Page 21 of Fixation

HARPER

T hat rough, impersonal touch I’ve learned to expect right before I open my eyes is there. His hand or mouth on my throat. On my shoulder. On every part of me, really.

My kidnapper.

A soft smile threatens to break through before I catch myself.

Absolutely not.

What the hell am I thinking? Smiling at him?

Not me. I relax my, hiding my foolish satisfaction.

Dr. Maguire doesn’t deserve my smiles. He doesn’t deserve my gratitude.

He doesn’t deserve my body.

Rationally, I know he doesn’t.

My heart pleads otherwise.

My heart acknowledges what my deranged kidnapper has done for me over the past three days. I’ve been counting them. All three Good morning .

My point is, he’s been treating me well, taking care of me like no other.

I want to smile.

I want to slice his throat open and watch him bleed out until he dies.

No, I don’t.

“Good morning.” His confident, low voice filters into my thoughts.

Fourth day it is, then.

Fourth day of being his captive.

His patient.

That’s what I am to him. He cares for me.

And I can’t keep lying to myself anymore. I’m happy here. I’m improving.

My heart thuds against my ribs, agreeing with me. I’m thankful for Anderson.

He isn’t simply responsible for helping me get better. Or for changing my IV bag or my bucket whenever he returns from work.

He’s so much more than the man who gives me washcloth showers, who does things to me in my sleep.

Ever since I stopped coughing and shivering every other second, he’s been keeping me updated on how my business is doing.

Without burdening me with the details, he’s told me that he’s been answering my work emails for me. On our walks to the bathroom, he reports to me that Emersyn has everything covered, that Harper’s is taken care of.

He even mentioned that I shouldn’t worry about my custom orders. I still have no clue what he’s done to appease my customers.

I guess I’ll find out when I’m back home. If I’m ever back home.

I feel like I will be back. Like I have a good chance of making it out of here.

Which, again, is strange.

Aside from his word, I have no guarantees that he’ll ever let me go.

To anyone outside this room, it might sound like he’s a controlling, psycho bastard. Like he doesn’t want anyone to come looking for me.

To me, too, sometimes.

Most of the time, however, I don’t see myself as a prisoner. I feel liberated.

My mind is the freest it’s ever been.

With the daily pressure to come up with a new collection gone, I’m able to tap into my creativity again.

For months now, I’ve been forcing myself to create. Here, in Anderson’s basement, the ideas float into my head.

With every new concept for bracelet, ring, or earring I have, my spirit soars a little higher.

In the hours that Anderson is away—either at work or sleeping—ideas come to my head. They become more alive in my head as time passes. New designs. Different materials that could work together.

It pains me to say that my captor is the one who made it happen. It pains me so bad that I threw up over it yesterday.

No, that’s not true. I wasn’t upset. I was simply reacting to the drugs.

“Miss Arlington.”

Not a word comes out of my mouth. My eyelids remain as they are, like soft veils over my eyes.

Maybe he’ll go away.

Maybe he’ll be into my defiance.

Or maybe, just maybe, I enjoy teasing him.

That’s a terrifying notion.

In a flash, the warmth of his hand is gone. The warmth of the blanket disappears next.

Everything’s happening too fast. There’s violence in his movements.

This isn’t our regular checkup.

I almost gasp when Anderson yanks me backward by my shoulders.

The restraints slide over the bed with me, tugging on my ankles and wrists.

My head dangles over the edge of the bed, eyes remaining closed. I keep them shut, pretending to sleep. Fear and my sick desires demand that I do.

In the darkness, his presence envelops me.

The shuffle of fabric—his scrubs, probably—suggests he’s pulled his pants down, that he’s freed his cock.

“Can’t wait. Need you,” he hisses. His hand is softer on my bottom lip than it was on my jaw. There’s power in his touch, regardless, as he opens my mouth. “Fuck, kitten. Need you so bad.”

This is…It’s sort of an apology.

He’s never asked for my forgiveness. Never been compelled to.

I don’t want his apologies. Not anymore.

I want his filthy words and forcible touch.

I need this, him, to lose control around me. I get that now, with my pussy wet and my body hot.

That realization ought to make me cry. Except I’m too turned on. I can hardly even pity myself. Can’t bring myself to hate him.

I’ll worry about it later.

There’s only one thing on my mind, and that’s Anderson’s warmth as he comes closer.

My body relaxes for him. The restraints don’t bother me.

My mouth yields while he opens it wider. While he lets go of my lip, replacing his finger with the wet tip of his cock.

“Jesus.” The agonized whisper sends pangs of electricity through me.

He cups the back of my head, his fingers lacing into my hair.

The anticipation of that first stroke is killing me.

It never comes. Instead, there’s only the weight of his blunt crown on my lip. Only his large hand around the back of my head.

He’s going to hurt me any moment now. Choke me. Make me gag on him.

My body steels against the assault that I know will happen.

An assault that never comes.

Because Anderson surprises me. Again.

Inch by inch, he slides into my mouth, his thickness pulsing against my tongue. He’s moving agonizingly slowly. Reverently, even.

He groans, pulling my head toward him, a movement that’s just as smooth. Just as slow and careful.

Apparently, I’m not the only one who’s been going through an emotional rollercoaster.

Sometime over the past few hours, Anderson has changed.

My fever broke. Meaning he doesn’t have to be my doctor anymore.

So he might be careful now, but I don’t think it’ll last.

In fact, I’m sure it won’t.

My lips stretch around his girth. My throat relaxes the deeper he goes.

A bead of precum trickles down my tongue.

He lets out this moan that gets me embarrassingly wet, sliding another inch in. Tempting me.

I don’t stand a chance against him when I get off on our games.

“Yes. So good. Good girl. Couldn’t sleep. Missed your tongue. Missed your mouth.” The bed groans as he leans on it with one hand. “Let me.” He bottoms out in a slow, careful shove, gasping. “Let me use you.”

No one’s ever debased me like this. I’ve never been another person’s vessel. A human body to be used.

But now that I know what it’s like, the tingles it sends across my skin…

I’ll have much more respect for my work tools. Every time I create a piece, I’ll remember this moment. The moment I was someone’s inanimate object.

If he ever lets me out of here, that is.

Enough of this. Vessels don’t think. They don’t crave or shiver.

They belong to their owner.

I’m not brainwashed. I’m spreading my wings. I’m submitting to more than just Anderson.

I’m submitting to the world.

His cock throbs as he drags his dick out. He’s being slow about it. Deliberate.

When he slides his entire length back inside, it’s as if he’s thicker. As if I’m full with him.

I silence my moans, but if he pulled off my sweatpants and panties, my doctor would see just how awake I am. How wet and needy for him.

But he’s too busy grinding his hips. Taking his pleasure from me.

I’m letting him have his moment. It doesn’t matter that I’m bound to the bed. In my mind, I’m consenting to this. I’m lying motionless while he needs from me.

Rough groans echo in this basement that I’ve grown to call home. Wet noises reach me when he drives himself in and out of me.

Sensual noises.

He bends over, lifting my clothes to my breasts. On the inside, I’m going wild. Growing needier by the second when his lips find my stomach. He leans over me, as close as he can get, kissing my sensitive skin. Licking me.

He’s making love to my navel. His cock is railing my mouth.

Too much. Of him. Of this.

Too much desire swirling inside me.

Shutting it out is impossible.

A moan escapes me.

A moan that, without words, tells him he’s driving me crazy.

That I’m awake.

“Harper?”

I gulp around his cock and he throbs in my mouth. He groans, sending both chills and desire through me.

“Fuck.” He pulls himself out of me.

I hear him tucking himself in.

My heart in my throat, I dare to open my eyes and face him.

He glowers, eyes locked onto mine, dark and full of want.

I can’t say a word. I just stare at him, my spit trickling along my cheek. Before it reaches my eye, he rubs his thumb over it. Sucks it into his mouth in that hot, unhinged way of his.

Shame scalds my skin. And desire. Fucking my mouth while I sleep is wrong, and I’m just as wrong for missing his cock.

I don’t want to feel it. I don’t.

I’m still a prisoner.

“Go away,” I whisper, my head beginning to pound from hanging upside down for so long.

“You’ve been awake for this.” He’s in his scrubs like I thought, arms crossed over his chest.

His muscles flex, his eyes flashing.

My stupid gaze lingers on every inch of him longer than it should.

I have a sneaking suspicion that he realizes what the sight of his body and his tattoo do to me. He uses that, too, to manipulate me.

It’s working.

“Go. Away.”

“Poor little patient.” His expression turns cruel. His lips twist into a snarl. “It hurts to be proven wrong, doesn’t it?”

“What are you even talking about?” My voice is hoarse from sleep. From the drugs. From having my mouth fucked, as considerate as he’s been. “Wrong about what? I still want to get the hell out of here.”

“Lying doesn’t suit you.” Though the outline of his hard cock is evident in his scrubs, Anderson takes his time rearranging me back on the bed.

“I’m not lying.” I am kind of lying.

I’m wet between my legs. My nipples are sensitive. The fire in my lungs, I can’t ignore that.

My body is betraying me. It’s telling me all the things I want and shouldn’t.