Obsessed With Him

by Hannah Ford

  I changed into the clothes he’d left for me and then slid under the sheets.

  They were silky and smooth and felt foreign against my skin.

  I was sure I wouldn’t be able to fall asleep. The bed was foreign, the place strange, not to mention that Colt was downstairs.

  But a second after I closed my eyes, I was in a dream.

  I was back in my foster home, the one at the Dalys, the one where I met Liam. Mr. Daly, or Frank as he liked us to call him, was making me put birthday candles into this huge cake that was made out of dirt and grass. I started putting them in one by one, but every time I’d put in a new candle, one of the other candles would fall. Mr. Daly stood in the corner with a belt, his eyes looking sad as he shook his head back and forth. “You’re not doing it right, Olivia,” he said sadly. “You’re not doing it right.”

  Then Declan was there, reaching out, holding my hand, guiding me to put the candles in right. I was happy. But then, out of nowhere, the belt came down over Declan’s hand, smashing into the cake.

  “No!” I screamed.

  My eyes flew open.

  My heart was pounding, my face flushed. I sat up in bed, panicked, not sure where I was. Then I remembered. The strip club. Colt. His apartment.

  I laid back down and tried to calm myself. But it wasn’t going to work. I knew it wasn’t going to work.

  There was only one thing to do.

  I got up and headed for the bathroom, grabbing my purse as I went. Once I was there, I pulled out my compact, then reached under the mirror and pulled out my razor blade.

  It glinted in the light, and I put the edge up to my skin. I liked to cut my arms. I knew it was a risk, that I should try for something on my thigh, or even further up my arm. But nothing calmed me more than cutting my arms.

  The first cut didn’t go deep. It was superficial, just a tiny little nick, one that hardly even drew any blood. It was a tease of the release that was to come, like ordering an appetizer before your main meal so you could take the edge off.

  I was just about to make a second, bigger cut when the door to the bathroom went flying open.

  Colt was standing there, wearing a white t-shirt and a pair of dark blue sweatpants. His hair was wet and a little messy, like he’d just gotten out of the shower. He looked at me, his face dark.

  “I heard you yell,” he said. “I needed to make sure you were okay.”

  “I was having a dream.”

  He looked down at the razor in my hand, then at the cut on my arm. His gaze slid back up and met mine, and something passed between us. I could tell he knew exactly what I was doing. He knew I was cutting, he knew I was doing it for a release. It made me wonder how he knew– if he was a cutter, too. But one glance at the smooth skin of his forearms and I knew he wasn’t. I wondered if he was going to ask me to stop.

  I froze, the razor still pressed against my arm. It was an exquisite torture, thinking you were about to get a release and then being caught.

  Colt crossed the room in two long strides, reached out and gently took the razor out of my hand. He set it on the sink and then turned my arm over in his hand.

  He studied my cut. A thin line of dark red blood had appeared on my skin. But instead of chastising me or asking me why I was doing this to myself, he pulled a band-aid and Neosporin out of the medicine cabinet.

  “It’s okay,” I said. “I can do it.”

  He raised his eyebrows at me, like he couldn’t trust me to do even the simplest thing. Then he squeezed a bit of Neosporin onto the band-aid and put the bandage over my cut.

  “Thank you,” I said, taking my hand back. It burned from where he touched me.

  He didn’t say you’re welcome. Instead, he just stared. His eyes were deep and calm, and they surveyed me like he was in charge, like he could do whatever he wanted with me. The silence stretched between us for a moment, and I raised my chin at him, daring him to tell me to get out. If he did, I wouldn’t care. I wasn’t afraid to go back to the shelter.

  But he didn’t kick me out.

  Instead, he licked his top lip and moved toward me.

  He was so tall that he leaned down over me so he could whisper in my ear.

  “You want to forget everything?” he breathed. “You want to let yourself feel a release?” He was so close I could feel the heat radiating between us. His skin was smooth, gorgeous, and he reached down and took my chin between his forefinger and thumb, tilted it up so that I was forced to look at him.

  There was an amused glint in his eyes. “I can make you forget everything, Princess,” he said. The pad of his thumb slid gently over my bottom lip, sending waves of heat through my body.

  He moved closer, so close his lips were almost touching mine, but not quite. “Do you want to forget?” he asked me again.

  His arm wrapped around my back, and his hand trailed down over my spine. I shivered. My nipples hardened under the thin t-shirt I was wearing, and that same out-of-control feeling rushed over me, the one I had back at the club when I was dancing for him.

  “Yes,” I whispered. “I want to forget.”

  It was true. I wanted to forget everything. I wanted to forget the fact that I was homeless, that my parents wanted nothing to do with me, that none of my other relatives were willing to take me in. But most of all, right now, I wanted to forget about the promise I had made to Declan. And I hated myself for it.

  “No.” I took a step back and shook my head. “I can’t.”

  If he was offended, he didn’t show it. Instead, that same amused glint came back into his eyes. But there was something else there, too, burning beneath the surface. If I didn’t know better, I’d say it was lust. But that was impossible. A guy like him – rich, sexy as all hell, with beautiful women throwing themselves at him every night – didn’t lust after girls like me.

  “You can,” he said, his eyes still on mine.

  “No.” I shook my head. “I really can’t.”

  “You want to.” It’s a statement, not a question.

  I raised my chin. “Oh, really?” I shot at him. “You sure about that?”

  “Yes.” He was still staring into my eyes, the connection between us burning hot. “So then, Princess,” he said. “Why don’t you tell me why you can’t?”

  The way it said it infuriated me, like he thought whatever reason I had would be something completely ridiculous.

  “You wouldn’t understand,” I said, trying to step around him.

  But he stayed put, blocking my path. “Try me.”

  I shook my head. “There’s no reason,” I lied. “You’re just not as irresistible as you’d like to think.”

  “Oh, I’m plenty irresistible.”

  It sounded like a dare.

  “Not to me.”

  “We’ll see.”

  He turned and walked out of the bathroom.

  I watched him go, then turned back to the sink, my heart pounding. I gripped the edge of the counter so hard I left marks on my fingers. I wanted to cut again so badly, but the fact that Colt had caught me had completely ruined any relief I might get from it.

  I splashed cold water on my face and on my wrists.

  When I got back to the bedroom, Colt was standing by the bed.

  “If you’re going to try and give me some big lecture on why I shouldn’t be cutting, you can save your breath,” I said. “My foster mom tried doing that every month since I was fourteen, and it obviously didn’t work.” I didn’t mention the countless social workers, the psychotherapists, the inpatient clinic they put me in for two weeks. None of it worked, or if it did, it wasn’t for long.

  “I don’t lecture people,” Colt said. He reached out and took my wrist, pulled me close to him so that our chests were touching. “I don’t believe in big speeches. Words are just words. They don’t mean shit.”

  I laughed. “Ain’t that the truth.”

  He turned my hand over in his slowly, then ran his finger over the Band-Aid on my arm. “It stopped bleeding.�
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  “Yeah.” I pulled my arm away from him, uncomfortable at the closeness between us. “It’s fine.”

  I pushed past him., needing to get away from his closeness. But there was nowhere to go except for the bed, and I didn’t really want to be in bed with him in the room.

  But he saved me from that awkwardness by turning around and walking toward the door.

  At the last moment, he turned and looked at me. “If you’re going to stay here, you have to promise to stop cutting yourself.”

  “I’m only going to be here for one night,” I said.

  “No, you’re not.”

  “Oh, really?” I laughed. “Are you moving me in?”

  “Perhaps.”

  “I really don’t think my family would approve.”

  “Olivia,” he said. “I know you’ve been staying at the Walnut Street shelter. I’ve called and arranged for your things to be brought here.” He said it matter-of-factly, devoid of pity or sympathy.

  “What?” I scoffed. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.” My voice didn’t shake. It didn’t break. I was a good liar. You have to be when your whole existence depends on it.

  “Don’t bullshit a bullshitter,” he said. “I know where you’ve been staying.”

  “How did you – ”

  He held his hand up. “We’ll get to that. But first, I have a business proposition for you.”

  END OF BOOK ONE

  Look for Book Two, ADDICTED TO HIM, available now…