Free Provoke by Missy Johnson Page B

successfully practice law?
    “I’ll risk it.” He grabbed my wrist and yanked me toward him until I was flush up against his chest. I froze as his hand cupped my chin. He leaned down, his lips pressing against mine. My body reacted the way it always did when he touched me—with anticipation and want—in complete contrast to the negative thoughts that were racing through my head.
    Yet there I stood, kissing him back. It was such an innate response, and left me feeling completely confused. I hated him…didn’t I? Then why was I standing here, kissing him with more passion and lust than I ever had? I couldn’t break myself away and it scared the hell out of me.

    I whimpered as his hands wandered under my shirt, the feel of his skin against mine electrifying. Desire consumed me. I wanted him so badly. God, I was so wet . . . What the fuck was wrong with me? He pulled away, staring at me one last time as his thumb tweaked my cheek.
    “Go get some rest, Leets. You’re acting really weird.”
    #
    I’m acting weird . . .
    His words rang in my head. The last thing I wanted to do was arouse his suspicion. I wiped a thin film of sweat off the back of my neck. God, it was hot in there. Walking over to the back door, I slid it open and left the security door locked.
    I needed a plan. I needed something set out. I worked best when I had things set out in action.
    My skills at gathering information from the videos had pretty much exceeded their limits. I needed outside help. And there was only one person that stuck in my mind: the last person I ever wanted to speak to again.
    Ben.
    It had been two years since we’d last spoken. The man my parents thought was utterly perfect. I laughed. If only they knew. That dude was all kinds of fucked up.
    If anyone knew the how to find out what I needed to know, it would be him. His obsession with porn had become scary. Even scarier was the role-playing he had insisted we act out. Hell, I wouldn’t have been surprised if Ben was into this kind of shit too.

    In the beginning, he had been the perfect boyfriend: sweet, caring, and everyone loved him. He won my parents over easily. It seemed like there wasn’t a single thing the guy could do wrong.
    About six months into our relationship, he proposed. I said yes. No hesitation. He was perfect for me. We were great together.
    Things started unravelling shortly after. He had served in Iraq for a few months, and when he came back he was a totally different person. The loveable, fun guy had been replaced with a dark, empty, spiteful shell.
    His paranoia was the worst. He’d been convinced I was cheating on him. On several occasions he went as far as almost physically harming me. I swore to him then that if he laid so much as a finger on me, I’d be gone, and he would never see me again. He promised he’d get help. And he did. Things improved from there.
    It took all of a month for shit to get really bad. By that stage, he no longer worked. He spent his days surfing the Internet, watching porn, sleeping, and drinking. Then he began to get really violent. Sexually violent. He would choke me during sex, among other things. He had gone from a gentle, intimate lover to a violent creep who got off on causing me pain.
    Telling Mom and Dad that I’d broken things off with their dream boyfriend had been fun. I’d seriously thought Dad was going to start crying. Then the lectures began—about how insensitive I was for breaking up with a man who was obviously suffering from post-traumatic stress disorder.
    The thing was, he didn’t want my help. Over and over I tried to help him, but he kept pushing me away. What else was I supposed to do? I was a twenty-year-old girl who was too afraid to sleep in the same bed as her fiancé in case he went too far.
    I was living a nightmare, waiting for the day when I’d wake up with his hands around my neck. The fact that I could even think he was capable of that had been a wake up call to get the hell out of