Total pages in book: 37
Estimated words: 35751 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 179(@200wpm)___ 143(@250wpm)___ 119(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 35751 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 179(@200wpm)___ 143(@250wpm)___ 119(@300wpm)
Chapter Seven
Dylan
It’s been a day, and I haven’t been to work. Instead, I stared at that bedroom door for hours, unable to see anything but my own regret. In fact, I don’t believe I’ve done much of anything. Tim gave me a strange look this morning. “Sir, you shouldn’t let a woman get to you.”
“If you want to keep your job, you’ll watch your mouth. Harley isn’t just some woman.” He grumbles under his breath and walks away. He wouldn’t understand because he doesn’t even like his wife.
What the fuck did I do? I sent her running from my life for no fucking reason. I love her, and I’d never harm her. “Except I already did.” I took her virginity and then paid her to leave me. What kind of bastard am I? My heart feels like it could break into a million pieces, and I have no one to blame but myself.
I need to get her back. “Sir, she’s not at her old apartment.”
“Where is she?” Damn it, I should have had access to the tracker myself. I intentionally didn’t give myself that power because I’d be a crazy stalker, but now I don’t care.
“It looks like she’s with her cousin that’s getting married.”
“Oh, yes. The wedding is in a few days.” Married. It’s what I should be doing; I should be getting married to the love of my life instead of pushing her away.
I hate myself more than I ever have before. I made a call I should have made a long time ago—to a therapist.
The following morning, I go to the first session that day and explain everything, letting it fall from my mouth like verbal diarrhea. It almost feels cathartic to let it out. No one knows my true past, only that I was adopted and my mother died. There is nothing else about my past, and I have no one that I ever shared it with.
The therapist leaves me with a bit of comfort, explaining that it’s something proven to be passed on, and we are who we are based on how we are raised. Many children like me suffer with PTSD because it’s a reminder that we were a product of force.
I see the therapist again for a second day because I want help before going to fix my relationship with Harley.
“You don’t need to hide away from relationships. That’s only going to hurt you. Think about people who are born to alcoholics, and yet one child is an alcoholic and the other never touches a drink in their lives because they don’t want to become their parents. You don’t have to hurt a woman, because you don’t want to. Do you have urges?”
“What urges?” I ask, wanting to know where she’s going with this.
“Urges to hurt women?”
“God, no. Never. I don’t feel anything for almost all women.” Only one woman do I have any feelings for, and they are deeply rooted in my soul. Embedded, engrained, etched into my heart—they’ll always be there even if she never forgives me.
“Then why are you so afraid?”
“Ever since my adoptive mother told me the truth, I worried about what I could become.” Shame fills me as I confess those words.
“How old were you?” she asks, putting a sympathetic hand on my thigh.
“About thirteen.”
“Oh, so just at the start of your hormonal stage. Any arousal would have frightened you, right?”
“You nailed it.” I used to get hard with the wind blowing. God forbid if I saw a movie with a pretty woman in it. Then as I got older, I wasn’t aroused by much but my own fantasies of a happy life until Harley swept by me. All fantasies became about her and imagining her in my arms, writhing with pleasure, crying out my name as I ate her out.
“You should consider the fact that you’re in your late twenties and just lost your virginity as a sign you had no intentions of hurting anyone.” I don’t need to be reminded that I was a virgin and that I shared that with anyone. It’s kind of embarrassing. She leans in, lowering her glasses and adds, “You’re handsome, wealthy, and you could probably pay your way through discretionary affairs. There are clubs that allow for privacy for those craving dominance and submission.” Is she hitting on me?
“I’m not interested in anything like that, Doctor.”
“You could find yourself in one of those places.” She licks her lips, and I’m out the damn door.
“I will no longer require your services.” I step out and leave the damn secretary a message. “I want the bill, and I don’t want any more sessions. No calls. I want the doctor and this office to lose all of my information. Understood?”
“Yes, Mr. Hunter.” Where did I get her number from in the first place? Fuck, now I remember. James Majors, when he said the company-recommended therapy sessions help release stress.