Until I Break(30)
Author: M. Leighton

I know I should leave, leave while I have the chance. I see what he does to the women in his life. I see that they are never quite freed of him. That’s the kind of trouble that I don’t need.

And yet, I know that, even as I sit here debating the wisdom of a relationship with Mason, that I will go forward. It is beyond my control now. Giving him one inch, I knew he would take a mile. And that I would let him.

There is no doubt I will enjoy the ride. But I have to try and survive it as well.

That’s the hard part.

Daire Kirby—the fictional mirror image of the twisted wreckage of my life. Like her, I’m faced with an out; a way to avoid what I know could be unspeakable pleasure as well as unspeakable pain. But also like Daire, I’ll choose the path that takes me right through the fires of hell. I know it as surely as I’m sitting here, getting ready to call for the cab that will take me back to Alec’s office. Back to him.

My fingers hover over the number pad on the telephone. I watch as they tremble ever so slightly. And then, with an uncertain definitiveness, I press the buttons for the taxi service.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX – Alec

I’m not really surprised when Paris, the receptionist, buzzes back to let me know that my eleven o’clock has arrived. I knew she would come. I knew she couldn’t resist me.

I knew, as Samantha, she would be putty in my hands. Her being Laura, too, doesn’t change that. It only adds an unexpected twist. She’s closer to my…level. A better match, truth be told. The fact that she’s here assures me of that. It both excites me and gives me cause for concern.

Since Alyssa, I’ve only come across a few people as broken as I am, and most of those I’ve encountered in a clinical setting. Socially, I tend to keep that type at arm’s length. And for good reason. An alcoholic should avoid bars at all costs. So I do.

Until now.

I’m still standing at the window, looking out over the dreary Portland skyline, when a soft knock sounds at the door. I don’t turn until I hear the door click twice—once to open and once to close behind Paris as she leaves.

When I turn to look at Samantha, my response is immediate. It is immediate, it is visceral and it is undeniable. It leaves me with no doubts as to why I’m taking such an enormous risk. My body demands it. The animal inside me demands it.

The monster. She sets his blood on fire.

“You came back,” I state simply as we stand, a room apart, staring at one another.

“Yes,” she responds, equally simply, not moving a single muscle.

She’s dressed as Laura Drake, complete with her sassy black wig and straight-laced glasses. Knowing that she, too, hides dark and sexy things makes me want to rip off her conservative suit and bare her to me, body and soul. And I know I won’t rest until I do exactly that.

The process has already begun. Samantha is losing her grip on Laura Drake in my presence. I can see that in the muted scarf tied around her neck. As part of my work, I’ve researched Laura Drake extensively. I’ve listened to her, watched her, looked up every picture posted of her on social media. Never, not once, has she worn anything with color. She’s always dressed in solid black from head to toe. The style may vary, but never the color.

Until today.

And I’d wager she thought nothing of it.

“We could spend an hour in this office, asking and answering questions, pretending that we don’t know where we’re headed,” I begin, walking slowly toward her. Filled with caution, her eyes watch my every step until I stop a scant inch from her. “Or we could agree to meet after we fly back to Charleston.” I reach up to brush my thumb over her quivering lower lip. I feel her fear and her desire like a branding iron to my gut—searing hot and slightly painful. But painful in a good way, in that way that says I’ll be getting what I want, even if it’s not what I need, not what’s best for me. “You could agree to come and stay with me for the weekend, to let me show you my world. And you can show me yours.”

“There are things I will not—” she begins, but I interrupt with a finger laid across her lips.

“Shh, you don’t need to do that. I know you. Well enough, anyway. I know something happened to you when you were a child, something that has skewed the way you view sexuality, the way you experience it. Understand now that you have nothing to fear from me. Whatever it is, I can take it. Whatever it is, I can help you.”

Her stormy gray eyes glisten with unshed tears. She whispers, “But what if you can’t?”

“Trust me, I can. You just have to let me.”

I see the indecision on her face. I know my deduction surprised her. But it will also bring her comfort—believing that I know and understand, and that I won’t judge her. In a few days’ time, she’ll be as ready for me as I am for her.

I just hope that when I introduce her to herself, to us, to who and what we are, that it won’t damage her beyond repair.

“Why would you do this for me?”

For you? If only I were that unselfish…

“You won’t be the only one to benefit,” I answer, purposely vague.

After a long pause, she finally nods. I walk to my desk and scribble out two addresses onto a piece of paper then hand it to her. Cautiously, as if it might burn her, she takes it from my fingers. “There are some things you’ll need. There’s a woman at the first address. Her name is Ursula. Swing by tomorrow night and she’ll measure you then send some clothes to my house. My address is the second one, just in case you don’t remember how to find it.” I drove her home from there, but most women have a terrible sense of direction. “Come to me after you finish with Ursula.”

Samantha nods, her fingers worrying the edges of the paper. I cover them with my own, feeling the fine tremor that passes through them at the contact.

God help me, but I’m going to enjoy this.

“Until then, do me one favor. Don’t think of me. At all. When you find your mind wandering to me or to the time we’ll be sharing, think of something else. Don’t fear it. Don’t anticipate it. Just let it be a surprise.”

She nods once more, and I’m sure she’ll attempt what I’ve asked. But I know it’s impossible. By asking her not to think of me, of what’s to come, she’ll likely be able to think of little else. And that’s really what I want. I want her to be on edge when she comes to me. I want her to be so close to snapping that all I’ll have to do is bend her over my arm to break her.