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I lifted my T-shirt, overly aware that her scent was still there. I held it to my nose and deeply inhaled.
My mouth watered, the desperation to taste her kicking up a few gears. But I wasn’t about to lick the blood from my shirt. For all I fucking knew, some of it was Joseph’s.
But the scent wasn’t Joseph’s, and it caused butterflies to flutter in my stomach.
I shouldn’t have even thought about pulling my cock out on a trip between hospitals. But certain addictions—urges—were impossible for me to fight, my internal protests constantly losing their battles.
My fingers rubbed over the tip, swirling the precum and smearing it down my length, carefully avoiding my piercings and the bruises I’d given myself last night. I sniffed the shirt again, wanting more, needing more.
All that was fine and dandy—all the twisted actions of someone with a mild sex addiction—because she didn’t have to know about them.
She didn’t have to know any of the bad stuff.
Our future could be that way, too—a happy experience as long as she didn’t remember the past.
A moan slipped between my parted lips, my eyes closing for a few seconds, ignoring the road ahead as I breathed her in. My hand moved faster, my fist tighter around my aching cock.
Another moan, and I thought of Cat and how she looked now, her face beautiful and more mature, and those big pouty lips taking my shaft between them, sucking me until I exploded.
I could have died a beautiful fucking death right there. The blood loss, excitement, and the fantasy of her all made me lightheaded and tingly.
A honking horn alerted me to the oncoming truck, delivering large furniture or disguised that way while transporting humans to their new masters.
In the peak of arousal, I swerved back into my lane.
My breathing came fast and heavy, and my hand moved in sync, but I couldn’t get the rhythm right. I couldn’t hit the right pressure, and as I continued to try, all I did was aggravate my bruises.
But it didn’t stop me.
What stopped me and had me tucking myself in and zipping up was the turn for Beyond Heaven just up ahead and the thoughts of someone special to me having the worst moments of her life—which she’d no doubt tried to escape from.
The journey here was twenty minutes, and that wasn’t enough time to come or to return my thoughts to a sensible order by the time I stepped inside and saw the girl who needed me.
Doctors always thought they knew better and tried to prevent me from walking into her room. I ignored them. I ignored the woman—who was obviously a psychiatrist—who sat beside my heavily sedated girl as I dropped to my knees and asked, “Why, babe? We had a deal. A promise to one another.”
One we’d made the day I brought her here.
The psychiatrist hated my presence but loved my face. She was new here and wasn’t expecting to see me this dark Thursday evening. Her inner fan-girl came out quickly, but I was in no mood for autographs. The only signature she’d get would be the one on the sign-out form when I left this place.
I got back on my feet, brushed back the blonde hair fanning the pillow, and asked, “What’s been given to her?”
“She had to be sedated. She’ll be coming out of it in a while. I’m in here ready for when she does.”
“Tread carefully. She’s fragile.”
“I am aware, Mr. Cole.”
A false smile sat on my face, and I nodded.
“What was it this time?”
“She tried to slit her wrists again.”
Second time in three fucking weeks.
My fingers brushed the bandages before slinking from her wrist and taking her hand in mine. “Don’t you think it’s time to keep blades from within her reach?” Anger laced my tone.
“She has no access to blades. Last time, it was a plastic fork we had given her to eat. This time, it was a pencil she’d requested for drawing. It will not be happening again. I can assure you, Mr. Cole. She will remain here, in this room, fully supervised and hand-fed by one of the team members. We won’t be allowing any risks, and we won’t be granting any of her requests. There will be no more drawings. No hobbies that will elevate the danger she is to herself or others.”
