Until I Break (11 page)

I know she’s not a virgin. Samantha has got
an awareness about her that comes from having had sex before. She
knows where I’m coming from. But I’d be willing to bet she’s never
been very adventurous, sexually speaking.

That’s not uncommon in the women I find most
suitable for this type of…relationship. But I think there’s
something else going on with Samantha. It doesn’t really matter
what it is. I’ll work around it, help her overcome it. In fact, now
that I think about it, the challenge of it will just make the end
result that much sweeter.

I keep my hand where it is, moving neither
lower nor higher. I don’t want to press her just yet, but I won’t
retreat either. Instead, I pull her in snug against my crotch. I
want her to feel every inch of me. Tapping Galen’s sides, I urge
him into a gallop.

I know she’s thinking about my words, about
my hands on her body, about the rhythm of the horse and how it
might feel to be coming all over my fingers while the wind is
whipping her hair and the sun is kissing her face. I want her to
think about it now. And I want her to crave it later.

And she will.

I know she will.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN- Samantha

“Wakey wakey! Eggs and bakey.”

I peek up at Chris from under my arm. I don’t
bother to roll over. “I want my key back.”

“Could you repeat that? I can’t understand
you with a pillow in your mouth.”

I lift my head. “I want my key back. You have
used it in a manner contrary to its intended purpose. I hereby
revoke your access. You are deniiiiiiiied!”

“In that case.”

Silence.

A pillow hits me in the back of the head.

“All right, all right! I’m getting up. You
better have brought me something delicious and sugar-filled, that’s
all I have to say.”

“Of course I did. I assumed this would be a
rescue mission. I called you six thousand times last night and got
no answer. When you weren’t at the coffee shop this morning, I did
the math. You either had a long night of sweaty, satisfying sex,
you’re hung over, or you’re pouting. Which is it?” she asks. Before
I can answer, she chants quietly, “Please be the sex, please be the
sex, please be the sex.”

“None of the above.”

Her expression is crestfallen. I doubt there
is another person on the planet who takes more interest in my sex
life than Chris. Myself included.

“What? No sex? Not of any kind?” I shake my
head. “That is a major date fail.”

“It wasn’t a date,” I mutter.

“So it
is
pouting! What happened?
Spill,” she orders, handing me a coffee, kicking off her shoes, and
curling her legs beneath her.

I knew she would ask. It’s exactly why I
didn’t answer the phone last night. I didn’t want to address her
questions. Or
my
concerns. I need time to think, to figure
out what to do.

I’m in over my head and I know it. But what’s
possibly worse is that it’s all over a guy who began as the
embodiment of a fictional character. It’s psychotic! That alone
should’ve been a red flag. But it wasn’t. Well, it was, but not
enough of a warning to stop me. And now it’s too late. I’m
beginning to see that Alec Brand is much more dangerous than Mason
could ever be. Alec is practically identical to Mason in most
ways.

Only Alec Brand is real.

“Nothing happened. He iced my ankle, gave me
some ibuprofen and then took me to see a sea turtle nest he’d
stumbled upon.”

“Then what?”

“Then nothing. He took me back to his house,
we got in his Range Rover and he brought me home. End of
story.”

Chris
hmphs
in disappointment. “Are
you going to see him again?”

“I don’t know.”

And that’s true. After speaking such…heated
words into my ear after we left the dune-secluded nest, Alec put
Galen into a gallop and didn’t say anything else until he dropped
me off at my door. And, even then, it was just a polite goodbye and
hope-you-feel-better type thing.

I just don’t understand him. He keeps me off
kilter with his whiplash-inducing changes in temperature—from
burning hot to cool as a cucumber. I don’t know what to think or
what to expect. How can I possibly plan or anticipate when I have
no clue what’s going on?

The rational part of me says that the only
planning I need to do is on how to avoid him at all costs. That’s
what I should be thinking.

Only I’m not. I spent the majority of my
evening and a good portion of my sleepless night thinking of what
it felt like to be pressed against his body, moving with the rhythm
of the horse, with his words still ringing in my ear.

It felt so natural. The tension was building
so perfectly. If I weren’t such a train wreck, it would be all too
easy…

Why, oh why can’t I be normal?

“Well, this guy needs to get in the
game.”

“Maybe it’s best if he doesn’t, Chris.”

“Oh, bullshit. This is the one. I can feel
it. I can see it on your face. You just have to give him a
chance.”

Common sense tells me she can’t possibly know
that. But I desperately want to believe her, to throw caution to
the wind and just jump.

“I wish you were right.”

“I
am
right.”

“If you
are
then I’m wasting a lot of
money on this therapist you forced me to talk to.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“She says I should stay away from him. From
Alec.”

Chris is quiet. I’m sure she doesn’t know
what to say to that. She was convinced that Dr. B would be able to
help me with all of my problems, sending me off after a month or
two to live happily ever after with the man of my choosing. What
Chris fails to realize is that happily ever afters are reserved for
fiction. I write them, but that’s probably as close as I’ll ever
get to one.

She recovers after a minute or so. I’m not
surprised. As a rule, she’s pretty unflappable. “To that I would
say this: You think too much. That’s always been your problem. I
was hoping Dr. B might help you get out of that, and I’m not
convinced that’s not still going to happen. Maybe this is some sort
of proven psychoanalytical technique. What the hell do I know?”

“Funny, that’s just what I was thinking,” I
tease.

“Well, smart ass, I’ll tell you just what the
hell I know. I know you’re smart and funny and gorgeous and
talented, and you deserve to be happy more than anyone I know. And,
dammit, I’m gonna get you there if it’s the last mother fu—”

From the bedside table, my phone rings,
effectively cutting off her rant. I pick it up and glance at the
screen. “That’s Ari.”

With a sigh specifically engineered to let me
know how put-upon she feels, Chris relents. “Fine. Go. Go and give
all your precious time to your publicist. See if I care.”

“I know you care, Chris. And I love you for
it. And maybe, just maybe, there’s still hope for me. Don’t give
up.”

“Fat chance of that ever happening. I’m as
tenacious as a pit bull. You know that.”

“Yes, yes I
do
know that,” I quip. “I
just need time. That’s all. I’m not broken beyond repair.”

That’s more for her benefit than mine. I’m
not convinced that I can be fixed. Ever. By anyone.

“None of us are.”

While I hope she’s right, I have my
doubts.

I smile. “We have a more pressing issue at
the moment, though.”

“What’s that?”

“I have to pee. Badly. And you’re on my feet.
I suggest you get off them before we both get a golden shower.”

“Save that nasty stuff for your books,
woman,” she says, screwing up her face and scooting off the bed.
“I’m a good girl.”

Chris pushes her nose up in the air, giving
me her best impression of a how she sees a good girl. I burst into
laughter.

“Yeah, right! You’ve probably been peed on
more than a urinal cake.”

Playfully, she swats my arm as she slips her
shoes back on. “Brush your teeth while you’re at it. I’m gonna have
to go pencil in my eyebrows as it is.”

“Hey, no one told you to come drag me out of
bed.”

“I actually came to remind you about the
carnival tonight.”

“Ugh!” I moan as I flop back on my pillow.
“Why are you such a pain in my butt?”

“I’m your sister. It’s my job. Plus, I enjoy
the shit out of it.” Chris is wearing a satisfied smirk as she
sashays out of my bedroom.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN- Alec

I dreamed last night of what Samantha would
look like tied to a bed of black silk, her alabaster skin glowing
pale in the low light but for the red globes of her perfect ass.
When I woke, I could almost feel the sting of her skin against my
palm. I was hard for an hour afterward.

Now I’m wishing we were further along, to the
point where she’d welcome a night like that. But first things
first. I need to
get her
to that point.

I ignore the voice of my more…traditional
self, the one who once abhorred people like me and fetishes like
mine. Actually, he still does. It wasn’t until the accident that I
even knew of the other side of sexuality, the one I’ve come to
embrace. Almost against my will. Certainly against
part
of
my will.

But it’s the other part, the other half, that
loves it. And he’s very hard to control.

CHAPTER NINETEEN- Samantha

The carnival turn out this year is at least
twice what it was last year. Children swarm the rides and the
games, all of which are free for the night thanks to my parents.
Adults of all ages stand along the paved pathways, watching their
charges and mingling with the other foster parents.

Chris and I are the “success stories” of the
night. My speech will be short and to the point, as it was last
year. Still, I hate giving it. I am more comfortable as Laura Drake
answering questions about the pleasure of being lightly bitten than
I am as myself giving a speech about the life-changing effects of
child-fostering.

How’s that for screwed up?

I’m milling about, smiling like a politician,
awaiting my “spotlight” when my phone bleeps with an incoming text.
It’s from Alec. My finger shakes with anticipation as I slide it
across the screen to read the message.

Are you ready for the next step?

My stomach ties itself into a knot. No, I’m
not ready at all. But I’m beginning to believe that taking the next
step is as inevitable as my inability to orgasm.

Inevitable.

As the word goes through my mind, so does a
little piece of Mason, further obscuring the lines between life and
fiction.

Stop trying to convince yourself you should
be resisting me. We both know you don’t even want to try. But only
I know why. I’m your inevitability, Daire. I’m the one thing you
can’t avoid.

I’m starting to feel that…that…inevitability.
And, deep down, I’m starting to feel something else from my book.
It’s the spark of hope that Daire never let go of—the spark of hope
that there might be love and wholeness for a girl like her. Like
me. Like us.

I answer.

I’m not sure.

There’s a pause, one so long I’m not sure
he’ll reply. But then he does.

I’ll make you ready. Just trust me.

Trusting Alec isn’t the issue. It’s trusting
myself, trusting what I’m capable of. And trusting that I can
withstand the rejection that’s bound to come after…

I hope you’re right.

Another pause.

Where are you?

A carnival. Where are you?

On my way to a carnival.

He doesn’t ask for directions. After seeing
him schmooze at the fundraiser, I have no doubts he’s
well-connected and well-informed. If he doesn’t already know about
the carnival, it probably won’t take him long to find out.

To find
me
.

The problem is: How am I supposed to
concentrate in the meantime? And what if he shows up
before
I have to give my speech?

I think back to the appearance Tuesday, when
I first saw Alec. I was completely distracted after I saw him in
the crowd. And that was before I actually knew him, before I knew
just how Mason-like he really is. I would never have imagined that
the similarities would go beyond the physical, the superficial. But
they do. They go deep. Very deep, it seems.

Knowing it will likely (hopefully) be a while
before he arrives, I walk to the ball toss tent to watch a trio of
young boys try and throw their fastest pitch for a prize. It’s
obvious the three are brothers. Curly blond hair, bright blue eyes
and freckles galore, they are practically identical but for their
stair-stepped height. I’d guess they’re each probably two years
apart, starting at maybe ten and going through fourteen or
fifteen.

To my right is an older couple, proudly
looking on. They are, no doubt, the foster parents. And good ones,
I’d wager. To take all three boys, probably so as not to separate
them, and then care for them, which they so obviously do—it’s what
makes the carnival shine. Not the lights or the rides or the
sparklers, but the foster parents who up-end their lives to help a
child. Or three. A surge of the gratitude that’s never far from my
heart rises to the surface.

I’m thankful when I see my foster mother
heading my way, coming to round me up.

“It’s almost time,” she says when she finds
me.

I’m relieved. I’m glad they’re doing it a
little earlier this year, especially now that Alec is on his
way.

We make our way to the small podium centered
on the only-slightly larger stage that’s set up near the concession
stand. My nerves jangle. Anytime I’m in the public eye, I worry
that someone will recognize me. I reason with myself that it’s
about as likely as me meeting an alien at the grocery store wearing
my panties, but that never completely eradicates the fear.