
The living room is dominated by a cream, leather couch that’s covered with pillows. There’s no TV, but a bookcase filled to the brim with classics adorns one of the walls, and there’s even a leather reading chair strategically placed next to a floor-to-ceiling window overlooking the woods outside. I plop down to test it and sigh with delight as I realize this is going to be my favorite place. I know I’ll spend hours in this chair, immersed in a book, or maybe even daydreaming about a time when Bruce and I will have overcome all obstacles and finally be together.
Reluctantly, I eventually get up to inspect the rest of the apartment.
According to the brochure, the adjacent room is my bedroom—small, smelling of fresh linen and yet another flower arrangement. Walking along the hallway, I enter the kitchen, which is barely larger than a cupboard.
Out of curiosity, I open the fridge and find it stocked with fruit, flavored water, low-fat yogurt—all fresh produce and other healthy stuff, but nothing microwavable and no ready meals.
Too bad I can’t cook. However, I would definitely learn if it helped me get Bruce back.
I grab a bottle of flavored water and lean my head against the fridge, closing my eyes for a few seconds.
My heart pounds hard at the thought of Bruce.
What is he doing right now?
Does he regret the situation I’m in?
He went to great lengths to keep our relationship secret from his rich family when he could have given up on us and taken an easier path—go for someone his family would have approved of. That, in itself, is all the proof I need that Bruce’s feelings for me are indeed real.
He might not be a man of many words, but a woman’s gut feeling is never wrong.
You just have to look at a guy’s body language.
And facts. Like the fact that he invited me over, even after ending things with me, giving the excuse that he’s afraid of getting hurt. While I might not understand his motivations, I do believe his proclamation that someday we’ll have a future together.
As I return from the kitchen, I get confused in the hallway. There are so many doors, I can’t remember which one is my bedroom. I know I should be knocking and yet I find myself trying each handle.
All are locked.
I continue down the hallway and try the handle of the last one.
It’s unlocked. I push it open.
My heart drops.
A scream escapes my chest.
My feet are frozen to the spot.
This isn’t my bedroom.
The person standing before me doesn’t look female.
It’s a guy.
A hot guy with his pants gathered in a heap at his feet.
Chapter Four
Vicky
“Fucking hell,” I mutter, frozen to the spot.
The guy in front of me is standing in front of a mirror, his naked ass on full display.
His back is rippled with muscles; his chest is broad, and even from my sideways position in the doorway, I can see the well-defined six-pack beneath the taut skin.
My gaze skims over his broad biceps and lingers on the tattoo on the back of his neck. It looks like a snake engrossed in a battle with a lion. It’s powerful and fascinating in a scary kind of way. As though he’s one or the other and fighting his demons that are about to come to life.
His back is sexy as hell, but I think the most beautiful part of him is his ass. It looks like it’s been carved out of marble.
Oh, wait.
My eyes widen and my jaw drops open as I realize what he’s doing.
His hand is on his dick. There is no denying it. You can see his hard-on, the veins on his shaft, the slow movement as his hand goes back and forth.
Oh. My. God.
He’s jerking off, his face drawn in concentration. The shock at the picture before me is short but intense.
But there’s more than shock.
A wave of heat travels down my abdomen and settles between my legs. I can feel myself vibrating down there, my lady parts clenching and unclenching with sudden want.
It’s not like I haven’t seen a dick before. It’s the mixture of it all—his dark hair, muscular body, and the fact that he seems to be enjoying himself way too much—that’s turning my insides into jelly, and I don’t like it one bit.
He must not have heard me because he neither turns his head, nor does he stop stroking himself.
“Jesus. Get a frigging room,” I call out, my voice a little too breathy.
His hand freezes in its movement. He turns around and shoots me an unfazed smile. “I’m taking care of basic needs here, if you don’t mind.”
His gaze meets mine, and my breath catches in my throat. His eyes, a dark shade of brown, are hooded, giving me the kind of bedroom look that screams he’s not in the least ashamed of having been found jerking off.
For a second, I think I see surprise on his face, but the fleeting impression is gone before I can fully grasp it.
His brows shoot up as his eyes pierce through me, shimmering with challenge. “Want to join in, or why else are you still staring?”
Heat rushes to my face.
Jerk.
“Why would you think I’d—” My voice breaks as utter humiliation and blinding rage render me speechless.
I peer from his eyes to his cock. His hand is still wrapped around it. Instead of deflating, I think it’s just gotten even bigger, the veins pronounced, the crown glimmering with moisture.
The temperature’s just increased tenfold.
Either that, or a complete stranger has just made me lose it.
Peeling my gaze away from him, albeit unwillingly, I cover my eyes with my hand to block the image of his glorious cock. “Who says something like that to a stranger?”
His raucous laughter rings behind me as I slam the door shut and press my back against it, taking slow, labore
d breaths.
Okay, Sullivan.
This so did not happen.
“Jesus.” I rub my eyes hard, as though to wipe away the image of his naked body, but that’s not possible.
The harder I try, the clearer I can see his huge dick in his hand. Who has a dick like that? Thick, engorged, and oh, so wet.
The slick sound of his hand moving up and down rings in my ears. Was it as loud before? Or has he just resumed his action?
Pressing my ear against the door, I hold my breath and think I can hear his hard breathing.
God, those low, deep moans are sexy.
I move back down the hall, focused on getting away as fast as possible, and open another door by accident.
It’s a bedroom with clothes scattered across the bed.
Men’s clothes.
Men’s shoes litter the floor.
The scent of aftershave lingers in the air.
“Changed your mind after all?” The voice is deep and husky. For a moment, I’m immobilized as he continues, “I think bedrooms are a bit overrated, but what the hell? If that’s your thing, I’m up for it.”
It’s the same guy.
I turn to face him, my gaze strangely drawn south, and find that a thin towel is wrapped around his hips, covering his junk.
I let out an exasperated snort.
It’s really tiny. The towel, that is.
Not his tool.
That one’s about the biggest I’ve ever seen, counting TV and Internet pop-ups.
I don’t want to gawk, and yet I find my gaze glued to the clearly defined bulge beneath that towel.
In the bright light spilling in through the large bay windows, I can see everything. There’s no denying he still has a raging erection, as though pleasuring himself wasn’t nearly enough to still his sexual appetite.
“Seriously?” I ask, pointing to the towel. “Can’t you put something on?” My voice sounds strangled, breathy, which I attribute to the fact that I’m highly uncomfortable standing in front of a hot guy built like a Greek god and hung like a donkey.
“What’s so important that you had to interrupt?”
“I interrupted?” My jaw drops, and white hot flashes of anger begin to cloud my vision. “Oh, you’re talking about your date with your right hand. Sorry about that.” I smirk. “What are you doing here?”
His brows shoot up. “Here?”
“Yes, here, in my apartment.”
Ignoring my question, he squeezes past me, his erection coming dangerously close to my abdomen. From up close, he smells of sandalwood and raw manliness.
My breath catches in my throat.
It takes all my willpower not to jump a few steps back to put some distance between us.
He retrieves another white towel from his suitcase and wipes his face with it.
Every fiber of my body is heating up at the sight of his naked back. Bruce is tall and a bit skinny. This guy is built like a boxer: tall with broad shoulders and hard muscles in places I didn’t know existed.
As he turns to regard me, I notice the color of his eyes.
Deep brown and broody with long, dark lashes.
They’re the sort of eyes that make you feel like you’re the only woman in his world.
It’s a pity I didn’t get the chance to watch him finish the act earlier.
Why would I think something like that?
I can feel my cheeks burning. I wouldn’t be surprised to find that my face has just turned a similar shade to our counselor’s hair color.
The guy steps in front of me, eyeing me with curiosity. He’s standing too close for comfort, sucking the oxygen right out of the air. “What makes you think this is your apartment?” His voice is low and nonchalant, as though we’re sitting in a café engaged in small talk about the weather. No sign of nervousness at all that he’s just exposed himself to a stranger.
“The form in my folder says so.”
“The form?” The corners of his lips twitch. “What does it say?”
“2B.” I scan the room again, suddenly uncertain. “What apartment is this?”
“2B.” He frowns, but for some reason I think I see amusement in his eyes. “Clearly a mistake.”
“No doubt.” I stare him down. “Why don’t you start packing up again? Because I’m pretty sure this is my place.”
“Is that so?” He crosses his arms over his imposing chest. I try not to stare at his bulging biceps, but it’s hard. “I’m not leaving.”
My anger flares. “This is my apartment. You’ve made a mistake.”
“I assure you I haven’t. I’ve been here since this morning. Even had a counselor stop by to ensure I was comfortable.” His lips twitch again. I don’t know why his statement sounds dirty, but this isn’t the time to probe.
My eyes widen and my legs begin to shake just a little bit. “Are you saying you’re staying here?”
“Yes, that’s what I’m saying.” He cocks his head to the side. “I assume you’re the love addict who’s going to be my roommate? My counselor told me a little bit about you.”
Love addict?
I open my mouth, but no sound comes out.
In all honesty, what could I possibly reply?
The fact that he’s just called me a love addict is too much.
Turning around, I bolt down the hallway as quickly as I can, then grab my luggage and head for the elevator.
It has to be a mistake.
It has to be a fatal mistake. There’s no way anyone would shack me up with a guy.
I can’t live with another guy, not even for therapy purposes.
My heart belongs to Bruce only. He’s the first man I’ll ever move in with.
Bruce with his dark brown eyes and soft smile.
Bruce who loves me and would never be such a jerk to me.
Chapter Five
Vicky
It feels as though it takes me forever to reach the reception area, and twice as long to find my way back to the redhead who’s engrossed in small talk with a group of new arrivals.
As I wait for her to acknowledge my presence, I make out her name:
Marlene Elijah.
“Excuse me?”
She turns her head away from the group and for a moment, confusion crosses her face.
She has no idea who I am.
“We met ten minutes ago,” I say to refresh her memory. Her face remains blank. The woman’s clearly overworked. Either that, or her facial recognition abilities suck. “I think you guys made a mistake. I’m supposed to share my apartment with a girl, but there’s a guy in there.”
Her frown deepens as she regards me. I can almost see her brain trying to place me. “What’s your apartment number?”
“2B.”
“And you are?”
“Vicky Sullivan.”
Her manicured finger trails down the names on her list and begins to tap against one row at the bottom of the page. After a short pause, she glances up with a smile.
“Not a mistake, I’m afraid. Your roommate is Kaiden Wright.”
I stare at her, completely dumbfounded. She can’t have said what I think she just said. Someone made a mistake somewhere. After all, this is the LAA Center.
Hello?
The Love Addicts Anonymous Center.
“But…” I shake my head. “I’m supposed to be here to get help.”
For…
There, I can’t even say the words.
LOVE ADDICTION.
It sounds so ugly. Sickening. Like an infectious disease.
Marlene doesn’t look at me full of pity or wrath. She smiles kindly, as if my supposed condition is something she’s dealing with on a regular basis.
“I’m pleased to say that we’ve placed you in our newest therapy program.” At my horrified expression, she pats my upper arm. “At first it might seem inconvenient that you’ve been paired with a male, but don’t worry. We know what we’re doing. Kade is going to be your partner. You’ll make a great team.”<
br />
“But he is male,” I protest.
Doesn’t she get the magnitude of it all?
I can’t engage with a stranger in the kind of things Bruce and I should be experiencing, like living together and going to therapy.
This is just wrong.
“Correct.” She nods her head. Her glance sweeps to the waiting group behind her, and I realize I’m about to lose her. “You’re going to help each other. Isn’t that great?”
It’s immoral and wrong on so many levels, I can’t even begin to describe it. “Is that even allowed?”
“If you want to come out of this experience stronger and more independent, you need to triumph over your demons,” she says, her smile fading a little. “Living with him is going to be a test. And yes, I realize that it may seem somewhat unheard of, but this is our newest therapy plan which, without a single doubt, is going to be very successful.” She gives my hand a comforting squeeze. “Don’t worry. You will receive all the support you need.” She pauses for a second, as if unsure whether to throw in more information or not. Eventually, she leans forward, close enough to whisper so no one but me can hear her.
“Personally, I think it’s a bit counterproductive.” She smirks. “But I’m not the one who develops the therapy plans. It might help you to know that you two don’t suffer from the same kind of addiction.”
“Yeah?” The tension falls off a bit. “What is he here for?”
Drugs? Games? Sounds about right.
Maybe he’s one of those people who work too much.
I can deal with a workaholic.
“I’m not supposed to tell, but what the hell?” Marlene laughs. “You’re partners. You’ll find out soon enough, right?”
Now she’s really made me curious.
I nod my head, impatiently waiting for her big revelation.
When nothing comes I prompt, “What is it, Marlene?”
“Kade is our newest sex addict,” she says gently, as if he had an addiction to little, furry bunnies.
I stare at her, open-mouthed.
A sex addict?
What the hell have I gotten myself into?