Free Love Is Strange (I Know... #2) by Whitney Bianca Page B

others in mismatched piles. She had more shoes than she could ever wear. She had some in boxes that she'd never even worn. And everything was expensive because she was used to having money and spending it on herself. The clothes looked expensive and smelled expensive, because they smelled like her and she smelled expensive.
    My favorite item in the whole lot was the dress she'd worn on the third day we were back in Seattle. We'd been laying around naked for two days and finally she'd gotten up and showered and put clothes on. She'd chosen a simple blue dress with fluttery sleeves and a hem that hit her calves. I let her dress because I wanted her to think that she was in control. I wanted her to think that she could do whatever she wanted. This was the new life that we were going to build. There were rules. She was my woman, but she wasn't my slave. No leashes. No violence. But when we fucked, all bets were off. So I let her get dressed even though I wanted her to stay naked and available for me. But I soon discovered that it was definitely better when she had something on. The sound of ripping fabric is so satisfying. It makes me feel something deep in my guts, something close to the first time I ever fucked her. But I try not to think about that too much because I know she wants to forget it ever happened. It's better that way.
    Afterwards, she pouted and was angry that I'd torn the seam, but she hadn't thrown it out like she said she would when she chastised me for destroying it. I found it in the back of her closet, hanging like any of the other dresses. I slipped it off the hanger and ran the thin blue fabric through my fingers, reliving the memory again. I could see her in the kitchen, barefoot with her back to me, her hair knotted on top of her head and her neck bare. I could feel the warmth of her skin under my lips. I could remember the way her shoulders tensed and her nipples went hard when I thrust my hand between her legs. I could hear her gasp when I ripped the dress and exposed her tits as I thrust my cock into her.
    It was a good memory. Very good.
    After awhile, I slipped the dress back on the hanger and slid it back into place. Then I closed the closet door behind me, just like she'd left it. I'd been away from her for too long. I liked feeling close to her. I was in her house, but that didn't mean I belonged there. Even though it had been a few weeks, it still felt foreign to me. It didn't feel like my place, because it wasn't. This was her, all her. I liked being surrounded by her. Sometimes. Other times I felt too impatient. When I looked out the window, what I saw wasn't familiar to me. There was no sun, no heat, no home. When I left prison, I didn't give a fuck about shit like that. I just cared about getting out and getting back to her. I did anything I could to make that happen. I lied to get what I wanted. I killed to ensure my own safety. More importantly, I killed for her. She wanted me. That was all that was important at the time. I was so fucking desperate. Desperation will make a man do crazy things.
    So will love.
    But the longer I sit, the longer I watch her leave every morning, the longer I wait for her to  return, the louder the urges get. The bad thoughts that take over everything and make it hard to remember how to be good. The night before, I'd been stupid. I knew it. I shouldn't have left the condo. I shouldn't have caught the bus to her office and exposed my face for strangers to see. But I wasn't thinking straight. I was only thinking about the urges. The urges are what's going to get me in trouble and I know it. But I can't stop it. Running my hand over her clothes and going through her things was one way to cope, but it wasn't enough. I knew it. I could feel it. But I couldn't tell her. I didn't want her to know. I didn't want to admit out-loud what a fine-line it was, between being the man that woke up next to her in the morning and the man that thought about killing and pain and