Darkest Perception_A Dark and Mind-Blowing Steamy Romance

by Shari J. Ryan

  "Because," I answer.

  "No, that's not good enough. I need to get away from you," she says. The words shard through me for a different reason than they should, but either way, I can’t let her out of my sight.

  "You can’t leave," I tell her.

  She pushes me away from her, causing a scene in front of the elevators. "Am I your fucking prisoner now? Or what?"

  "Shush. If that’s what you need to think in order to stay, then sure," I tell her.

  The elevator doors open and we step inside, standing in silence for the minute it takes us to rise to the ninth floor. The short walk to her hotel room gives me time to refuel the rage I need to maintain or regain this situation.

  "Let me in," I tell her.

  "Don't you have a key?" she asks while reaching into her back pocket for her key.

  I pull it out of my pocket and open the door before she’s able to retrieve hers, and urge her inside. I make my way over to the TV and turn it on, increasing the volume to block out any other sound that would come from this room in a minute.

  "What are you doing?" she asks, her forehead wrinkling with distress. "Are you insane?"

  I laugh because that's actually funny. "You wouldn’t be the first person to ask me that."

  "No, no mind games. You give me answers, or I'm calling the police," she says.

  This could be it. My answer.

  "I'm not giving you anything. Call the police. Go ahead." That may have been a bit pushy, but she won't call them. I'm almost positive at this point.

  She walks over to the phone and places her hand down on the receiver. "You work for the fucking cops, don't you?" she asks again. I’m sure she knows I don’t work for the police department. She’s just eliminating options from a list of possible professions I’m in.

  "No," I tell her. "Feel free to check me over for a badge."

  "If that's your way of trying to get me in your pants, try again," she says. Her words throb through my cock, and I fight against the reaction I don’t want to give her.

  "I don't need to try and get you into my pants," I tell her.

  "Why are you so goddamn arrogant?"

  "Why are you lying?" I argue.

  "Why are you lying?" she repeats.

  "Coercion," I admit.

  "What do you want from me, Axel?" Music to my fucking ears.

  "I need to find Isabelle Hammel." The stress running through me has my heart pounding, and I take a seat on the guest chair in the corner of the room, pulling my ankle up to my other knee as I scratch the back of my neck.

  "What's so important about her? What do you need from her?" she questions.

  I look at Harley for a long minute, deciphering what to say—what information to barter with. "We used to date. She was the one who got away."

  Harley sits down at the edge of her bed, her hand still pressed against the phone receiver. "You used to date Isabelle Hammel?" she repeats, questioning me.

  "Yes, losing her has made me ... a bit crazy ... and that's why I've accidentally called you by her name a few times."

  "So, I look like your ex-girlfriend, and that’s why I’m here?"

  "Exactly," I tell her.

  "What was so great about her that you can't seem to let go of? How long ago did you two break up?" Either she's playing along with this as well as I am, or I've been dead wrong this whole time. Why can’t I figure this girl out? I’ve never had such a fucking hard time peeling layers away from any woman.

  I run my fingers through my hair, releasing a long exhale while I rest into the back of the chair. "She was beautiful, smart, witty—everything a man could want in a woman. She had passion for her interests, and it showed on her face. Her confidence was more than I had ever seen a woman have. It was like she wasn't afraid of anything, and yet, it made people afraid to have a conversation with her. She was kind and devoted—the type of person who can hold a conversation and show understanding and care as she listened. All her qualities drew me to her, and I had a hard time looking away. Not only was she the most gorgeous woman I had ever laid eyes on, but her personality added to her beauty in so many ways. She was like a drug, Harley—an obsession, and I realized over time I would never be good enough for her, so I let her go, and I don't know where she is now. She never came back for me, but then again, why would she?"

  Harley eyes are dovelike, her lips are slightly parted, and she’s speechless. "Wow, where did you meet her?"

  Okay, that wasn’t the verbal response I was expecting. "School. We were in class together for a semester, and that’s when things started up."

  "What class?" Harley continues.

  "Cognitive Neuropsychology," I tell her.

  "Well, it seems you were obviously as intelligent as she was if you were in a class like that," Harley says.

  "Whatever," I tell her. "I just need to find her."

  "Well, good luck with that," she says, lifting the phone to her ear.

  "You're calling the police because I'm trying to find an ex-girlfriend?" I question.

  "I'm calling the police because you’re a fucking psychopath," she says.

  "And when they look up your name and find there is no record of you, then what?" I question her.

  "That won't happen," she says, sure as day.

  I lean forward and place my elbows into my thighs, folding my hands under my chin. "So, here’s the thing, Harley—there is one Harley Salem living on the East coast. There are only three total in the entire country. One of them is a fifty-four-year-old man—that's the one living on the East coast. As for the other two, one is a ten-year-old girl, and the other died last year. Which one of the three are you?"

  Harley places the receiver of the phone back down carefully, softly, slowly, and obviously bewildered. "I'm the one who is unlisted for reasons you don't need to know about."

  "Nothing is unlisted in my records," I tell her.

  "Right," she says. "I forgot. Axel Pierce was arrested for homicide three years ago, placed in a psychiatric hospital for one year, followed by another year in an anger management rehab center, then your records disappeared."

  "Are you playing with Google again?" I ask her. That shit isn’t on Google. How the hell did she find all that out?

  She huffs a sarcastic laugh. "No, I have my ways too."

  My mind spins with questions as to how she would locate any of that unclassified information, and like an atom bomb exploding within my head, I realize I handed her the spare phone that wasn't cleared of the governmental apps I had access to. I unlocked my phone with my fingerprint, which unlocked the apps. She must have done it while she was searching for that music on YouTube.

  Shit. Shit. Shit.

  "Your records might have disappeared, but you're not dead, so what gives?" she asks.

  Running down the list of tactics to use on her, I'm down to pure distraction—a method that may just be the end of me and my ability to maintain this disposition I'm wearing like a mask without any strings attached. There's only one weakness I have found in Harley, and it's the only one I can exploit, even if it's my only weakness, as well.

  I stand up from the chair and slowly make my way over to where she's sitting. As I approach her, she doesn’t move—calmly wearing her bravery and confidence without blinking.

  The tension in my chest is overwhelming—the wrong fighting the right, and everything in between—knowing what I shouldn't be doing, versus the feeling of what I want to do because this isn't Harley. This is Isabelle, and that woman didn't have to say more than a hundred words to me in the three months’ period of time I knew her, yet I wanted to be a part of her life more than I wanted to get out of my imprisonment. I was invisible. I was nothing. Now I'm standing right in front of her, and she can't avoid me any longer.

  I lunge forward, pressing my knee between her legs and clasp my hands around her cheeks, urgently pressing my lips into hers as I push her backward onto the bed. She gasps but doesn't fight against me. I kiss her hard, nipping at her bottom li
p from a loss of control running through me. Her mouth parts, complying with my force as I sink my tongue into her mouth. My cock hardens against her, and I entwine my arms tightly around her thin body as she wraps her legs around my torso.

  We’re both clothed and kissing as if we were fighting for air rather than a truth, and I give up all restraint as I tear her shirt off, careful to avoid the wound on her eyebrow. I toss my jacket onto the chair behind us and unbutton my shirt faster than I've managed or have wanted to before. Part of me is afraid she may begin to fight against me, though the moment I'm shirtless, her gaze skates down the length of body, and I watch her chest respond with the rise and fall of heavy breaths.

  Harley’s hands reach up and slowly trail across the path of muscles that curve toward my belt, which she seamlessly unfastens and whips free from my pants. My hands fall to her lace-clad breasts, pinching at her pebbled nipples. Her back arches upward and I take the opportunity to remove the thin layer of material separating me from her perfection. I take my time with each peach-colored nipple, sucking, tugging, and biting, coercing a moan from her throat. I hate my initial thought of her beautiful sounds being a sign of weakness, but I push the observation away and lose myself within her lake blue eyes—mesmerized by the swirls of contradicting hues of blue.

  I kneel upright and unbutton my pants, lowering them and my boxer briefs before tending to her loose-fitting jeans that easily slide down her waist. I tear her panties down her thighs, over her knees, and feel them slide the rest of the way to her ankles as I reach down to the ground for the pocket of my pants. I retrieve a condom I shamelessly hoped to use with her if we could manage to push aside our problematic indifference, which seems to be the case at the moment. Before I have the chance to tear the wrapper, Harley maneuvers her way down between my legs and wraps her wet, plump lips around my cock. Her tongue draws lines up and down my shaft, and I’m left on all fours, desperately trying to hold my weight up above her, though I may lose all strength soon if she keeps going. The head of my cock presses against the softness of her throat.

  Holy shit. I'm done. I can't play this game anymore.

  I pull out of her mouth and tear the wrapper off the condom, unravel it, slip it on, and plunge inside of her with little warning. There’s no question whether she’s ready for me since there is no tension against each thrust I make against her. Her moans return, and I place my hand around the side of her neck as I continue to inhale her exhaling pleas.

  Her hands wrap around my torso, then she caressingly slides them down until she cups my ass firmly within her grip while not-so-gently pressing the tips of her fingernails into my flesh as she pulls me in deeper and harder. I continue pounding into her with so much uncontrolled force that I'm afraid of hurting her, but she pleadingly groans as if it's not enough.

  Harley's hands slide back to my chest, and she pushes me in an attempt to switch positions, which I comply with. Her legs straddle my waist while settling into the new position. Without missing a beat, she’s rides me hard as she squeezes her breasts, pressing them up as her head falls back with pleasure. My hands clasp around her waist, guiding her movements into longer strides.

  "You're so hard," she mutters, still grinding against me with the same quick pace, but she leans forward, dangling her breasts toward my chest before feathering her nipples across my pecs. With her lips hovering over my ear, she whispers, "Tell me how you found me."

  I slap my hands against her ass, receiving a shriek of delight in return. "Tell me you aren't Harley," he demands through a breathless grunt.

  "Why were you in a psych ward?" she moans through another unsteady whisper.

  "For a crime I didn't commit," I say as if it were an exhale of air. "Oh, and I've had a thing for you since we were in class together." I flip her onto her back, regaining a sense of control without losing our place in depth or velocity. I slide my hand down between her legs, pinching her clit gently. "Come on, baby, tell me what I want to hear."

  "I know you want me to tell you I'm Isabelle," she says, snaking her hands up and down my torso as she moves her lips to my neck, pausing her words to suck and bite with more pressure than I'd expect. "What do you want with me?" Her words are mumbled beneath my ear, and I’m having a hard time deciphering if she just confessed.

  "I want you," I tell her, the words coming on their own accord—a lie that is no longer a lie. I have wanted her since we took class together almost two years ago.

  "Finish," she tells me. As if her words are commanding my cock to do what she says, I spill into her, bucking and thrashing as her head hits the headboard before I have a chance to place my hand there to prevent another crash. As I empty my dark soul into hers, she moves against me faster, moaning, "I will never tell you I'm her. Ever." Her cries escape in the form of passion and pleasure mixed with only a hint of despair.

  "Don't tell me, then," I rebut.

  I fall against her chest and pull the comforter out from beneath us, wrapping it around our bodies while we take a minute to unfurl from the sexual interrogation we enforced.

  "I'm not a stalker," I tell her.

  "And Isabelle is not your ex-girlfriend," she counters.

  17

  Harley

  While peeling my clothes off the floor, a feel a fleeting sense of awkwardness come over me, and I don't know what to say to Axel after that. We hardly know each other, and I don't typically sleep with men I don't know, especially those I’m kind of working for.

  I pull my pants up and reach for my bra hanging off the nightstand, but I’m caught in a daze as I stop to watch him pull up his pants and weave his belt through the loops. He's been wearing suits and clothes that sort of cover what's beneath, which is a flawless canvas of muscles and intricately designed tattoos. He's kind of perfect, besides the whole convicted psychopath thing.

  "Dr. Phillips was my psychologist and rehab mentor," he says. "You were in your masters’ program, and I was not even enrolled in your university, but it was part of my treatment to attend some of his classes." While rage begins to rise back through my gut, I try to keep calm, knowing his explanation is far from over. I fasten my bra and pull my shirt on. "I never wanted a psych career. I was just avoiding a life sentence in prison."

  I have no clue how to wrap my head around anything he is saying. "A life sentence? What? What did you do?" Other than commit homicide, obviously.

  "Nothing. I did nothing," he says. "I was set up. That's all there is to it."

  How interesting. He was set up. I was set up. It seems a little too coincidental to me.

  "Well, I don't remember you from class," I tell him, trying to catch my breath before I speak again. "So, what, you really think we were in the same class?" Some of my earlier college classes I took were filled with more than a hundred students sometimes, but not typically throughout my masters’ program.

  "We sat beside each other for an entire semester," Axel tells me. He's lying. I would have remembered him. I think. "My hair was longer, and I had a beard and glasses." Still not ringing a bell. I attended school for four years and took more classes than I can count. However, with all the thousands of students who attended my school, he was watching me—he remembers me.

  I'm pretty sure I'm about to be murdered.

  "We made small talk every day," he says. "You introduced yourself on the first day, telling me how excited you were for that particular class we were in. At the time, I was wondering what person could be that excited about a Cognitive Neuropsychology class, but you had this wild passion in your eyes when you started talking about the shit I had no clue about. It was impressive and sparked a desire within me to learn more."

  I'm struggling to remember this, but I do kind of recall talking to a guy in that class since we sat in the same seats the whole semester. I remember we had assigned seating for some reason, but that guy didn’t look like Axel, and I feel like I'd remember his name. If my memory serves me right, the guy sitting next to me in that particular class was scruffy, with o
vergrown hair and always in sweats—never quite interested in what Mason was teaching.

  The lost look on my face provokes Axel to reach into his back pocket. He pulls out a worn, brown leather wallet and flips it open. Searching through his cards, he slides one out from the back and hands it over to me. It's a Boston University student ID. I examine it, instantly remembering the man he’s claiming to have once been. I remember now. How could I forget? We didn't just talk every day—we were friends. We'd stay after class some days and talk about the theories we were learning about, even though I remember wondering if he was truly as interested as I was. "I remember you, but your name wasn’t Axel." He went by Pierce I think. It didn’t ring a bell before now.

  "It’s not uncommon to use your last name," he says. "Plus, I don’t think you should be one to talk about names at the moment, huh?"

  "You changed a lot," I tell him in observance of his executive look—clean shaven, short hair, at least forty pounds slighter—and muscles, lots of those. I look back and forth between his face and the ID, noticing the similarities, one by one. The kind eyes I remember looking at when we talked. The green color is the same, but there’s a hardness within those eyes now. He's unfriendly, rather than always smiling and being goofy as I remember him. He takes the ID out of my hand, and I watch as relief settles through him. Axel sits down on the edge of my bed and buttons his shirt back up. "I had a thing for you," he admits.

  "Me?" I laugh. I never paid much attention to guys those last couple years of classes. The research papers and exams were so heavy, they took over my life.

  "A hot, smart chick who gave me the motivation to want to do something with my life. You were kind of unforgettable." I'm listening to what he's saying, but my confused and fragile mind trips and falls over the part where he called me hot.

  "I guess I don't need to ask what happened to you, but how did you end up like this?" Is all I can manage to ask. "I liked you better then." It’s the truth.